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Fighting In Flanders
By E. Alexander Powell
Special Correspondent Of The New York World With The Belgian
Forces In The Field
Author of "The Last Frontier" "Gentlemen Ravers," "The End of the
Trail," "The Road to Glory," etc.
With Illustrations From Photographs By Mr. Donald Thompson
To
My Friends
The Belgians
"I have eaten your bread and salt;
I have drunk your water and wine;
The deaths you died I have sat beside
And the lives that you led were mine."
RUDYARD KIPLING.
Contents
Foreword
I. The War Correspondents
II. The City Of Gloom
III. The Death In The Air
IV. Under The German Eagle
V. With The Spiked Helmets
VI. On The Belgian Battle-Line
VII. The Coming Of The British
VIII. The Fall Of Antwerp
Appendix
Foreword
Nothing is more unwise, on general principles, than to attempt to
write about a war before that war is finished and before history has
given it the justice of perspective. The campaign which began with
the flight of the Belgian Government from Brussels and which
culminated in the fall of Antwerp formed, however, a separate and
distinct phase of the Greatest of Wars, and I feel that I should write
of that campaign while its events are still sharp and clear in my
memory and before the impressions it produced have begun to
fade. I hope that those in search of a detailed or technical account
of the campaign in Flanders will not read this book, because they
are certain to be disappointed. It contains nothing about strategy or
tactics and few military lessons can be drawn from it. It is merely the
story, in simple words, of what I, a professional onlooker, who was
accorded rather exceptional facilities for observation, saw in
Belgium during that nation's hour of trial.
An American, I went to Belgium at the beginning of the war with an open
mind. I had few, if any, prejudices. I knew the English, the French,
the Belgians, the Germans equally well. I had friends in all four
countries and many happy recollections of days I had spent in each.
When I left Antwerp after the German occupation I was as pro-Belgian
as though I had been born under the red-black-and-yellow banner. I had
seen a country, one of the loveliest and most peaceable in Europe,
invaded by a ruthless and brutal soldiery; I had seen its towns and
cities blackened by fire and broken by shell; I had seen its churches
and its historic monuments destroyed; I had seen its highways crowded
with hunted, homeless fugitives; I had seen its fertile fields strewn
with the corpses of what had once been the manhood of the nation; I
had seen its women left husbandless and its children left fatherless;
I had seen what was once a Garden of the Lord turned into a land of
desolation; and I had seen its people--a people whom I, like the rest
of the world, had always thought of as pleasure-loving, inefficient,
easy-going--I had seen this people, I say, aroused, resourceful,
unafraid, and fighting, fighting, fighting. Do you wonder that they
captured my imagination, that they won my admiration? I am pro-Belgian;
I admit it frankly. I should be ashamed to be anything else.
E. Alexander Powell
London, November 1, 1914.
I. The War Correspondents
War correspondents regard war very much as a doctor regards
sickness. I don't suppose that a doctor is actually glad that people
are sick, but so long as sickness exists in the world he feels that he
might as well get the benefit of it. It is the same with war
correspondents. They do not wish anyone to be killed on their
account, but so long as men are going to be killed anyway, they
want to be on hand to witness the killing and, through the
newspapers, to tell the world about it. The moment that the war
broke out, therefore, a veritable army of British and American
correspondents descended upon the Continent. Some of them were
men of experience and discretion who had seen many wars and
had a right to wear on their jackets more campaign ribbons than
most generals. These men took the war seriously. They were there
to get the news and, at no matter what expenditure of effort and
money, to get that news to the end of a telegraph-wire so that the
people in England and America might read it over their coffee-cups
the next morning. These men had unlimited funds at their disposal;
they had the united influence of thousands of newspapers and of
millions of newspaper-readers solidly behind them; and they carried
in their pockets letters of introduction from editors and ex-presidents
and ambassadors and prime ministers.
Then there was an army corps of special writers, many of them with
well-known names, sent out by various newspapers and magazines
to write "mail stuff," as dispatches which are sent by mail instead of
telegraph are termed, and "human interest" stories. Their
qualifications for reporting the greatest war in history consisted, for
the most part, in having successfully "covered" labour troubles and
murder trials and coronations and presidential conventions, and, in
a few cases, Central American revolutions. Most of the stories which
they sent home were written in comfortable hotel rooms in London
or Paris or Rotterdam or Ostend. One of these correspondents,
however, was not content with a hotel window viewpoint. He wanted
to see some German soldiers--preferably Uhlans. So he obtained a
letter of introduction to some people living in the neighbourhood of
Courtrai, on the Franco-Belgian frontier. He made his way there with
considerable difficulty and received a cordial welcome. The very first
night that he was there a squadron of Uhlans galloped into the town,
there was a slight skirmish, and they galloped out again. The
correspondent, who was a sound sleeper, did not wake up until it
was all over. Then he learned that the Uhlans had ridden under his
very window.
Crossing on the same steamer with me from New York was a well-known
novelist who in his spare time edits a Chicago newspaper. He was
provided with a sheaf of introductions from exalted personages
and a bag containing a thousand pounds in gold coin. It was so
heavy that he had brought a man along to help him carry it, and
at night they took turns in sitting up and guarding it. He confided
to me that he had spent most of his life in trying to see wars, but
though on four occasions he had travelled many thousands of miles
to countries where wars were in progress, each time he had arrived
just after the last shot was fired. He assured me very earnestly that
he would go back to Michigan Boulevard quite contentedly if he
could see just one battle. I am glad to say that his perseverance
was finally rewarded and that he saw his battle. He never told me
just how much of the thousand pounds he took back to Chicago
with him, but from some remarks he let drop I gathered that he had
found battle-hunting an expensive pastime.
One of the great London dailies was represented in Belgium by a
young and slender and very beautiful English girl whose name, as a
novelist and playwright, is known on both sides of the Atlantic. I
met her in the American Consulate at Ghent, where she was pleading
with Vice-Consul Van Hee to assist her in getting through the
German lines to Brussels. She had heard a rumour that Brussels
was shortly going to be burned or sacked or something of the sort,
and she wanted to be on hand for the burning and sacking. She had
arrived in Belgium wearing a London tailor's idea of what constituted
a suitable costume for a war correspondent--perhaps I should say
war correspondentess. Her luggage was a model of compactness: it
consisted of a sleeping-bag, a notebook, half a dozen pencils--and
a powder-puff. She explained that she brought the sleeping-bag
because she understood that war correspondents always slept in
the field. As most of the fields in that part of Flanders were just
then under several inches of water as a result of the autumn rains,
a folding canoe would have been more useful. She was as insistent
on being taken to see a battle as a child is on being taken to the
pantomime. Eventually her pleadings got the better of my judgment
and I took her out in the car towards Alost to see, from a safe
distance, what promised to be a small cavalry engagement. But the
Belgian cavalry unexpectedly ran into a heavy force of Germans,
and before we realized what was happening we were in a very warm
corner indeed. Bullets were kicking up little spurts of dust about us;
bullets were tang-tanging through the trees and clipping off twigs,
which fell down upon our heads; the rat-tat-tat of the German
musketry was answered by the angry snarl of the Belgian machine-guns;
in a field near by the bodies of two recently killed cuirassiers
lay sprawled grotesquely. The Belgian troopers were stretched flat
upon the ground, a veteran English correspondent was giving a
remarkable imitation of the bark on a tree, and my driver, my
photographer and I were peering cautiously from behind the corner
of a brick farmhouse. I supposed that Miss War Correspondent was
there too, but when I turned to speak to her she was gone. She was
standing beside the car, which we had left in the middle of the road
because the bullets were flying too thickly to turn it around, dabbing
at her nose with a powder-puff which she had left in the tonneau
and then critically examining the effect in a pocket-mirror.
"For the love of God!" said I, running out and dragging her back to
shelter, "don't you know that you'll be killed if you stay out here?"
"Will I?" said she, sweetly. "Well, you surely don't expect me to be
killed with my nose unpowdered, do you?"
That evening I asked her for her impressions of her first battle.
"Well," she answered, after a meditative pause, "it certainly was
very chic."
The third and largest division of this journalistic army consisted of
free lances who went to the Continent at their own expense on the
chance of "stumbling into something." About the only thing that any
of them stumbled into was trouble. Some of them bore the most
extraordinary credentials ever carried by a correspondent; some of
them had no credentials at all. One gentleman, who was halted
while endeavouring to reach the firing line in a decrepit cab,
informed the officer before whom he was taken that he represented
the Ladies' Home Journal of Philadelphia. Another displayed a letter
from the editor of a well-known magazine saying that he "would be
pleased to consider any articles which you care to submit." A third,
upon being questioned, said naively that he represented his literary
agent. Then--I almost forgot him--there was a Methodist clergyman
from Boston who explained to the Provost-Marshal that he was
gathering material for a series of sermons on the horrors of war.
Add to this army of writers another army of photographers and
war-artists and cinematograph-operators and you will have some idea of
the problem with which the military authorities of the warring nations
were confronted. It finally got down to the question of which should
be permitted to remain in the field--the war correspondents or the
soldiers. There wasn't room for them both. It was decided to retain
the soldiers.
The general staffs of the various armies handled the war
correspondent problem in different ways. The British War Office
at first announced that under no considerations would any
correspondents be permitted in the areas where British troops were
operating, but such a howl went up from Press and public alike that
this order was modified and it was announced that a limited number
of correspondents, representing the great newspaper syndicates
and press associations, would, after fulfilling certain rigorous
requirements, be permitted to accompany his Majesty's forces in the
field. These fortunate few having been chosen after much heart-burning,
they proceeded to provide themselves with the prescribed uniforms
and field-kits, and some of them even purchased horses. After the
war had been in progress for three months they were still in
London. The French General Staff likewise announced that no
correspondents would be permitted with the armies, and when any
were caught they were unceremoniously shipped to the nearest port
between two unsympathetic gendarmes with a warning that they
would be shot if they were caught again.
The Belgian General Staff made no announcement at all. The police
merely told those correspondents who succeeded in getting into the
fortified position of Antwerp that their room was preferable to their
company and informed them at what hour the next train for the
Dutch frontier was leaving. Now the correspondents knew perfectly
well that neither the British nor the French nor the Belgians would
actually shoot them, if for no other reason than the unfavourable
impression which would be produced by such a proceeding; but
they did know that if they tried the patience of the military authorities
too far they would spend the rest of the war in a military prison. So,
as an imprisoned correspondent is as valueless to the newspaper
which employs him as a prisoner of war is to the nation whose
uniform he wears, they compromised by picking up such information
as they could along the edge of things. Which accounts for most of
the dispatches being dated from Ostend or Ghent or Dunkirk or
Boulogne or from "the back of the front," as one correspondent
ingeniously put it.
As for the Germans, they said bluntly that any correspondents found
within their lines would be treated as spies--which meant being
blindfolded and placed between a stone wall and a firing party. And
every correspondent knew that they would do exactly what they
said. They have no proper respect for the Press, these Germans.
That I was officially recognized by the Belgian Government and
given a laisser-passer by the military Governor of Antwerp
permitting me to pass at will through both the outer and inner lines
of fortifications, that a motor-car and a military driver were placed at
my disposal, and that throughout the campaign in Flanders I was
permitted to accompany the Belgian forces, was not due to any
peculiar merits or qualifications of my own, or even to the influence
exerted by the powerful paper which I represented, but to a series of
unusual and fortunate circumstances which there is no need to
detail here. There were many correspondents who merited from
sheer hard work what I received as a result of extraordinary good
fortune.
The civilians who were wandering, foot-loose and free, about
the theatre of operations were by no means confined to the
representatives of the Press; there was an amazing number of
young Englishmen and Americans who described themselves as
"attaches" and "consular couriers" and "diplomatic messengers,"
and who intimated that they were engaged in all sorts of dangerous
and important missions. Many of these were adventurous young
men of means who had "come over to see the fun" and who had
induced the American diplomatic representatives in London and
The Hague to give them dispatches of more or less importance--
usually less than more--to carry through to Antwerp and Brussels. In
at least one instance the official envelopes with the big red seals
which they so ostentatiously displayed contained nothing but sheets
of blank paper. Their sole motive was in nearly all cases curiosity.
They had no more business wandering about the war-zone than
they would have had wandering about a hospital where men were
dying. Belgium was being slowly strangled; her villages had been
burned, her fields laid waste, her capital was in the hands of the
enemy, her people were battling for their national existence; yet
these young men came in and demanded first-row seats, precisely
as though the war was a spectacle which was being staged for their
special benefit.
One youth, who in his busy moments practised law in Boston,
though quite frankly admitting that he was only actuated by curiosity,
was exceedingly angry with me because I declined to take him to
the firing-line. He seemed to regard the desperate battle which was
then in progress for the possession of Antwerp very much as
though it was a football game in the Harvard stadium; he seemed
to think that he had a right to see it. He said that he had come all the
way from Boston to see a battle, and when I remained firm in my
refusal to take him to the front he intimated quite plainly that I was
no gentleman and that nothing would give him greater pleasure than
to have a shell explode in my immediate vicinity.
For all its grimness, the war was productive of more than one
amusing episode. I remember a mysterious stranger who called one
morning on the American Consul at Ostend to ask for assistance in
getting through to Brussels. When the Consul asked him to be
seated he bowed stiffly and declined, and when a seat was again
urged upon him he explained, in a hoarse whisper, that sewn in his
trousers were two thousand pounds in bank-notes which he was
taking through to Brussels for the relief of stranded English and
Americans--hence he couldn't very well sit down.
Of all the horde of adventurous characters who were drawn to the
Continent on the outbreak of war as iron-filings are attracted by a
magnet, I doubt if there was a more picturesque figure than a little
photographer from Kansas named Donald Thompson. I met him
first while paying a flying visit to Ostend. He blew into the Consulate
there wearing an American army shirt, a pair of British officer's
riding-breeches, French puttees and a Highlander's forage-cap, and
carrying a camera the size of a parlour-phonograph. No one but an
American could have accomplished what he had, and no American
but one from Kansas. He had not only seen war, all military
prohibitions to the contrary, but he had actually photographed it.
Thompson is a little man, built like Harry Lauder; hard as nails,
tough as raw hide, his skin tanned to the colour of a well-smoked
meerschaum, and his face perpetually wreathed in what he called
his "sunflower smile." He affects riding-breeches and leather
leggings and looks, physically as well as sartorially, as though he
had been born on horseback. He has more chilled steel nerve than
any man I know, and before he had been in Belgium a month his
name became a synonym throughout the army for coolness and
daring. He reached Europe on a tramp-steamer with an overcoat, a
toothbrush, two clean handkerchiefs, and three large cameras. He
expected to have some of them confiscated or broken, he
explained, so he brought along three as a measure of precaution.
His cameras were the largest size made. "By using a big camera no
one can possibly accuse me of being a spy," he explained
ingenuously. His papers consisted of an American passport, a
certificate of membership in the Benevolent and Protective Order of
Elks, and a letter from Colonel Sam Hughes, Canadian Minister of
Militia, authorizing him to take pictures of Canadian troops wherever
found.
Thompson made nine attempts to get from Paris to the front. He
was arrested eight times and spent eight nights in guard-houses.
Each time he was taken before a military tribunal. Utterly ignoring
the subordinates, he would insist on seeing the officer in command.
He would grasp the astonished Frenchman by the hand and inquire
solicitously after his health and that of his family.
"How many languages do you speak?" I asked him.
"Three," said he. "English, American, and Yankee."
On one occasion he commandeered a motorcycle standing outside
a cafe and rode it until the petrol ran out, whereupon he abandoned
it by the roadside and pushed on afoot. On another occasion he
explained to the French officer who arrested him that he was
endeavouring to rescue his wife and children, who were in the
hands of the Germans somewhere on the Belgian frontier. The
officer was so affected by the pathos of the story that he gave
Thompson a lift in his car. As a matter of fact, Thompson's wife and
family were quite safe in Topeka, Kansas. Whenever he was
stopped by patrols he would display his letter from the Minister of
Militia and explain that he was trying to overtake the Canadian
troops. "Vive le Canada!" the French would shout enthusiastically.
"Hurrah for our brave allies, les Canadiens! They are doubtless with
the British at the front"--and permit him to proceed. Thompson did
not think it necessary to inform them that the nearest Canadian
troops were still at Quebec.
When within sound of the German guns he was arrested for the
eighth time and sent to Amiens escorted by two gendarmes, who
were ordered to see him aboard the first train for Boulogne. They
evidently considered that they had followed instructions when they
saw him buy a through ticket for London. Shortly after midnight a
train loaded with wounded pulled into the station. Assisted by some
British soldiers, Thompson scrambled to the top of a train standing
at the next platform and made a flashlight picture. A wild panic
ensued in the crowded station. It was thought that a German bomb
had exploded. Thompson was pulled down by the police and would
have been roughly handled had it not been for the interference of
his British friends, who said that he belonged to their regiment.
Shortly afterwards a train loaded with artillery which was being
rushed to the front came in. Thompson, once more aided and
abetted by the British Tommies, slipped under the tarpaulin covering
a field-gun and promptly fell asleep. When he awoke the next
morning he was at Mons. A regiment of Highlanders was passing.
He exchanged a cake of chocolate for a fatigue-cap and fell in with
them. After marching for two hours the regiment was ordered into
the trenches. Thompson went into the trenches too. All through that
terrible day Thompson plied his trade as the soldiers plied theirs.
They used their rifles and he used his camera. Men were shot dead
on either side of him. A storm of shrapnel shrieked and howled
overhead. He said that the fire of the German artillery was
amazingly accurate and rapid. They would concentrate their entire
fire on a single regiment or battery and when that regiment or
battery was out of action they would turn to another and do the
same thing over again. When the British fell back before the
German onset Thompson remained in the trenches long enough to
get pictures of the charging Germans. Then he ran for his life.
That night he bivouacked with a French line regiment, the men
giving him food and a blanket. The next morning he set out for
Amiens en route for England. As the train for Boulogne, packed to
the doors with refugees, was pulling out of the Amiens station, he
noticed a first-class compartment marked "Reserved," the only
occupant being a smartly gowned young woman. Thompson said
that she was very good-looking. The train was moving, but
Thompson took a running jump and dived head-foremost through
the window, landing in the lady's lap. She was considerably startled
until he said that he was an American. That seemed to explain
everything. The young woman proved to be a Russian countesss
who had been living in Paris and who was returning, via England, to
Petrograd. The French Government had placed a compartment at
her disposal, but in the jam at the Paris station she had become
separated from her maid, who had the bag containing her money.
Thompson recounted his adventures at Mons and asked her if she
would smuggle his films into England concealed on her person, as
he knew from previous experience that he would be stopped and
searched by Scotland Yard detectives when the train reached
Boulogne and that, in all probability, the films would be confiscated
or else held up so long that they would be valueless. The countess
finally consented, but suggested, in return for the danger she was
incurring, that Thompson lend her a thousand francs, which she
would return as soon as she reached London. As he had with him
only two hundred and fifty francs, he paid her the balance in United
Cigar Stores coupons, some of which he chanced to have in his
pocket-book, and which, he explained, was American war currency.
He told me that he gave her almost enough to get a briar-pipe. At
Boulogne he was arrested, as he had foreseen, was stripped,
searched and his camera opened, but as nothing was found he was
permitted to continue to London, where he went to the countess's
hotel and received his films--and, I might add, his money and cigar
coupons. Two hours later, having posted his films to America, he
was on his way to Belgium.
Landing at Ostend, he managed to get by train as far as Malines.
He then started to walk the twenty-odd miles into Brussels, carrying
his huge camera, his overcoat, field-glasses, and three hundred
films. When ten miles down the highway a patrol of Uhlans suddenly
spurred out from behind a hedge and covered him with their pistols.
Thompson promptly pulled a little silk American flag out of his
pocket and shouted "Hoch der Kaiser!" and "Auf wiedersehn" which
constituted his entire stock of German. Upon being examined by the
officer in command of the German outpost, he explained that his
Canadian credentials were merely a blind to get through the lines of
the Allies and that he really represented a syndicate of German
newspapers in America, whereupon he was released with apologies
and given a seat in an ambulance which was going into Brussels.
As his funds were by this time running low, he started out to look for
inexpensive lodgings. As he remarked to me, "I thought we had
some pretty big house-agents out in Kansas, but this Mr. 'A. Louer'
has them beaten a mile. Why, that fellow has his card on every
house that's for rent in Brussels!"
The next morning, while chatting with a pretty English girl in front of
a cafe, a German officer who was passing ordered his arrest as a
spy. "All right," said Thompson, "I'm used to being arrested, but
would you mind waiting just a minute until I get your picture?" The
German, who had no sense of humour, promptly smashed the
camera with his sword. Despite Thompson's protestations that he
was an inoffensive American, the Germans destroyed all his films
and ordered him to be out of the city before six that evening. He
walked the thirty miles to Ghent and there caught a train for Ostend
to get one of his reserve cameras, which he had cached there.
When I met him in Ostend he said that he had been there overnight,
that he was tired of a quiet life and was looking for action, so I took
him back with me to Antwerp. The Belgians had made an inflexible
rule that no photographers would be permitted with the army, but
before Thompson had been in Antwerp twenty-four hours he had
obtained permission from the Chief of the General Staff himself to
take pictures when and where he pleased. Thompson remained
with me until the fall of Antwerp and the German occupation, and no
man could have had a more loyal or devoted companion. It is no
exaggeration to say that he saw more of the campaign in Flanders
than any individual, military or civilian--"le Capitaine Thompson," as
he came to be known, being a familiar and popular figure on the
Belgian battle-line.
There is one other person of whom passing mention should be
made, if for no other reason than because his name will appear
from time to time in this narrative. I take pleasure, therefore, in
introducing you to M. Marcel Roos, the young Belgian gentleman
who drove my motor-car. When war was declared, Roos, who
belonged to the jeunesse doree of Brussels, gave his own ninety
horse-power car to the Government and enlisted in a regiment of
grenadiers. Because he was as familiar with the highways and
byways of Belgium as a housewife is with her kitchen, and because
he spoke English, French, Flemish and German, he was detailed to
drive the car which the Belgian Government placed at my disposal.
He was as big and loyal and good-natured as a St. Bernard dog and
he was as cool in danger as Thompson--which is the highest
compliment I can pay him. Incidentally, he was the most successful
forager that I have ever seen; more than once, in villages which had
apparently been swept clean of everything edible by the Belgians or
the Germans, he produced quite an excellent dinner as mysteriously
as a conjuror produces rabbits from a hat.
Now you must bear in mind that although one could get into
Antwerp with comparative ease, it by no means followed that one
could get out to the firing-line. A long procession of correspondents
came to Antwerp and remained a day or so and then went away
again without once getting beyond the city gates. Even if one
succeeded in obtaining the necessary laisser-passer from the
military Government, there was no way of reaching the front, as all
the automobiles and all except the most decrepit horses had been
requisitioned for the use of the army. There was, you understand,
no such thing as hiring an automobile, or even buying one. Even the
few people who had influence enough to retain their cars found
them useless, as one of the very first acts of the military authorities
was to commandeer the entire supply of petrol. The bulk of the cars
were used in the ambulance service or for purposes of transport,
the army train consisting entirely of motor vehicles. Staff officers,
certain Government officials, and members of the diplomatic and
consular corps were provided by the Government with automobiles
and military drivers. Every one else walked or used the trams. Thus
it frequently happened that a young staff officer, who had never
before known the joys of motoring, would tear madly down the street
in a luxurious limousine, his spurred boots resting on the broadcloth
cushions, while the ci-devant owner of the car, who might be a
banker or a merchant prince, would jump for the side-walk to
escape being run down. With the declaration of war and the taking
over of all automobiles by the military, all speed laws were flung to
the winds.
No matter how unimportant his business, every one tore through the
city streets as though the devil (or the Germans) were behind him.
The staid citizens of Antwerp quickly developed a remarkably agility
in getting out of the way of furiously driven cars. They had to.
Otherwise they would have been killed.
Because, from the middle of August to the middle of October,
Antwerp was the capital of Belgium and the seat of the King,
Cabinet, and diplomatic corps; because from it any point on the
battle-front could easily be reached by motor-car; and because,
above all else, it was at the end of the cable and the one place in
Belgium where there was any certainty of dispatches getting
through to England, I made it my headquarters during the
operations in Flanders, going out to the front in the morning and
returning to the Hotel St. Antoine at night. I doubt if war
correspondence has ever been carried on under such comfortable,
even luxurious, conditions. "Going out to the front" became as
commonplace a proceeding as for a business man to take the
morning train to the city. For one whose previous campaigning had
been done in Persia, Mexico and North Africa and the Balkans, it
was a novel experience to leave a large and fashionable hotel after
breakfast, take a run of twenty or thirty miles over stone-paved
roads in a powerful and comfortable car, witness a battle--provided,
of course, that there happened to be a battle on that day's list of
events--and get back to the hotel in time to dress for dinner.
Imagine it, if you please! Imagine leaving a line of battle, where
shells were shrieking overhead and musketry was crackling along
the trenches, and moaning, blood-smeared figures were being
placed in ambulances, and other blood-smeared figures who no
longer moaned were sprawled in strange attitudes upon the ground
--imagine leaving such a scene, I say, and in an hour, or even less,
finding oneself in a hotel where men and women in evening dress
were dining by the light of pink-shaded candles, or in the marble-
paved palm court were sipping coffee and liqueurs to the sound of
water splashing gently in a fountain.
II. The City Of Gloom
In order to grasp the true significance of the events which preceded
and led up to the fall of Antwerp, it is necessary to understand the
extraordinary conditions which existed in and around that city when I
reached there in the middle of August. At that time all that was left to
the Belgians of Belgium were the provinces of Limbourg, Antwerp,
and East and West Flanders. Everything else was in the possession
of the Germans. Suppose, for the sake of, having things quite clear,
that you unfold the map of Belgium. Now, with your pencil, draw a
line across the country from east to west, starting at the Dutch city
of Maastricht and passing through Hasselt, Diest, Aerschot, Malines,
Alost, and Courtrai to the French frontier. This line was, roughly
speaking, "the front," and for upwards of two months fighting of a
more or less serious character took place along its entire length.
During August and the early part of September this fighting
consisted, for the most part, of attempts by the Belgian field army to
harass the enemy and to threaten his lines of communication and of
counter-attacks by the Germans, during which Aerschot, Malines,
Sempst, and Termonde repeatedly changed hands. Some twenty
miles or so behind this line was the great fortified position of
Antwerp, its outer chain of forts enclosing an area with a radius of
nearly fifteen miles.
Antwerp, with its population of four hundred thousand souls, its
labyrinth of dim and winding streets lined by mediaeval houses, and
its splendid modern boulevards, lies on the east bank of the
Scheldt, about fifteen miles from Dutch territorial waters, at a
hairpin-turn in the river. The defences of the city were modern,
extensive, and generally believed, even by military experts, to be
little short of impregnable. In fact, Antwerp was almost universally
considered one of the three or four strongest fortified positions in
Europe. In order to capture the city it would be necessary for an
enemy to break through four distinct lines of defence, any one of
which, it was believed, was strong enough to oppose successfully
any force which could be brought against it. The outermost line of
forts began at Lierre, a dozen miles to the south-east of the city,
and swept in a great quarter-circle, through Wavre-St. Catherine,
Waelhem, Heyndonck and Willebroeck, to the Scheldt at Ruppelmonde.
Two or three miles behind this outer line of forts a
second line of defence was formed by the Ruppel and the Nethe,
which, together with the Scheldt, make a great natural waterway
around three sides of the city. Back of these rivers, again, was a
second chain of forts completely encircling the city on a five-mile
radius. The moment that the first German soldier set his foot on
Belgian soil the military authorities began the herculean task of
clearing of trees and buildings a great zone lying between this inner
circle of forts and the city ramparts in order that an investing force
might have no cover. It is estimated that within a fortnight the
Belgian sappers and engineers destroyed property to the value of
£16,000,000. Not San Francisco after the earthquake, nor Dayton
after the flood, nor Salem after the fire presented scenes of more
complete desolation than did the suburbs of Antwerp after the
soldiers had finished with them.
On August 1, 1914, no city in all Europe could boast of more
beautiful suburbs than Antwerp. Hidden amid the foliage of great
wooded parks were stately chateaux; splendid country-houses rose
from amid acres of green plush lawns and blazing gardens; the
network of roads and avenues and bridle-paths were lined with
venerable trees, whose branches, meeting overhead, formed leafy
tunnels; scattered here and there were quaint old-world villages,
with plaster walls and pottery roofs and lichen-covered church
spires. By the last day of August all this had disappeared. The
loveliest suburbs in Europe had been wiped from the earth as a
sponge wipes figures from a slate. Every house and church and
windmill, every tree and hedge and wall, in a zone some two or
three miles wide by twenty long, was literally levelled to the ground.
For mile after mile the splendid trees which lined the highroads were
ruthlessly cut down; mansions which could fittingly have housed a
king were dynamited; churches whose walls had echoed to the
tramp of the Duke of Alba's mail-clad men-at-arms were levelled;
villages whose picturesqueness was the joy of artists and travellers
were given over to the flames. Certainly not since the burning of
Moscow has there been witnessed such a scene of self-inflicted
desolation. When the work of the engineers was finished a jack-rabbit
could not have approached the forts without being seen. When the
work of levelling had been completed, acres upon acres of
barbed-wire entanglements were constructed, the wires being
grounded and connected with the city lighting system so that a
voltage could instantly be turned on which would prove as deadly as
the electric chair at Sing Sing. Thousands of men were set to work
sharpening stakes and driving these stakes, point upward, in the
ground, so as to impale any soldiers who fell upon them. In front of
the stakes were "man-traps," thousands of barrels with their heads
knocked out being set in the ground and then covered with a thin
layer of laths and earth, which would suddenly give way if a man
walked upon it and drop him into the hole below. And beyond the
zones of entanglements and chevaux de frise and man-traps the
beet and potato-fields were sown with mines which were to be
exploded by electricity when the enemy was fairly over them, and
blow that enemy, whole regiments at a time, into eternity. Stretching
across the fields and meadows were what looked at first glance like
enormous red-brown serpents but which proved, upon closer
inspection, to be trenches for infantry. The region to the south of
Antwerp is a network of canals, and on the bank of every canal
rose, as though by magic, parapets of sandbags. Charges of
dynamite were placed under every bridge and viaduct and tunnel.
Barricades of paving-stones and mattresses and sometimes farm
carts were built across the highways. At certain points wires were
stretched across the roads at the height of a man's head for the
purpose of preventing sudden dashes by armoured motor-cars. The
walls of such buildings as were left standing were loopholed
for musketry. Machine-guns and quick-firers were mounted
everywhere. At night the white beams of the searchlights swept this
zone of desolation and turned it into day. Now the pitiable thing
about it was that all this enormous destruction proved to have been
wrought for nothing, for the Germans, instead of throwing huge
masses of infantry against the forts, as it was anticipated that they
would do, and thus giving the entanglements and the mine-fields
and the machine-guns a chance to get in their work, methodically
pounded the forts to pieces with siege-guns stationed a dozen miles
away. In fact, when the Germans entered Antwerp not a strand of
barbed wire had been cut, not a barricade defended, not a mine
exploded. This, mind you, was not due to any lack of bravery on the
part of the Belgians--Heaven knows, they did not lack for that!--but
to the fact that the Germans never gave them a chance to make
use of these elaborate and ingenious devices. It was like a man
letting a child painstakingly construct an edifice of building-blocks
and then, when it was completed, suddenly sweeping it aside with
his hand.
As a result of these elaborate precautions, it was as difficult to go
in or out of Antwerp as it is popularly supposed to be for a millionaire
to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Sentries were as thick as policemen
in Piccadilly. You could not proceed a quarter of a mile along any
road, in any direction, without being halted by a harsh "Qui vive?"
and having the business end of a rifle turned in your direction. If
your papers were not in order you were promptly turned back--or
arrested as a suspicious character and taken before an officer for
examination--though if you were sufficiently in the confidence of the
military authorities to be given the password, you were usually
permitted to pass without further question. It was some time before
I lost the thrill of novelty and excitement produced by this
halt-who-goes-there-advance-friend-and-give-the-countersign business.
It was so exactly the sort of thing that, as a boy, I used to read
about in books by George A. Henty that it seemed improbable and unreal.
When we were motoring at night and a peremptory challenge would
come from out the darkness and the lamps of the car would pick out
the cloaked figure of the sentry as the spotlight picks out the figure
of an actor on the stage, and I would lean forward and whisper the
magic mot d'ordre, I always had the feeling that I was taking part in
a play-which was not so very far from the truth, for, though I did not
appreciate it at the time, we were all actors, more or less important,
in the greatest drama ever staged.
In the immediate vicinity of Antwerp the sentries were soldiers of the
regular army and understood a sentry's duties, but in the outlying
districts, particularly between Ostend and Ghent, the roads were
patrolled by members of the Garde civique, all of whom seemed
imbued with the idea that the safety of the nation depended upon
their vigilance, which was a very commendable and proper attitude
indeed. When I was challenged by a Garde civique I was always a
little nervous, and wasted no time whatever in jamming on the
brakes, because the poor fellows were nearly always excited and
handled their rifles in a fashion which was far from being reassuring.
More than once, while travelling in the outlying districts, we were
challenged by civil guards who evidently had not been entrusted
with the password, but who, when it was whispered to them, would
nod their heads importantly and tell us to pass on.
"The next sentry that we meet," I said to Roos on one of these
occasions, "probably has no idea of the password. I'll bet you a box
of cigars that I can give him any word that comes into my head and
that he won't know the difference."
As we rolled over the ancient drawbridge which gives admittance to
sleepy Bruges, a bespectacled sentry, who looked as though he
had suddenly been called from an accountant's desk to perform the
duties of a soldier, held up his hand, palm outward, which is the
signal to stop the world over.
"Halt!" he commanded quaveringly. "Advance slowly and give the
word."
I leaned out as the car came opposite him. "Kalamazoo," I whispered.
The next instant I was looking into the muzzle of his rifle.
"Hands up!" he shouted, and there was no longer any quaver in his
voice. "That is not the word. I shouldn't be surprised if you were
German spies. Get out of the car!"
It took half an hour of explanations to convince him that we were not
German spies, that we really did know the password, and that we
were merely having a joke--though not, as we had planned, at his
expense.
The force of citizen soldiery known as the Garde civique has, so far
as I am aware, no exact counterpart in any other country. It is
composed of business and professional men whose chief duties,
prior to the war, had been to show themselves on occasions of
ceremony arrayed in gorgeous uniforms, which varied according to
the province. The mounted division of the Antwerp Garde civique
wore a green and scarlet uniform which resembled as closely as
possible that of the Guides, the crack cavalry corps of the Belgian
army. In the Flemish towns the civil guards wore a blue coat, so
long in the skirts that it had to be buttoned back to permit of their
walking, and a hat of stiff black felt, resembling a bowler, with a
feather stuck rakishly in the band. Early in the war the Germans
announced that they would not recognize the Gardes civique as
combatants, and that any of them who were captured while fighting
would meet with the same fate as armed civilians. This drastic ruling
resulted in many amusing episodes. When it was learned that
the Germans were approaching Ghent, sixteen hundred civil
guardsmen threw their rifles into the canal and, stripping off their
uniforms, ran about in the pink and light-blue under-garments which
the Belgians affect, frantically begging the townspeople to lend them
civilian clothing. As a whole, however, these citizen-soldiers did
admirable service, guarding the roads, tunnels and bridges,
assisting the refugees, preserving order in the towns, and, in
Antwerp, taking entire charge of provisioning the army.
No account of Antwerp in war time would be complete without at
least passing mention of the boy scouts, who were one of the city's
most picturesque and interesting features. I don't quite know how
the city could have got along without them. They were always on the
job; they were to be seen everywhere and they did everything.
They acted as messengers, as doorkeepers, as guides, as orderlies
for staff officers, and as couriers for the various ministries; they ran
the elevators in the hotels, they worked in the hospitals, they
assisted the refugees to find food and lodgings. The boy scouts
stationed at the various ministries were on duty twenty-four hours at
a stretch. They slept rolled up in blankets on the floors; they
obtained their meals where and when they could and paid for them
themselves, and made themselves extremely useful. If you
possessed sufficient influence to obtain a motor-car, a boy scout
was generally detailed to sit beside the driver and open the door
and act as a sort of orderly. I had one. His name was Joseph. He
was most picturesque. He wore a sombrero with a cherry-coloured
puggaree and a bottle-green cape, and his green stockings turned
over at the top so as to show knees as white and shapely as those
of a woman. To tell the truth, however, I had nothing for him to do.
So when I was not out in the car he occupied himself in running the
lift at the Hotel St. Antoine. Joseph was with me during the German
attack on Waelhem. We were caught in a much hotter place than
we intended and for half an hour were under heavy shrapnel fire. I
was curious to see how the youngster--for he was only fourteen--
would act. Finally he turned to me, his black eyes snapping with
excitement. "Have I your permission to go a little nearer, monsieur?"
he asked eagerly. "I won't be gone long. I only want to get a
German helmet." It may have been the valour of ignorance which
these broad-hatted, bare-kneed boys displayed, but it was the sort
of valour which characterized every Belgian soldier. There was one
youngster of thirteen who was attached to an officer of the staff and
who was present at every battle of importance from the evacuation
of Brussels to the fall of Antwerp. I remember seeing him during the
retreat of the Belgians from Wesemael, curled up in the tonneau of
a car and sleeping through all the turmoil and confusion. I felt like
waking him up and saying sternly, "Look here, sonny, you'd better
trot on home. Your mother will be worried to death about you." I
believe that four Belgian boy scouts gave up their lives in the
service of their country. Two were run down and killed by
automobiles while on duty in Antwerp. Two others were, I
understand, shot by German troops near Brussels while attempting
to carry dispatches through the lines. One boy scout became so
adept at this sort of work that he was regularly employed by the
Government to carry messages through to its agents in Brussels.
His exploits would provide material for a boy's book of adventure
and, as a fitting conclusion, he was decorated by the King.