impassable--one might as well have tried to paddle a canoe up the
rapids at Niagara as to drive a car against the current of that river of
terrified humanity--so, taking advantage of comparatively empty by-
roads, I succeeded in reaching Doel, a fishing village on the Scheldt
a dozen miles below Antwerp, by noon on Thursday.
By means of alternate bribes and threats, Roos, my driver,
persuaded a boatman to take us up to Antwerp in a small motor-
launch over which, as a measure of precaution, I raised an
American flag. As long as memory lasts there will remain with me,
sharp and clear, the recollection of that journey up the Scheldt, the
surface of which was literally black with vessels with their loads of
silent misery. It was well into the afternoon and the second day's
bombardment was at its height when we rounded the final bend in
the river and the lace-like tower of the cathedral rose before us.
Shells were exploding every few seconds, columns of grey-green
smoke rose skyward, the air reverberated as though to a continuous
peal of thunder. As we ran alongside the deserted quays a shell
burst with a terrific crash in a street close by, and our boatman,
panic-stricken, suddenly reversed his engine and backed into the
middle of the river. Roos drew his pistol.
"Go ahead!" he commanded. "Run up to the quay so that we can
land." Before the grim menace of the automatic the man sullenly
obeyed.
"I've a wife and family at Doel," he muttered. "If I'm killed there'll be
no one to look after them."
"I've a wife and family in America," I retorted. "You're taking no more
chances than I am."
I am not in the least ashamed to admit, however, that as we ran
alongside the Red Star quays--the American flag was floating above
them, by the way--I would quite willingly have given everything I
possessed to have been back on Broadway again. A great city
which has suddenly been deserted by its population is inconceivably
depressing. Add to this the fact that every few seconds a shell
would burst somewhere behind the row of buildings that screened
the waterfront, and that occasionally one would clear the house-tops
altogether and, moaning over our heads, would drop into the river
and send up a great geyser, and you will understand that Antwerp
was not exactly a cheerful place in which to land. There was not a
soul to be seen anywhere. Such of the inhabitants as remained had
taken refuge in their cellars, and just at that time a deep cellar would
have looked extremely good to me. On the other hand, as I argued
with myself there was really an exceedingly small chance of a shell
exploding on the particular spot where I happened to be standing,
and if it did--well, it seemed more dignified, somehow, to be killed in
the open than to be crushed to death in a cellar like a cornered rat.
About ten o'clock in the evening the bombardment slackened for a
time and the inhabitants of Antwerp's underworld began to creep out
of their subterranean hiding-places and slink like ghosts along the
quays in search of food. The great quantities of food-stuffs and
other provisions which had been taken from the captured German
vessels at the beginning of the war had been stored in hastily-
constructed warehouses upon the quays, and it was not long before
the rabble, undeterred by the fear of the police and willing to chance
the shells, had broken in the doors and were looting to their hearts'
content. As a man staggered past under a load of wine bottles,
tinned goods and cheeses, our boatman, who by this time had
become reconciled to sticking by us, inquired wistfully if he might do
a little looting too. "We've no food left down the river," he urged,
"and I might just as well get some of those provisions for my
family as to let the Germans take them." Upon my assenting he
disappeared into the darkness of the warehouse with a hand-truck.
He was not the sort who did his looting by retail, was that boatman.
By midnight Roos and I were shivering as though with ague, for the
night had turned cold, we had no coats, and we had been without
food since leaving Ghent that morning. "I'm going to do a little
looting on my own account." I finally announced. "I'm half frozen and
almost starved and I'm not going to stand around here while there's
plenty to eat and drink over in that warehouse." I groped my way
through the blackness to the doorway and entering, struck a match.
By its flickering light I saw a case filled with bottles in straw casings.
From their shape they looked to be bottles of champagne. I reached
for one eagerly, but just as my fingers closed about it a shell burst
overhead. At least the crash was so terrific that it seemed as though
it had burst overhead, though I learned afterward that it had
exploded nearly a hundred yards away. I ran for my life, clinging,
however, to the bottle. "At any rate, I've found something to drink," I
said to Roos exultantly, when my heart had ceased its pounding.
Slipping off the straw cover I struck a match to see the result of my
maiden attempt at looting. I didn't particularly care whether it was
wine or brandy. Either would have tasted good. It was neither. It was
a bottle of pepsin bitters!
At daybreak we started at full speed down the river for Doel, where
we had left the car, as it was imperative that I should get to the end
of a telegraph wire, file my dispatches, and get back to the city.
They told me at Doel that the nearest telegraph office was at a little
place called L'Ecluse, on the Dutch frontier, ten miles away. We
were assured that there was a good road all the way and that we
could get there and back in an hour. So we could have in ordinary
times, but these were extraordinary times and the Belgians, in order
to make things as unpleasant as possible for the Germans, had
opened the dykes and had begun to inundate the country. When we
were about half-way to L'Ecluse, therefore, we found our way barred
by a miniature river and no means of crossing it. It was in such
circumstances that Roos was invaluable. Collecting a force of
peasants, he set them to work chopping down trees and with these
trees we built a bridge sufficiently strong to support the weight of the
car. Thus we came into L'Ecluse.
But when the stolid Dutchman in charge of the telegraph office saw
my dispatches he shrugged his shoulders discouragingly. "It is not
possible to send them from here," he explained. "We have no
instrument here but have to telephone everything to Hulst, eight
miles away. As I do not understand English it would be impossible to
telephone your dispatches." There seemed nothing for it but to walk
to Hulst and back again, for the Dutch officials refused to permit me
to take the car, which was a military one, across the frontier. Just at
that moment a young Belgian priest--Heaven bless him!--who had
overheard the discussion, approached me. "If you will permit me,
monsieur," said he, "I will be glad to take your dispatches through to
Hulst myself. I understand their importance. And it is well that the
people in England and in America should learn what is happening
here in Belgium and how bitterly we need their aid." Those
dispatches were, I believe, the only ones to come out of Antwerp
during the bombardment. The fact that the newspaper readers in
London and New York and San Francisco were enabled to learn
within a few hours of what had happened in the great city on the
Scheldt was due, not to any efforts of mine, but to this little Belgian
priest.
But when we got back to Doel the launch was gone. The boatman,
evidently not relishing another taste of bombardment, had
decamped, taking his launch with him. And neither offers of money
nor threats nor pleadings could obtain me another one. For a time it
looked as though getting back to Antwerp was as hopeless as
getting to the moon. Just as I was on the point of giving up in
despair, Roos appeared with a gold-laced official whom he
introduced as the chief quarantine officer. "He is going to let you
take the quarantine launch," said he. I don't know just what
arguments Roos had brought to bear, and I was careful not to
inquire, but ten minutes later I was sitting in lonely state on the after-
deck of a trim black yacht and we were streaking it up the river at
twenty miles an hour. As I knew that the fall of the city was only a
matter of hours, I refused to let Roos accompany me and take the
chances of being made a prisoner by the Germans, but ordered him
instead to take the car, while there was yet time, and make his way
to Ostend. I never saw him again. By way of precaution, in case the
Germans should already be in possession of the city, I had taken
the two American flags from the car and hoisted them on the
launch, one from the mainmast and the other at the taffrail. It was a
certain satisfaction to know that the only craft that went the wrong
way of the river during the bombardment flew the Stars and Stripes.
As we came within sight of the quays, the bombardment, which had
become intermittent, suddenly broke out afresh and I was
compelled to use both bribes and threats--the latter backed up by a
revolver--to induce the crew of the launch to run in and land me at
the quay. An hour after I landed the city surrendered.
The withdrawal of the garrison from Antwerp began on Thursday
and, everything considered, was carried out in excellent order, the
troops being recalled in units from the outer line, marched through
the city and across the pontoon-bridge which spans the Scheldt and
thence down the road to St. Nicolas to join the retreating field army.
What was implied in the actual withdrawal from contact with the
enemy will be appreciated when I explain the conditions which
existed. In places the lines were not two hundred yards apart and
for the defenders no movement was possible during the daylight.
Many of the men in the firing-line had been on duty for nearly a
hundred hours and were utterly worn out both mentally and
physically. Such water and food as they had were sent to them at
night, for any attempt to cross the open spaces in the daytime the
Germans met with fierce bursts of rifle and machine-gun fire. The
evacuation of the trenches was, therefore, a most difficult and
dangerous operation and that it was carried out with so
comparatively small loss speaks volumes for the ability of the
officers to whom the direction of the movement was entrusted, as
does the successful accomplishment of the retreat from Antwerp
into West Flanders along a road which was not only crowded with
refugees but was constantly threatened by the enemy. The chief
danger was, of course, that the Germans would cross the river at
Termonde in force and thus cut off the line of retreat towards the
coast, forcing the whole Belgian army and the British contingent
across the frontier of Holland. To the Belgian cavalry and carabineer
cyclists and to the armoured cars was given the task of averting this
catastrophe, and it is due to them that the Germans were held back
for a sufficient time to enable practically the whole of the forces
evacuating Antwerp to escape. That a large proportion of the British
Naval Reserve divisions were pushed across the frontier and
interned was not due to any fault of the Belgians, but, in some cases
at least, to their officer's misconception of the attitude of Holland.
Just as I was leaving Doel on my second trip up the river, a steamer
loaded to the guards with British naval reservists swung in to the
wharf, but, to my surprise, the men did not start to disembark. Upon
inquiring of some one where they were bound for I was told that they
were going to continue down the Scheldt to Terneuzen. Thereupon I
ordered the launch to run alongside and clambered aboard the
steamer.
"I understand," said I, addressing a group of officers who seemed to
be as much in authority as anyone, "that you are keeping on down
the river to Terneuzen? That is not true, is it?"
They looked at me as though I had walked into their club in Pall Mall
and had spoken to them without an introduction.
"It is," said one of them coldly. "What about it?"
"Oh, nothing much," said I, "except that three miles down this river
you'll be in Dutch territorial waters, whereupon you will all be
arrested and held as prisoners until the end of the war. It's really
none of my business, I know, but I feel that I ought to warn you."
"How very extraordinary," remarked one of them, screwing a
monocle into his eye. "We're not at war with Holland are we? So
why should the bally Dutchmen want to trouble us?"
There was no use arguing with them, so I dropped down the ladder
into the launch and gave the signal for full steam ahead. As I looked
back I saw the steamer cast off from the wharf and, swinging slowly
out into the river, point her nose down-stream toward Holland.
On Friday morning, October 9, General de Guise, the military
governor of Antwerp, ordered the destruction of the pontoon-bridge
across the Scheldt, which was now the sole avenue of retreat from
the city. The mines which were exploded beneath it did more
damage to the buildings along the waterfront than to the bridge,
however, only the middle spans of which were destroyed. When the
last of the retreating Belgians came pouring down to the waterfront
a few hours later to find their only avenue of escape gone, for a time
scenes of the wildest confusion ensued, the men frantically
crowding aboard such vessels as remained at the wharves or
opening fire on those which were already in midstream and refused
to return in answer to their summons. I wish to emphasise the fact,
however, that these were but isolated incidents; that these men
were exhausted in mind and body from many days of fighting
against hopeless odds; and that, as a whole, the Belgian troops
bore themselves, in this desperate and trying situation, with a
courage and coolness deserving of the highest admiration. I have
heard it said in England that the British Naval Division was sent to
Antwerp "to stiffen the Belgians." That may have been the intention,
the coming of the English certainly relieved some and comforted
others in the trenches. But in truth the Belgians needed no
stiffening. They did everything that any other troops could have
done under the same circumstances--and more. Nor did the men of
the Naval Division, as has been frequently asserted in England,
cover the Belgian retreat. The last troops to leave the trenches were
Belgians, the last shots were fired by Belgians, and the Belgians
were the last to cross the river.
At noon on Friday General de Guise and his staff having taken
refuge in Fort St. Philippe, a few miles below Antwerp on the
Scheldt, the officer in command of the last line of defence sent word
to the burgomaster that his troops could hold out but a short time
longer and suggested that the time had arrived for him to go out to
the German lines under a flag of truce and secure the best terms
possible for the city. As the burgomaster, M. de Vos, accompanied
by Deputy Louis Franck, Communal Councillor Ryckmans and the
Spanish Consul (it was expected that the American Consul-General
would be one of the parlementaires, but it was learned that he had
left the day before for Ghent) went out of the city by one gate, half a
dozen motor-cars filled with German soldiers entered through the
Porte de Malines, sped down the broad, tree-shaded boulevards
which lead to the centre of the city, and drew up before the Hotel de
Ville. In answer to the summons of a young officer in a voluminous
grey cloak the door was cautiously opened by a servant in the blue-
and-silver livery of the municipality.
"I have a message to deliver to the members of the Communal
Council," said the officer politely.
"The councillors are at dinner and cannot be disturbed," was the
firm reply. "But if monsieur desires he can sit down and wait for
them." So the young officer patiently seated himself on a wooden
bench while his men ranged themselves along one side of the hall.
After a delay of perhaps twenty minutes the door of the dining-room
opened and a councillor appeared, wiping his moustache.
"I understand that you have a message for the Council. Well, what
is it?" he demanded pompously.
The young officer clicked his heels together and bowed from the
waist.
"The message I am instructed to give you, sir," he said politely, "is
that Antwerp is now a German city. You are requested by the
general commanding his Imperial Majesty's forces so to inform your
townspeople and to assure them that they will not be molested so
long as they display no hostility towards our troops."
While this dramatic little scene was being enacted in the historic
setting of the Hotel de Ville, the burgomaster, unaware that the
enemy was already within the city gates, was conferring with the
German commander, who informed him that if the outlying forts
were immediately surrendered no money indemnity would be
demanded from the city, though all merchandise found in its
warehouses would be confiscated.
The first troops to enter were a few score cyclists, who advanced
cautiously from street to street and from square to square until they
formed a network of scouts extending over the entire city. After
them, at the quick-step, came a brigade of infantry and hard on the
heels of the infantry clattered half a dozen batteries of horse artillery.
These passed through the city to the waterfront at a spanking trot,
unlimbered on the quays and opened fire with shrapnel on the
retreating Belgians, who had already reached the opposite side of
the river. Meanwhile a company of infantry started at the double
across the pontoon-bridge, evidently unaware that its middle spans
had been destroyed. Without an instant's hesitation two soldiers
threw off their knapsacks, plunged into the river, swam across the
gap, clambered up on to the other portion of the bridge and, in spite
of a heavy fire from the fort at the Tete de Flandre, dashed forward
to reconnoitre. That is the sort of deed that wins the Iron Cross.
Within little more than an hour after reaching the waterfront the
Germans had brought up their engineers, the bridge had been
repaired, the fire from Fort St. Anne had been silenced, and their
troops were pouring across the river in a steady stream in pursuit of
the Belgians. The grumble of field-guns, which continued throughout
the night, told us that they had overtaken the Belgian rearguard.
Though the bombardment ended early on Friday afternoon, Friday
night was by no means lacking in horrors, for early in the evening
fires, which owed their origin to shells, broke out in a dozen parts of
the city. The most serious one by far was in the narrow, winding
thoroughfare known as the Marche aux Souliers, which runs from
the Place Verte to the Place de Meir. By eight o'clock the entire
western side of this street was a sheet of flame. The only spectators
were groups of German soldiers, who watched the threatened
destruction of the city with complete indifference, and several
companies of firemen who had turned out, I suppose, from force of
training, but who stood helplessly beside their empty hose lines, for
there was no water. I firmly believe that the saving of a large part of
Antwerp, including the cathedral, was due to an American resident,
Mr. Charles Whithoff, who, recognizing the extreme peril in which
the city stood, hurried to the Hotel de Ville and suggested to the
German military authorities that they should prevent the spread of
flames by dynamiting the adjacent buildings. Acting promptly on this
suggestion, a telephone message was sent to Brussels, and four
hours later several automobiles loaded with hand grenades came
tearing into Antwerp. A squad of soldiers was placed under Mr.
Whithoff's orders and, following his directions, they blew up a
cordon of buildings and effectually isolated the flames. I shall not
soon forget the figure of this young American, in bedroom slippers
and smoking jacket, coolly instructing German soldiers in the most
approved methods of fire fighting. Nearly a week before the
surrender of the city, the municipal waterworks, near Lierre, had
been destroyed by shells from the German siege guns, so that
when the Germans entered the city the sanitary conditions had
become intolerable and an epidemic was impending. So scarce did
water become during the last few days of the siege that when, on
the evening of the surrender, I succeeded in obtaining a bottle of
Apollinaris I debated with myself whether I should use it for washing
or drinking. I finally compromised by drinking part of it and washing
in the rest.
The Germans were by no means blind to the peril of an epidemic,
and, before they had been three hours in occupation of the city their
medical corps was at work cleaning and disinfecting. Every
contingency, in fact, seemed to have been anticipated and provided
for. Every phase of the occupation was characterized by the
German passion for method and order. The machinery of the
municipal health department was promptly set in motion. The police
were ordered to take up their duties as though no change in
government had occurred. The train service to Brussels, Holland
and Germany restored. Stamps surcharged "Fur Belgien" were put
on sale at the post office. The electric lighting system was repaired
and on Saturday night, for the first time since the Zeppelin's
memorable visit the latter part of August, Antwerp was again ablaze
with light. When, immediately after the occupation, I hurried to the
American Consulate with the package of keys which I had brought
from Ghent, I was somewhat surprised, to put it mildly, to find the
consulate closed and to learn from the concierge, who, with his wife,
had remained in the building throughout the bombardment, that
Consul-General Diederich and his entire staff had left the city on
Thursday morning.