A PRAYER FOR HIS SOUL
On we drove, on and on.
All the road to Brussels was patrolled now. At the gates of villa
gardens, on the side paths, grey German sentries were posted, bayonets
fixed. We drove through Germans all the way. They looked at us quietly.
Once only were we stopped again, and this time it was only the driver's
passport that was looked at.
At last we arrived at Hall, an old-world Brabant town containing a
"miracle." As far as I can remember, it was a bomb from some bygone War
that came through the church wall and was caught in the skirts of the
Madonna!
"Hall," said Jean, "is now the headquarters of the German Army in
Belgium! The État-Majeur has been moved here from Brussels. He is in
residence at the Hôtel de Ville. Voilà! See the Germans. They always
pose themselves like that on the steps where there are any steps to pose
on. Ah, mais c'est triste n'est-ce-pas? Mon pauvre Belgique!"
We clattered up the main street and stopped at a little café, facing the
Hotel de Ville.
Stiffly we alighted from our waggonette, and entering the café quenched
our thirst in lemonade, watching the Germans through the window as we
rested.
Nervous as I was myself, I admired the Belgians' sangfroid. They
manifested not the slightest signs of nervousness. Scorn was their
leading characteristic. Then a sad little story reached my ears. An old
peasant was telling Jean that an English aviator had been shot down at
Hall the day before, and was buried somewhere near.
How I longed to look for my brave countryman's grave! But that was
impossible. Instead, I breathed a prayer for his soul, and thought of
him and his great courage with tenderness and respect.
It was all I could do.