THE CULT OF THE BRUTE
Repellant, unforgettable, was the spectacle of the Germans strutting and
posing on the steps of the beautiful Palais de Justice.
So ill did they fit the beauty of their background, that all the artist
in one writhed with pain. Like some horrible vandal attempt at
decoration upon pure and flawless architecture these coarse, brutish
figures stood with legs apart, their flat round caps upon their solemn
yokel faces giving them the aspect of a body of convicts, while behind
them reared those noble pillars, yellow and dreamlike, suffering in
horror, but with chaste dignity, the polluting nearness of the Hun.
The more one studies Hun physiognomy and physique, the more predominant
grow those first impressions of the Cult of the Brute. Brutish is the
clear blue eye, with the burning excited brain revealing itself in
flashes such as one might see in the eye of a rhinoceros on the attack.
Brutish is the head, so round and close cropped, resembling no other
animal save German. Brutish are the ears flapping out so redly. The
thick necks and incredibly thick legs have the tenacious look of
elephants.
And oh, their little ways, their little ways!
In the Salle Du Tribunal de Commerce they put up clothes-lines, and hung
their shirts and handkerchiefs there, while a bucket stood in the middle
of the beautiful tesselated floor. And then, in exquisite taste, to give
the Belgians a treat, this interior has been photographed and forced
into an extraordinary little newspaper published in Brussels, printed in
French but secretly controlled by the Germans, who splatter it with
their photographs in every conceivable (and inconceivable) style.
And so we see them in their kitchen installed at the foot of the
Monument, wearing aprons over their middle-aged tummies, blucher boots,
and round flat caps. A pretty picture that!
They posed themselves for it; alone they did it. And this is how. They
tipped up a big basket, and let it lie in the foreground on its side.
Two Germans seized a table, lifting it off the ground. One man seated
himself on a wooden bench with a tin of kerosene. Half a dozen others
leaned up against the portable stoves, with folded arms, looking as if
they were going to burst into Moody and Sankey hymns. All food, all
bottles, were hidden. The dustbin was brought forward instead. And then
the photographer said "gut!" And there they were! It was the Hunnish
idea of a superb photograph of Army Cooks. Contrast it with Tommy's! How
do you see Tommy when a war photographer gets him? His first thought is
for an effect of "Cheer-oh!" He doesn't hide bottles and glasses. He
brings them out, and lets you look at them. He doesn't, in the act of
being photographed, lift a table. He lifts a tea-pot or a bottle if he
has one handy. Give us Tommy all the time. Yes. All the time!
Another photograph shews the Huns in the Auditoire of the Cour de
Cassation! More funny effects! They've brought forward all their
knap-sacks, and piled them on a desk for decoration. They themselves lie
on the carpeted steps at full length. But they don't lounge. They can't.
No man can lounge who doesn't know what to do with his hands. And
Germans never know what to do with theirs.
When I saw that picture, showing the Hun idea of how a photograph should
be taken, I felt a suffocation in my larynx. Then there was a gem called
Un Coin de la Cour de Cassation. This shewed dried fish and sausages
hanging on an easel! cheeses on the floor; and washing on the
clothes-line.
And opposite this, on the other page was a photo of General Leman and
his now famous letters to King Albert, the most touching human documents
chat were ever written to a King.
SIRE,
Après des combats honorables livrés les 4, 5, et 6 août par la 3ème
division d'armée renforcée, a partir du 5, par la 15ème brigade, j'ai
estimé que les forts de Liège ne pouvaient plus jouer que le rôle de
forts d'arrêt. J'ai néanmoins conservé le gouvernement militaire de la
place afin d'en coordonner la défense autant qu'il m'était possible et
afin d'exercer une action morale sur les garnisons des forts.
Le bien-fondé de ces résolutions à reçu par la suite des preuves
sérieuses.
Votre Majesté n'ignore du reste pas que je m'étais installé au fort de
Loncin, à partir du 6 août, vers midi.
SIRE,
Vous apprendrez avec douleur que ce fort a sauté bier à 17 h. 20
environ, ensevelissant sous ses ruines la majeure partie de la garnison,
peut-être les huit-dixièmes.
Si je n'ai pas perdu la vie dans cette catastrophe, c'est parce que mon
escorte, composée comme suit: captaine commandant Collard, un
sous-officier d'infanterie, qui n'a sans doute pas survécu, le gendarme
Thevénin et mes deux ordonnances (Ch. Vandenbossche et Jos. Lecocq) m'a
tiré d'un endroit du fort ou j'allais être asphyxié par les gaz de la
poudre. J'ai été porté dans le fossé où je suis tombé. Un captaine
allemand, du nom de Gruson, m'a donné à boire, mais j'ai été fait
prisonnier, puis emmené à Liège dans une ambulance.
Je suis certain d'avoir soutenu l'honneur de nos armes. Je n'ai rendu ni
la forteresse, ni les forts.
Daignez me pardonner, Sire, la négligeance de cette lettre je suis
physiquement très abimé par l'explosion de Loncin.
En Allemagne, où je vais être dirigé, mes pensées seront ce qu'elles ont
toujours été: la Belgique et son Roi. J'aurais volontiers donné ma vie
pour les mieux servir, mais la mort n'a pas voulu de moi.
G. LEMAN.