THE CITY IS SHELLED
That day, seated in wicker chairs in the palm court, we held a counsel
of war, all the War-Correspondents who were left. The question was
whether the Hotel Terminus was not in too dangerous a position. Its
extreme nearness to the great railway station made its shelling almost
inevitable when the bombardment of the city began in earnest. We argued
a lot. One suggested one hotel, one another. To be directly northward
was clearly desirable, as the shells would come from southward.
Mr. Cherry Kearton, Mr. Cleary, and Mr. Marshall, decided on the Queen's
Hotel, somewhere near the quay. Their point was that it would be easier
to get away from there. Mr. Robinson and Mr. Phillips refused to change
from the Terminus. Mr. Fox, Mr. Lucien Arthur Jones, and myself chose
the Wagner, as being in the most northerly direction, the farthest away
from the forts, and the nearest to the Breda Gate, which led to Holland.
In the moonlight, after dinner, taking my canary with me, I moved to my
new quarters, accompanied to the doors by that little band of
Englishmen, Cherry Kearton carrying my parrot. It was then ten o'clock.
Strange things were to happen before we met again.
Precisely at eleven the first shell fell. Whiz! It fled in a fury across
the sky and burst somewhere in the direction of the Cathedral. As it
exploded I shut my eyes, clenched my hands, and sank on the floor by my
bedside, saying to myself, "God, I'm dead!"
And I thought I was too.
The enormity of that sound-sensation seemed to belong to a transition
from this world to the next. It scarcely seemed possible to pass through
that noise and come out alive.
That was the first shell, and others followed quickly. The Hotel was
alive immediately. Sleep was impossible. I crept down into the
vestibule. It was all dark, save for one little light at the porter's
door! I got a chair, drew it close to the light and sat down. I had a
note-book and pencil, and to calm and control myself and not let my
brain run riot I made notes of exactly what people said. I sat there all
night long!
Every now and then the doors would burst open and men and women would
rush in.
Once it was two slim, elegant ladies in black, with white fox stoles,
who had run from their house because a shell had set fire to the house
next door.
They came into the pitch-black vestibule, moving about by the little
point of light made by their tiny electric torch. They asked for a
room. There was none. So they asked to sit in the dark, empty
restaurant, and as I saw them disappear into that black room where many
refugees were already gathered, sleeping on chairs and floors and tables
I could not help being amazed at the strangeness of it all, the
unlikeness of it all to life,--these two gently-nurtured sisters with
their gentle manners, their white furs, their electric light, gliding
noiselessly along the burning, beshelled streets, and asking for a room
in the first hotel they came to without a word about terror, and with
expressions on their faces that utterly belied the looks of fright and
terror that the stage has almost convinced us are the real thing.
Swing goes the door and in comes a man who asks the porter a question.
"Is Monsieur L. here?"
"Oui, Monsieur," replies the porter.
"Where is he?"
"He is in bed."
"Go to him and tell him that a shell has just fallen on the Bank of
Anvers. Tell him to rise and come out at once. He is a Bank Official and
he must come and help to save the papers before the bank is burned down!
Tell him Monsieur M., the Manager, came for him."
Swing, and the Bank Manager has gone through the door again out into
that black and red shrieking night.
Swing again, and three people hurry in, three Belgians, father, mother
and a little fair-haired girlie, whom they hold by each hand, while the
father cradles a big box of hard cash under one arm.
"The shells are falling all around our home!" they say.
The porter points to the restaurant door.
"Merci bien," and "Je vous remerci beaucoup," murmur father and mother.
They vanish into the dark, unlit restaurant with its white table-cloths
making pale points athward the stygian blackness of the huge room.
Then an Englishman comes down the stairs behind me, flapping his
Burberry rainproof overcoat. He is a War-Correspondent.
"What a smell!" he says to the porter. "Is gas escaping somewhere?"
"No, sir," says the porter, pulling his black moustache.
He is very distrait and hardly gives the famous War-Correspondent a
thought.
"It _is_ gas!" persists the War-Correspondent. "There must be a leakage
somewhere."
He opens the door.
A horrible whiff of burning petroleum and smoke blows in, and a Belgian
soldier enters also.
"What's the smell?" asks the War-Correspondent.
"The Germans are dropping explosives on the city, trying to set fire to
it," answers the Belgian.
"Good lor, I must have a look!" says the War-Correspondent. He goes
out.
Two wounded officers come down the stairs behind me.
"Bill, please, porter. How much? We must be off now to the forts!"
"Don't know the bill," says the porter. "I'm new, the other man ran
away. He didn't like shells. You can pay some other time, Messieurs!"
"Bien!" says the officers.
They swing their dark cloaks across their shoulders and pass out.
They come back no more, no, never any more.
Then an old, old man limps in on the arm of a young, ever-young Sister
of Mercy.
"He is deaf and dumb," she says, "I found him and brought him here. He
will be killed in the streets."
Her smile makes sunshine all over the blackness of that haunted hall;
the mercy of it, the sweetness of it, the holiness are something one can
never forget as, guiding the old man, she leads him into the dark
restaurant and tends him through the night.
Then again the door swings open.
"The petroleum tanks have been set on fire by the Belgians themselves!"
says a big man with a big moustache. "This is the end."
He is the proprietor himself.
And here up from the stairs behind us that lead down into the cellars,
comes his wife, wrapped in furs.
"Henri, I heard your voice. I am going. I cannot stand it. I shall flee
to Holland with little Marie. Put me into the motor car. My legs will
not carry me. I fear for the child so much!"
A kiss, and she and little Marie flee away through the madness of the
night towards the Breda Gate and the safety of some Dutch village across
the border.
Every now and then I would open the swing-doors and fly like mad on
tip-toe to the corner of the Avenue de Commerce, and there, casting one
swift glance right and left, I would take in the awful panorama of
scarlet flames. They were leaping now over the Marché Aux Souliers, the
street which corresponds with our Strand. While I watched I heard the
shrieking rush of one shell after another, any one of which might of
course well have fallen where I stood.
But I knew they wouldn't. I felt as safe and secure there in that
shell-swept corner as if I had been a child again, at home in silent,
sleepy, far-away Australia!
The fact is when you are in the midst of danger, with shells bursting
round you, and the city on fire, and the Germans closing in on you, and
your friends and home many hundreds of miles away, your brain works in
an entirely different way from when you are living safely in your
peaceful Midlands.
Quite unconsciously, one's ego asserts itself in danger, until it seems
that one carries within one a world so important, so limitless, and
immortal, that it appears invincible before hurt or death.
This is an illusion, of course; but what a beautiful and merciful one!
When danger comes your way this illusion will begin to weave a sort of
fairy haze around you, making you feel that those shrieking shells can
never fall on you!
Seldom indeed while I was at the front did I hear anyone say, "I'm
afraid." How deeply and compassionately considerate Nature is to us all!
She has supplied us with a store of emotional glands, and fitted us up
with many a varying sensation, of which curiosity is the liveliest and
strongest. Then when it comes to a race between Fear and Curiosity, in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred Curiosity wins hands down. In real
danger our curiosity, and our unconscious but deep-seated belief in the
ego, carry us right over the frightful terrors that we imagine we should
feel were we thinking the thing out quietly in a safe land. _Then_, we
tremble and shiver! _Then_, we remember the word "Scream." _Then_, we
understand the meaning of fear! _Then_, we run (in our thoughts) into
caves and cellars. But when the real thing comes we put our heads out of
the windows, we run out into the streets, we go towards danger and not
away from it, driven thither by the mighty emotion of Curiosity, which,
when all is said and done, is one of the most delightful because the
most electrifying of all human sensations.
Is this brutal? Is it hard-hearted? Is it callous, indifferent, cruel?
_No_! For it bears no relation to our feelings for other people, _it
only relates to our own sensations about ourselves_. When a group of
wounded Belgians comes limping along, you look into their hollow,
blackened faces, you feel your heart break, and all your soul seems to
dissolve in one mighty longing to die for these people who have
sacrificed their all for _you_; and you run to them, you help them all
you can, you experience a passionate desire to give them everything you
have, you turn out your pockets for them, you search for something,
anything, that will help them.
No! You are not callous because you are curious! Quite the reverse, in
fact. You are curious because you are alive, because you dwell in this
one earth, and because you are created with the "sense" that you have a
right to see and hear all the strange and wonderful things, all the
terrors as well as all the glories that go to make up human existence.
Not to care, not to want to see, not to want to know, that is the
callousness beyond redemption!