MORE DAYS IN ANTWERP
It might be thought that the war had dealt Antwerp and its commerce
their death blow. But the city is merely asleep and there is no one who
can tell how long its torpor will last. Just as the fall of the city
was an event in the world’s history which brought German power within
striking distance of Great Britain, so the city itself will in coming
times of peace acquire a status of world-wide importance and become
perhaps still greater than ever before. Both from a strategical and
commercial point of view Antwerp is bound always to remain one of the
nerve-centres of Europe. It was therefore interesting to have seen this
great mercantile metropolis at the inception of its fateful crisis, and
it is obvious that I could not have been content with my first short
reconnaissance. Hence I obtained permission from the Governor-General’s
office to return, and, if I wished to do so, to remain in the city for
several days.
I accordingly planned another trip with Lieut. Dr. Hütten, to take
place on the 11th of October. Just as I was starting out from my hotel,
I met an old friend, Professor Georg Wegener, one of my chums from the
time I was cramming with Richthofen at the University of Berlin. We had
not many minutes to spare, but exchanged nevertheless a few impressions
of the war.
Hütten drove the car himself and I sat at his side. It had been my
intention to take a few photographs of the military life on the road
and in the town, for the sights which were now to unfold themselves to
our vision would soon vanish and make room for more tranquil scenes.
The further we travelled northward, the slower we had to go, for the
road was encumbered by an unceasing stream of marching troops and
transport columns, Uhlans and Hussars, guns and ammunition wagons.
Little contingents of marines were interspersed here and there amongst
the other troops. They had their own amusing little train, consisting
of a barrow drawn by a donkey and laden with an odd-looking contrivance
of sheet-iron which might simply have been a stove with its pipes.
“What are you going to do with that thing there?” we asked. “It’s going
to be a field kitchen,” replied a stout, jovial fellow who was driving
a couple of calves behind the donkey-barrow.
[Illustration: MARINES WITH A “FIELD-KITCHEN” AND A COUPLE OF CALVES]
Farther on we passed a bivouac with its shelter-tents still up and the
breakfast boiling in its caldrons. Another war picture, or perhaps I
should call it a picture from the boundary line of peace and war, was
furnished by an entire caravan of carts piled high with trunks, bags,
bundles, bedclothes and what not, accompanied by a group of men, women
and children. They were fugitives returning to Malines. But if it was
their misfortune to live just south of the cathedral, they were doomed
never to see their homes again.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF FUGITIVES]
[Illustration: FUGITIVES RETURNING TO MALINES FROM THE SOUTH]
Near Eppeghem we saw on an unpretentious wooden cross by the roadside
the following inscription: “_Hier ruht ein tapferer Belgier von
seinen deutschen Kameraden begraben._” (Here lies a brave Belgian
buried by his German comrades.) The fallen hero has stuck to his post
up to the last, and by his courage had evoked the admiration of his
opponents.[25] Now we drive once more through the ruined street in
Malines and stop outside the cathedral. Here are a couple of hundred
Belgian prisoners guarded by a few marines. They wear little black caps
with a red stripe and tassel, short tunics or greatcoats; some of them
have water-bottles, bundles or bags carried on the shoulder by a strap.
A herd of cattle is just being driven past by some German soldiers.
“Quick march!” orders a German N.C.O., and the prisoners quickly
disappear down one of the narrow alleys.
[25] Dr. Fr. Klefberg, when in the same neighbourhood, had come across
the following inscription: “A brave Belgian soldier buried by German
comrades. 4th Company, 26th Regiment of Field Artillery.”
We continue northward past the outer fortifications, with the German
naval ensign floating on the crest, and meet fresh groups of returning
fugitives, fresh marching columns, amongst them a field telegraph
detachment, and fresh swarms of horsemen. And so at length we come once
more to the long _Chaussée de Malines_, which in a car takes but a
couple of minutes from end to end.
[Illustration: IN FRONT OF THE TOWN HALL AT ANTWERP]
[Illustration: INFANTRY HALTING IN FRONT OF ANTWERP TOWN HALL]
But it was chiefly to take photographs that I had planned this day’s
excursion to Antwerp, and what could after all be more attractive for
the camera than the _Grand’ Place_, the noble little square by the
Townhall with its quaint gable façades? In the middle of the square
stands a piece of sculpture not long since erected, illustrating the
legend about the boy who throws the giant’s hand: “_Hand werfen,
Antwerpen_.” A house close by is the birthplace of one of the
greatest painters of all time, as is shown by a plate over the door,
“_Geboortehuis von Antoon van Dyck, Kunstschilder 1599-1641_.” Van
Dyck’s models and their progeny have disappeared, and the setting
of the _Grand’ Place_ now consists of German troops. It is marines
we see marching in with their knapsacks on their backs, rifles on
the shoulder, cartridge pouches on the bandolier and bayonet and
water-bottle by the side. A dog faithfully plods along beside a private
in the ranks--one constantly sees German soldiers who have adopted
ownerless dogs. Next come a few batteries of 6-cm. naval guns, pulled
by their respective crews. One wonders whether horse teams have not
been procured for marine artillery used on shore. In front of the
Townhall itself a company has piled arms and is resting. Some soldiers
are content to take a nap on the stone paving and use their knapsacks
for pillows. Here we see food columns with canvas awnings over the
carts and wisps of hay in front of the horses. Marine cyclists are
moving about everywhere on their silent wheels. By the side of a car
stands the great engineer, Captain Dreger, looking at a map of the road
to Ghent, which Lieut. Dr. Hütten has just shown him. But the scene is
kaleidoscopic in its variety and there is a coming and going, a rushing
to and fro of animal and motor traffic, a tramping of horses’ hoofs and
a rattle of artillery wagons which baffles all description. We had some
singing, too, for as the marine troops crossed the square they broke
into the swelling tones of _Die Wacht am Rhein_.
[Illustration: FOOD COLUMN CROSSING THE GRAND’ PLACE]
We drive on and reach the land of ferries below the cathedral. Here the
scene is still more changing, and there is a literal crush. The car is
left in charge of our orderly and we thread our way between horses,
carts and closely packed columns of troops. The street leading down to
the harbour is thronged with double marching columns. They mark time,
move on and mark time again. Belgian (Flemish-speaking) policemen in
black coats with silver buttons and black helmets help to keep order
in the thoroughfare. “Where are all these troops and vehicles off to?”
I asked. “They are going to be ferried across the Scheldt to _Tête de
Flandre_; that is, where the road to Ghent begins. They are off to the
coast to throw a glance across to England.”
[Illustration: A BELGIAN GUN IN THE HARBOUR]
It is difficult to get along. Everything seems in such a jumble. I
am just on the point of snapping some kitchen wagons when a Uhlan
perched on a baggage wagon shouts to me: “Neighbour, it is forbidden to
photograph the field kitchen!” “Good,” I answer. “I have no need to,
I have pictures of them already.” The salutation “neighbour” was, I
thought, an excellent touch.
At the quay and bridges, built to allow for the considerable
differences in level between high and low water, the ferries are in
full swing. The bridging train we saw yesterday has not yet had time to
throw a bridge across. Instead it has devoted its energies to building
a species of ferry, consisting of a platform mounted on three pontoons.
A tug took two of these contrivances in tow and three river steamers
were busy conveying a double ferry of this kind across with troops,
ammunition, ambulance and food wagons, field kitchens, field telegraph
equipment and horses. Among the troops I noticed an Austrian artillery
train belonging to the 30.5-cm. mortar batteries now stationed in
Belgium.
[Illustration: FOOD COLUMN ON THE WAY TO THE FERRY, WITH THE CATHEDRAL
TOWER IN THE BACKGROUND, FLYING THE GERMAN FLAG OVER THE CROSS]
“Drive up,” orders an officer. Immediately a column of vehicles moves
forward and halts on the brink of the quay. The horses are taken out
and the vehicles are pushed on to the ferry by the marines. Then the
horses are led across the gangway. They stamp, snort and rear, for
evidently they dislike the look of this queer-looking craft. But all
to no purpose, on board they have to go. When two ferries are full,
the steamer casts off and tows them in a twinkling across the Scheldt
to _Tête de Flandre_. Here another gangway is thrown out, the vehicles
are pulled on to the quay by hand, the horses are put to and the column
proceeds on its way to Ghent.
[Illustration: HORSES AND VEHICLES BEING BROUGHT ON BOARD ONE OF THE
PONTOON FERRIES. THE VESSELS ANCHORED IN THE FAIRWAY WERE USED AS
PONTOONS FOR THE BRIDGE WHICH THE ANGLO-BELGIAN ARMY THREW ACROSS FOR
ITS RETREAT. WHEN THE LAST MAN HAD CROSSED THE BRIDGE WAS BLOWN UP]
[Illustration: THE TRANSPORT ACROSS THE SCHELDT]
As soon as the first load had left the east bank, another river steamer
with its two ferries came alongside and took another contingent on
board. So it went on all day and so it was to continue throughout the
night by the light of electric lamps. The same programme would be
repeated the next day, and so on as long as there were any troops,
horses or vehicles left to ferry across the Scheldt; everything
is done with the rapidity, efficiency, order and discipline which
distinguish the doings of the German army down to the minutest detail.
[Illustration: A GERMAN MARINE ON THE PONTOON FERRY AT ANTWERP]
The ferries do not return empty from _Tête de Flandre_, for enormous
groups of returning fugitives, men, women and children with their
carts, bicycles and barrows, bundles and packages are now gathering on
the opposite bank. They form a picturesque and motley crowd, such as
one is accustomed to see by the side of emigrant ships on the way to
America. Most of them are Flemings. A remarkable order seems to reign
amongst them. They do not squabble, do not shout, and do not push to
get past one another on to the ferries, but wait quietly and obediently
until the soldiers show them the way. The military and civilians seem
to be on the best of terms. We saw the former, to the accompaniment of
jest and laughter, exert themselves to the utmost to make themselves
understood, and the result was a bewildering medley of German, French
and Flemish.
When the Germans entered Antwerp, they found on the eastern quay
in question enormous piles of Belgian uniforms, caps, helmets and
knapsacks. None of these had yet been touched. Presumably all this kit
had been intended for recruits recently called out.
In the course of our wanderings we also visited the northern parts
of the harbour. Here one almost loses oneself in a gigantic maze
of docks, piers, quays, basins, warehouses and sheds, and enormous
stacks of timber and stores of ironware and colonial produce. Here
is a profusion of customs sheds, office buildings, loading gear,
cranes, railway wagons, wheel-less motor-cars, packing cases and
sacks containing I don’t know what. “_Verboten te rooken_” (Smoking
prohibited) is posted up everywhere in gigantic letters. As I saw it
I could not help thinking that “_Verboten te bombardeeren_” would
have been, if anything, a more fitting injunction. Without a guide it
would have been impossible to find one’s way, and we were glad to get
hold of a queer-looking fish sniffing round amongst the merchandise,
who subsequently took us in hand. To-day there were a few more people
about, amongst them Germans who were making the round of the harbour
precincts to note the names of all the vessels lying there. I asked
them if they had seen any Swedish boats, but the answer was in the
negative. Barges, lighters and fishing boats were lying closely packed
together in certain parts of the harbour. Here also we came across
barricades of iron girders and barbed-wire entanglements, and behind a
parapet close by stood a Belgian gun with the breech-block missing.
_Comte de Smets de Naeyer_ was the name of a fine-looking Belgian
training-ship with light grey hull, white masts and spick-and-span
rigging, but there was nothing on board to arouse our interest. We
also paid a little visit to the great Australian liner, _Tasmania_. In
the officers’ cabins all drawers had been pulled out and everything of
value taken away. Nothing but books, papers and a quantity of accounts
and other objects of no value remained. But on a writing-table in the
captain’s own cabin stood a portrait of a woman and a photograph of
a group of bonny children. In the dining saloon a table stood laid
with a silver coffee-pot, half-full, cups and a box of cigars which
had more or less been ransacked of its contents. All the passenger
staterooms were empty and deserted. As we wandered through the endless
corridors our steps gave off a hollow and eerie echo, and we actually
stopped once or twice to discover whether it was really the echo of
our own steps we heard, or whether someone was following us. One
might believe almost anything in such times as these. Fugitives might
for instance have hidden themselves on board. We shouted, but the
sound of our voices died away in the abandoned ship and there was no
answer. We looked into the forecastle, but nobody now slept in these
bunks, so often rocked by the ocean swell. The same grave-like silence
everywhere. It was quite uncanny to walk about this ghost-ship, this
“flying Dutchman” with its crew of invisible spirits who seemed to eye
us from every nook and cranny.
At half-past six we returned to the capital and it was pitch-dark
before we arrived ninety minutes later. At first the road was fairly
clear, but later on we drove past incessant columns marching on their
way to Ghent. As so many times before, a kaleidoscope of horses, riders
and wagons were brought into successive relief by the light of our
lamps. The men, otherwise singing and joking, were now still and sat as
if moulded in the saddle. Once again we heard this eternal clatter of
iron-shod hoofs against the stone paving, this endless tramp, tramp,
tramp which is the music of the marching columns. The rattle of the
wagons, the creaking of the iron-tyred wheels, the jingling of the
chains, the chafing of the leather and the tramping of the horses’
hoofs, these sounds seem still to haunt my ears as I write. Like a
slow and irresistible tidal wave, like an implacable necessity, this
train is rolling towards its goal. It is Germany’s train of victory.
On hundreds of other roads similar streams are flowing to and from the
greatest battle lines maintained by a single country ever since Noah
left the ark to people the earth with human beings, for, as everyone
knows, the continuous fighting line from Nieuport on the North Sea
_via_ Rheims and round Verdun to the Vosges is an accomplished fact.
We see eyes gleaming at us through the darkness. It is the light from
cars we meet, but what can their business be on the road to Antwerp
at this late hour? From under the shadow of the trees fresh packs of
horsemen, square-set, sturdy men on well-fed powerful mounts constantly
emerge into the circle of light from our lamps. Later on comes a gun
team, no longer needed here, on its way to other places where the guns
will resume their music for the benefit of the _entente_ legions, and
here and there among the trees the figures of soldiers preparing their
evening meal are silhouetted against the ruddy glow of the bivouac
fires. Their pipes are glowing in the darkness and one can see the
gleam of their teeth as they break into a peal of laughter at some
comical remark.
* * * * *
At the Banque de Paris and a couple of other banks they shook their
heads over my Swedish letter of credit: “_Toutes les lettres de crédit
sont annulées_.” I should certainly have had no difficulty in getting
money by appealing to the Governor-General, but when I explained my
unsound economic position at the Swedish Legation, Herr Pousette, who
was _chargé d’affaires_, said that he would be very glad to lend me a
thousand francs against the despatch of a telegram to _Skandinaviska
Kreditaktiebolaget_. When this difficulty had been overcome, I took
a trip to Löwen, which is German for Louvain. My friend, Lieut. Dr.
Hütten, still acted as my guide. We had under our charge the energetic
and charming Frau Koch, henceforth to be named Sister Martha, clad in
cap and spotless white dress with a red cross on the left arm. The 12th
of October turned out a brilliantly fine day. We passed out of the city
under the triumphal arch between mirror-like ponds and yellowing trees.
The _Chaussée de Louvain_ soon developed into a stone-paved road lined
with a close beech wood, where hardly a ray of the sun penetrated to
the ground and where cool shadows reigned over a bed of fallen leaves.
We saw no German soldiers in this direction, nothing but the hand of
autumn over this unhappy land which had lost its independence. There
were no transport columns to be seen. The only vehicles on the road
were civilian carts. The aristocratic carriages of the _grand monde_
had disappeared without a trace, after their owners had removed to
other climes.
We have eighteen kilometres to go. Ruins do not meet the eye until we
have travelled some distance into the precincts of Louvain. The whole
city is not wrecked by shells as one had been led to believe. Hardly
a fifth has been destroyed. But that fifth contained many precious
and irreplaceable buildings, and the loss of the library with its
collection of manuscripts, unless by some happy chance some remnants
are still intact under the ruins, is regrettable in the extreme. But in
the midst of the desolation, like a lonely crag in mid-ocean, stands
the Townhall, that proud monument from the middle of the fifteenth
century with its six slender fretwork turrets. I walked round the whole
building, and with the best will in the world I was unable to detect a
single scratch in its gorgeously decorated walls. There may, of course,
be an occasional scar from a shell, but if so it escaped my attention.
The German artillery had given a magnificent proof of its unerring
accuracy of aim. It had hit everything round this building but without
injuring as much as a cornice of any of the six turrets.
[Illustration: LOUVAIN TOWN HALL]
The reason of the German bombardment of Louvain is well known. On
entering the town the German troops were fired on from windows by the
civil population, and as there was no other means of checking this
outrageous proceeding, a few houses were set fire to. When afterwards
the German soldiers used every means in their power to extinguish the
fire in the buildings nearest the Townhall, the _franctireurs_ lay once
more in wait from their ambush. Then things grew serious. Any other
army in the world would have acted in the same way, and the Germans
themselves greatly regretted that they were compelled against their
will to adopt such measures. From Louvain we proceeded to Malines, a
lengthy trip along the canal joining the two cities, where we were
startled to see the masts of fishing-smacks bob up amongst the trees
of parks and alleys. We arrived just in time to witness the burial
of a marine who had fallen at his post. The body of the dead man was
carried to the grave on a Belgian hearse with a silver cross on the
roof and drawn by one horse. Behind the hearse followed some hundred
soldiers from the army and navy. After the funeral three rifle volleys
were fired over the grave, which was then filled in. There were several
German graves in the little churchyard, decorated with wreaths and
helmets, and also two common graves containing the men who had fallen
in some fight.
[Illustration: SOME HOUSES ONLY HAVE THE WALL LEFT STANDING]
On a country road near by a battery of Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars stood
posted. A single one of these batteries of two guns requires a train
of forty-two vehicles. The barrel requires a lorry to itself, likewise
the gun carriage. Then there are wagons for the men, the ammunition,
accessories, tools, provisions, kitchen gear, etc.
In conclusion, we paid a visit to the great military hospital at
Malines, where the surgeon-in-chief and another staff surgeon showed
us round everywhere. The operating theatres more especially of this
Belgian hospital seemed to meet all aseptic requirements. At the
present moment there were only 140 wounded on the premises. Over every
bed hung a metal frame to which an arm could be bandaged when it needed
stretching, and other contrivances with weights and pulleys had been
installed for stretching injured legs. Several interesting cases were
explained to us. A soldier had received a bullet through the back of
the neck, but the spinal medulla was uninjured and the patient could
walk about although it was only six days since he was wounded. Another
had been struck on the left side of the lower jaw, which had been
crushed, the bullet having found its way out on the right side. By an
ingenious arrangement of gilt brass wire fastened to the teeth, the
doctors had succeeded in giving the necessary support to the lacerated
jawbone. The patient could even move his lower jaw and speak. A third
man had been struck by a bullet in the head and had lost the power of
speech, but understood what was said to him and nodded yes and no.
A Belgian soldier had received a nasty wound in the head. He seemed
unbalanced, was delirious and spoke of his wife and children. If anyone
asked whether he had heard from them or knew where they were, he merely
answered: “Look there on the right,” and turned his head in that
direction. In his delirium he described confusedly the fierce struggle
at the Nethe, where he was wounded. Later we stood beside the bed of a
little Belgian boy of twelve, who had happened to get too close to the
firing lines and whose left arm had been cut off by a shell. Yet he
was in good spirits and was looking at a book with coloured plates; he
smiled pleasantly when the German doctor patted him on the head. They
had succeeded in tracing his mother and she was to visit him daily for
a little while.
The corridors were lined with solid-looking iron-hooped wooden
cases inscribed: _Nicht stürzen_ (Not to be upset). They contained
photographic apparatus and plates. There were separate rooms for X-ray
photography and some photos shown to us clearly revealed where the
projectile had lodged and what damage it had done on its passage. As
a rule wounds from rifle bullets are far less malignant than those
occasioned by shrapnel or shell splinters.
Soon we were on our way back again along the familiar road to Brussels
and we were just in time to get ready for the Field-marshal’s
supper-table. There were several interesting guests present. Grand
Admiral von Tirpitz, regally tall and straight, was there. It is he
who, after the Emperor, has worked hardest for the creation of the
German Navy. Lofty forehead, frank and merry eyes, fair beard, resolute
and manly bearing, in fact a real Teuton. It was like a draught of
sparkling wine to speak to him. To such men nothing is impossible, and
with them there is no trace of anxiety about the final issue of the war.
I also met here Herr K. F. von Siemens, head of the firm of Siemens and
Halske, also a very robust-looking man of the Teutonic type and of a
temperament in which humour and gravity are agreeably blended. Talking
about the German losses, he estimated them at 250,000, of which,
however, the great majority were slightly wounded and had already
returned or would soon return to the front, and would then possess the
advantage over the new-comers that they had already been under fire and
had personal experience behind them. We discovered that we possessed
a common friend in the charming Sir Walter Lawrence, one-time private
secretary to Lord Curzon when he was Viceroy of India. Probably he was
now lost to us as a friend, as this war has proved capable of sundering
the closest bonds of friendship.
Another guest was Privy Councillor Kreidel, head of the commissariat
department of the Governor-General of Belgium, and seventy-five years
old. He had recently been subject to attacks of dizziness through
overwork and was now on the point of returning to Germany to get
strong again. The new Governor of Antwerp, Infantry-General Baron von
Hoiningen, whom I had met in Karlsruhe, was also present. General of
Fortifications Bailer, gentle and charming lecturer on æsthetics, was
one of my special friends. He was in very good spirits to-day because
he had seen his son of whom he had not heard for a long time and who
served with one of the armies in France. Lieutenant Bailer had made the
long journey through the air and was just on the point of returning in
his aeroplane. We also talked about Ghent, which had fallen the same
day after severe fighting in the open country. The General was now
proceeding thither to study the Belgian field fortifications; the town
itself is not fortified. From Ghent the German army was to continue to
Bruges and Ostend. Finally we talked about the 300,000 volunteers who
had just arrived at the front, where the youthful undergraduates with
their merry pranks had greatly enlivened the older Landsturm men, who
in turn had taught them their very best drill.
The next two days I rested, wrote, visited the Swedish Legation and
spent my evenings with the Governor-General. The weather was by no
means suitable for excursions. The rain poured down and heavy clouds
from the Atlantic floated over the town. As a lady whom I overheard in
a shop rightly observed, life was quite dark and sad enough without
the heavens adding their share. But to the soldiers there is no
difference between fine and foul weather, and the troops and transport
trains passing through the city seem no fewer than usual. But for
the German uniforms and military cars, one would scarcely have known
what was going on. Apart from these phenomena, a stranger arriving
in Brussels would have noticed nothing, unless it be the absence of
Belgian motor-cars and the rarity of horse-drawn vehicles; for both
cars and horses had been requisitioned by the Belgian army. He might
perhaps also have wondered where all the _beau monde_ and all the rich
and well-to-do citizens had got to, for those who could afford it
had preferred to betake themselves elsewhere, rather than to remain
under the foreign yoke. It is only the poor and the less well-to-do
bourgeoisie who have to remain.
As regards the town itself, it is true that the stranger would notice
that the theatres were closed and that a German sentry was posted
outside the _Palais de Justice_ and other public buildings. But he
would have seen no signs of destruction, no smoking ruins, no naked
walls black with soot and smoke. The population of Brussels remained
perfectly quiet when the Germans entered. There were no ambushes and
there was no firing from windows. Therefore all the houses remain
untouched and the town has been spared the fate which overtook Louvain
and Dinant. And the population acted wisely. They would never have
been able to inflict an appreciable check on the Germans, but would,
on the contrary, have suffered enormous economic losses. The war
requisition of fifty million francs imposed upon the town would in case
of resistance have been multiplied over and over again.
I could not refrain from making another inspection of Antwerp, more
thorough than the preceding ones.
Antwerp! The city of the dead! Lou-lan, the desert city, given over to
destruction and oblivion when the sea of Lopnor wandered southward,
was not harder hit than Antwerp. For have not the oceans retired and
left high and dry this great hub of commerce which not many days ago
was in close contact with all the earth’s continents and islands! These
gigantic harbour installations now lay dead and idle, and there was
not even an apprentice to be found in all the twenty-two ships which
lay forgotten by the quayside when the blow fell. The whole city was
paralysed. One of the things I wanted to see was whether in the course
of the next few days there would be any signs of an awakening from
this torpor. Of course, one realised that life in the harbour would
remain dead as long as the sea outside was full of mines, and would not
perhaps reawaken until the end of the war. But I thought it possible
nevertheless that the city itself might rouse itself and that many of
the unhappy fugitives who had fled across the Dutch frontier would
return.
So on the 15th October I started out for the third time for Antwerp.
I had been invited to join in an excursion, and we drove out in five
cars. I was with my friend General Bailer and a couple of other
officers. The participants included no less a person than the Imperial
Chancellor, Herr von Bethmann Hollweg, as well as His Excellency
von Treutler. We quickly reached Malines and stopped as usual outside
the cathedral. In view of the Chancellor’s visit the interior had been
cleaned up. All blocks of stone, dust and lumber had been removed.
St. Rombaut’s fane now looked quite neat and tidy, and it was evident
that it would not cost much, either in time or money, to restore it to
its former condition. A tombstone, crushed by blocks of stone which
had fallen from an arch between the middle and the north side-aisle,
will, however, be difficult to replace. The effect of the shell fire
was demonstrated by artillery officers, and it was made clear that the
Belgian fire directed from the north had only consisted of shrapnel
intended to drive the German observers away from the tower.
[Illustration: THE INTERIOR OF MALINES CATHEDRAL BEFORE THE REMOVAL OF
THE DÉBRIS]
From Malines we proceeded north-east to Fort St. Catherine, one of
Antwerp’s strongest forts, constructed, like the others, by the great
Engineer-General Brialmont and equipped with nine modern armoured
turrets. Most of these had been horribly knocked about by the heaviest
German artillery, _die dicke Bertha und die schwarze Marie_ (“fat
Bertha” and “black Maria”) as the 42-cm. mortars have been playfully
dubbed by the soldiers. One of the turrets had been struck plumb by
a shell which had flung its 40-ton cupola some ten metres to one
side, where the gigantic structure had alighted on its side and
eaten itself into the earth. The cupola having been removed in this
somewhat energetic manner, we were able to get an idea of the interior
construction of the turret. Another turret had merely been struck at
a tangent by a smaller projectile and yet the effect was such that
the metal of the cupola had been rent as the soil is torn by the
ploughshare. Another shell had penetrated through a bed of concrete
several metres thick and upon detonation it wrought the most appalling
havoc.
[Illustration: DESTRUCTION WROUGHT BY “FAT BERTHA” IN FORT ST.
CATHERINE]
At Antwerp the Chancellor was received by Admiral von Schröder, whom I
shall have occasion to mention later on. He was a powerfully built man,
with white head and beard, a thorough sea-dog. He also was renowned for
his astounding energy.
In the afternoon I drove with General Bailer, Colonel Müller and Major
Elert round the grass-clad slopes of the fortifications round the town,
the innumerable gates of which were now guarded by German soldiers.
It was really an initial tour of inspection that these officers were
engaged upon. Among the discoveries made were several searchlights
and old guns and a couple of excellently constructed barricades of
cobble-stones and sheet-iron. The garrison seemed to have been prepared
for street-fighting in the town itself, but things had never got thus
far. Huts built of boards, tarpaulins and other materials had been put
up for the defenders of the barricades.
We had taken rooms at the Terminus Hotel, close by the Central Railway
Station. The German officers paid with _bons_ which are redeemed after
the war, I in ready cash. The dining-room was filled with officers,
naval surgeons and civilian German engineers who had come to repair the
waterworks, gas-works, telegraphs and telephones. The shortage of water
had made itself felt very disagreeably, but at least one could now get
tea and soup, which had been an unobtainable luxury during the first
two days, when we had to remain satisfied with wine and beer. No doubt
it was distilled Scheldt water, or perhaps well-water which now figured
in our soup tureens and water-jugs.
The streets with gas-lighting were pitch-dark at night, whilst
the electrically lighted main streets were bathed in their usual
brightness. Many shop windows were now also brilliantly lit, especially
the tobacconist establishments, which attracted crowds of German
customers. In the restaurants we saw the soldiers seated round the
tables with their girl-friends, drinking beer or coffee. In the large
avenues the traffic was almost animated. As long as daylight lasted
we saw little knots of fugitives returning from the Dutch side. Their
unkempt appearance, unwashed hands and faces and uncombed hair showed
that they had been lying out of doors in the rain and cold and suffered
great privations. Now they were returning with their bundles, their
children, basket carriages, gramophones and other peculiar furniture,
carried on the back or in little barrows drawn by dogs or donkeys. All
looked calm and resigned. What else, indeed, could they do? In Holland
they had been treated with great kindness and hospitality. In Antwerp
they were to find that paralysis had seized upon all industries that
gave them their livelihood. Doubtless they have a hard winter before
them, but the Germans will, I subsequently heard, do all in their power
to lessen the distress, and a special commission has, in fact, been
nominated with this object. It may also surely be taken for granted
that England, who says that she began the war to save neutral Belgium,
and who can now afford to sacrifice £350,000,000 to encompass the
destruction of Germany, will be able to offer a thousandth part of this
sum to save the destitute in Belgium from that very fate.