Most of the pictures which the public casually gazes on have been
secured at a price--and a large one, too. The names of these men who
go to the front with cameras, rather than with rifles or pens, are
generally unknown. They are rarely found beneath the pictures, yet
where would be our vivid impression of courage in daring and of skill
in doing, of cunning strategy upon the field of battle, of wounded
soldiers sacrificing for their comrades, if we had no pictures? A few
pictures are faked, but behind most pictures there is another tale of
daring and of strategy, and that is the tale concerning the man who
took it. That very day thrice these same men risked their lives.
The apparatus loaded in the car, we were off again. Past a few
barricades of paving-stones and wagons, past the burned houses which
marked the place where the Germans had come within five miles of Ghent,
we encountered some uniformed Belgians who looked quite as dismal and
dispirited as the fog which hung above the fields. They were the famous
Guarde Civique of Belgium. Our Union Jack, flapping in the wind, was
very likely quite the most thrilling spectacle they had seen in a week,
and they hailed it with a cheer and a cry of "_Vive l'Angleterre!_"
(Long live England!) The Guarde Civique had a rather inglorious time
of it. Wearisomely in their wearisome-looking uniform, they stood
for hours on their guns or marched and counter-marched in dreary
patrolling, often doomed not even to scent the battle from afar off.
Whenever we were called to a halt for the examination of our passports,
these men crowded around and begged for newspapers. We held up our
stock, and they would clamor for the ones with pictures. The English
text was unintelligible to most of them, but the pictures they could
understand, and they bore them away to enjoy the sight of other
soldiers fighting, even if they themselves were denied that excitement.
Our question to them was always the same, "Where are the Germans?"
Out of the conflicting reports it was hard to tell whether the Germans
were heading this way or not. That they were expected was shown by the
sign-posts whose directions had just been obliterated by fresh paint--a
rather futile operation, because the Germans had better maps and plans
of the region than the Belgians themselves, maps which showed every
by-path, well and barn. The chauffeur's brother had been shot in his
car by the Germans but a week before, and he didn't relish the idea of
thus flaunting the enemy's flag along a road where some German scouting
party might appear at any moment. The Union Jack had done good service
in getting us easy passage so far, but the driver was not keen for
going further with it.
It was proposed to turn the car around and back it down the road, as
had been done the previous day. Thus the car would be headed in the
home direction, and at sight of the dreaded uniform we could make a
quick leap for safety. At this juncture, however, I produced a small
Stars and Stripes, which the chauffeur hailed with delight, and we
continued our journey now under the ægis of a neutral flag.
It might have secured temporary safety, but only temporary; for if the
Englishmen with only British passports had fallen into the hands of the
Germans, like their unfortunate kinsmen who did venture too far into
the war zone, they, too, would have had a chance to cool their ardor
in some detention-camp of Germany. This cheerful prospect was in the
mind of these men, for, when we espied coming around a distant corner
two gray-looking men on horseback, they turned white as the chauffeur
cried, "Uhlans!"
It is a question whether the car or our hearts came to a dead
standstill first. Our shock was unnecessary. They proved to be
Belgians, and assured us that the road was clear all the way to
Termonde; and, except for an occasional peasant tilling his fields,
the countryside was quite deserted until at Grembergen we came upon
an unending procession of refugees streaming down the road. They were
all coming out of Termonde. Termonde, after being taken and retaken,
bombarded and burned, was for the moment neutral territory. A Belgian
commandant had allowed the refugees that morning to return and gather
what they might from among the ruins.
In the early morning, then, they had gone into the city, and now
at high noon they were pouring out, a great procession of the
dispossessed. They came tracking their way to where--God only knows.
All they knew was that in their hearts was set the fear of Uhlans, and
in the sky the smoke and flames of their burning homesteads. They came
laden with their lares and penates,--mainly dogs, feather beds, and
crayon portraits of their ancestors.