THROUGH BELGIUM
The evening of the Armistice I was sitting with the old curé of Somaine
when the Englishman came up to tell me that orders had come for the
brigade to march in the morning. We were to follow the retiring
Germans, who had promised as one of the conditions of the Armistice to
withdraw to a certain number of miles on the opposite side of the Rhine.
I looked at the old curé; I had just been telling him that I expected
a long rest now. And here we were to traverse all Belgium on foot, and
continue through the Rhineland of Germany till we reached the opposite
bank of the Rhine!
At four o’clock in the morning, after I had received Holy Communion
from the hand of the saintly old curé--I did not have time to say
Mass--I left. It was a long march before us, yet we did not foresee
that it was going to be interesting. We reached the border between
France and Belgium before the end of the week. We descended a long
hill, the band at the head of the column playing the “Marseillaise,”
while on both sides of the road from many windows waved the tricolor
of France. We then crossed a small bridge over a dyke, in the middle
of which stood a pole about six feet high; at the top of the pole was
a small metal sign-board about a foot long and eight inches high,
running parallel with the road. On the end nearest us was the one
word “France,” then a little line about one inch long, then the
word “Belgique.” So we stepped from France into Belgium, and the
band, which was the first to cross the line, having ceased to play
the “Marseillaise” began “La Brabaconne,” the national anthem of the
Belgians.
We spent our first Sunday in a little place called Quaregnon, where we
witnessed a demonstration of the wonderful patriotism of the Belgians.
The church was crowded and after Mass the curé in stole and cope,
intoned the “Te Deum.” Instantly all present took it up, and the great
volume of sound filled the church as Belgian, Frenchman and Canadian
joined in the mighty hymn of thanksgiving. Then the little curé did
something I had never seen done before: he turned towards the people
and cried, “Long live Belgium, free, and independent!” The people
repeated his words. Then he cried, “Long live the Canadians, our
liberators!” and as he passed to the sacristy a full orchestra played
“Le Sambre et Meuse,” while a number of the congregation joined in this
war-song of the French.
At one place where we stopped a tall, thin priest spoke to me of the
summer when the Germans had passed through--it seemed so long ago now,
that summer of 1914--when great train-loads of enemy soldiers passed
his house daily. He recalled one train in particular: the cars were
gaily decorated with flowers, bunting and flags, and from the engine
floated a big white pennant on which was printed: “William of Germany,
Emperor of Europe.” He recalled the endless battalions that passed
along the highway, fully equipped from boot to helmet, marching in
perfect order. Their horses, too, were in excellent condition. Their
wagons were shining. Every little while a voice from the ranks would
call out, “Näch Paris! Näch Paris!”--“On to Paris! On to Paris!” and
little Belgian children, terrified, scurried to cellar or other hiding
places. “Yesterday,” continued the priest, “I saw the last of the
German army pass through on their return march to Germany. They had
scarcely any horses; and those that they had were extremely thin. Men
were hauling wagons and carts. Their uniforms were worn and soiled; in
fact, many were nondescript. Yesterday many of the boys remembering
the words the Germans had called out on their way, four years before,
standing on pavement or in doorways called out: ‘Näch Paris! Näch
Paris!’--‘On to Paris! On to Paris!’”
It was very pleasant marching off early every morning while the band
played some old favorite that had cheered the weary men after a hard
day on the battlefield. All along the way, for the first week or two,
we were greeted by happy peasants, who had been refugees for years,
returning to their own country. Nearly always they pulled hand-carts
piled high with bedding and gaily decorated with flags of the allies.
I remember once on the roadside we found that the railway track had
been blown up, and a great length of rails, with the sleepers still
attached, had been thrown completely over a two-story building, like a
wide, curving ladder.
I found the Belgian priests very hospitable and very much interested in
conditions in America. They were filled with gratitude to the people
of the United States.
In many shop windows we saw a picture representing the ocean, and
Columbia passing bread across the waters to an emaciated woman sitting
on the shore with two starving children near her. In the upper part of
the picture were insets of President Wilson and Brand Whitlock, and
underneath was written: “Grateful Belgium.”
I was in a little town not far from Brussels the day the king came
back. Most of the broken railways had not yet been repaired, and as the
Germans had taken the horses away from the people, many walked from ten
to twenty miles to see the king come back to his kingdom.
We marched by Waterloo and through an old monastery called Villers
L’Abbey, built by St. Bernard. In one place where we halted over night
was a tiny three-nave church of grey granite, which had been built
in the ninth century. Napoleon had stopped here once in passing and
had given a crown of gold for one of the statues. It was the finest
three-nave church in the world. It was pure Roman architecture.
Gradually we were drawing nearer the German border.