On 12th October, President Wilson’s reply to the German peace
plea was made known to us, and its brief dignity, its firm, just,
and benevolent strength, stirred every American heart with pride,
and awoke among the Belgians enthusiasm only kept with difficulty
within the limits their rulers ordained. Peace then, for the first
time, began to be spoken of as a still vague but now conceivable
possibility. The poor were eager for it at almost any price—that is,
the uneducated and uncomprehending poor. The thoughtful wanted it
that further carnage might be checked; but those whose wounds were
too deep for forgetting, whose life-interest had been buried in some
innocent grave, cried: “They shall not have peace until they are on
their knees!” And to the argument that such satisfaction could only
be attained at cost of Belgium’s total destruction the unhesitating
reply came “_Qu’importe?_ France has sacrificed her cities, why should
not we? Better see even Brussels razed to the ground, than not achieve
to the full that aim for which we have already sacrificed so much!”
Their determination to go on was not that of Germany, impelled by
greed and pride; but desire to risk all in order to be rid for ever
of an unscrupulous neighbour; to eradicate the smallest trace of that
neighbour’s control, and see it finally broken. This, more even than
a righteous and excusable desire for vengeance, was their reason
for wishing to continue a conflict that had so injured them, while
Germany’s object was merely to avoid punishment and the loss of her
gains!
Those without work, without hope or ambition, the poor, famished,
soup-kitchen folk, would not believe that the Germans really wanted
peace: “There is a trick under it; we shall wait and see!” was all
their comment. And it seemed as though theirs was the voice of
prophecy when news of Prince Max von Baden’s famous and seemingly
treacherous letter reached us. How this affected the outer world we
had no means of judging, but it caused in Brussels mingled anger and
fear.
In those days the feeling was very high and enthusiastic for America.
“_Ce sont les Américains qui nous out sauvés!_” was the popular
sentiment, although America’s deeds at the front were never given in
our papers. America, according to the German censorship, was even
more negligible than England; only the French armies were allowed a
certain amount of credit in regard to the “victorious alteration of
our front” which the _puissances centrales_ were so often obliged to
acknowledge in those later days. People, nevertheless, were not so
intoxicated by present events as to forget the first thrilling days,
when Belgium alone held back that overwhelming tide, and sowed the
seed of the victory now approaching; nor those later ones when France
and England so marvellously achieved the real, the all-important
defeat of Prussia at the Marne. Nor were those still more terrible
days forgotten, following Russia’s withdrawal—those weeks of anguish
when new hordes of Germans rushed through Brussels toward the front,
and wiped out all the Allied advances we had been following so
patiently, so eagerly, step by step over the torn and blood-soaked
regions of France. That period was more appalling even than that
of the first onslaught, more annihilating to hope. Looking back on
it, recalling the almost crazing tension of anxiety, the reigning
conviction that Germany was rushing on to conquest, the second stand
before Paris, that wonderful, all-glorious victory, shines out as
more brilliant, more soul-thrilling, even than the first. And yet of
the imperishable, recklessly heroic charge of the American marines
before Chateau-Thierry, that outburst of fresh and determined energy,
which refired the Allies and helped once and for all to turn the tide
of war, we knew nothing until after the Allied troops had entered
Brussels. We knew only that the enemy was stronger both in numbers
and in his determination to win at any cost, despite the hypocritical
peace offer that gave him excuse to cry: “You will not have peace
on our terms? Then bear the consequences!” and to make those
consequences—already prepared—throw into shadow all the horrors of his
first _Massenschlacht_.
No, glorious England, France, and Belgium! no plea of overwhelming
numbers, no whine of enforced surrender before the entire world, can
rob you of laurels won in the first awful years—that vast, unequalled
victory which America’s generous hand helped at the critical moment to
assure you!
The realization that victory was in sight came upon us in Brussels
with the dazing suddenness of a comet in a starless night. The
first evidence of Germany’s collapse was the sudden and astonishing
independence of soldiers toward their superiors. We wondered at this
for a day or two; then the truth burst on us with an avalanche of
disbanded troops, from the _étape_ regions, who, flinging off all
control, arrived in groups of twenty, more or less. No red flag could
be seen among them, nothing explained their strange advent save their
look of desperate weariness. So quietly they came that at first
everyone believed they were returning on furlough, bearing with them
booty seized on the way from the houses and farms of fugitives. Until
the time when their increasing numbers attracted even the puzzled
attention of children, there was no relaxation of the iron hand.
Even when the red flag of rebellion was glaring defiance of the Kaiser
and his flatterers, the daily papers offered us their usual official
lies. William the Second’s “invincible armies” were represented as
still resisting the world; the Allies had been checked at this point
or that; and the Belgians again were called upon to consider the dire
consequences to themselves and their country of continuation of the
war. And this when the war was virtually ended!
I think, from all evidence, the shock was as great to the occupying
Powers as to us. They may have been more prepared than we for
disaster, but they certainly seemed taken by surprise when that red
flag appeared, waving at the head of their defeated troops.
If the war came like a lightning-stroke, it went, so far as we could
judge, like a falling star of incalculable speed. Most of us were too
dazed to comprehend the meaning of events.
Suddenly the pompous officer with shining helmet, loaded revolver, and
dangling sword, who had reigned supreme in streets, cafés, and trams,
disappeared.
Those were stirring, extraordinary, unprecedented days! And yet, by
remaining indoors, one might have lived through the first of them
without suspecting anything unusual. The troops entered quietly, too
contented, apparently, to be done with past strife to plunge into
more. Numbers of them sought concealment in Belgium, rather than go
back to the discord they expected at home, openly stating they did
not wish to return to Germany. These were not deserters, but men known
to have come direct from the front. It was a strange experience, and
one of peculiar psychological interest, to watch these battle-worn
men, soiled, weary, and haggard, crossing the city all with the same
look of internal perplexity, as though just waking from a nightmare
whose meaning they were trying to solve. They appeared to have no
set purpose,—probably none, but the leaders had,—nor did they evince
the slightest humiliation at returning vanquished through conquered
lands. On the contrary, their attitude toward the people of Brussels
was kindly, almost friendly; they seemed even to expect applause
from the throngs that gradually gathered to gaze upon them. Some of
those watching would doubtless have given them a cry of farewell, in
sheer satisfaction at their departure (if not in compassion for the
guiltless among them), but for the hideous memories their uniforms
evoked. Despite those memories, a genial or joking word was thrown
them occasionally from the crowd, and replied to in the same spirit.
If, even _one_ year earlier, some trustworthy reader of the future
had predicted such a scene, not one of that gaping crowd would have
considered it possible; for, as History has never recounted a conflict
so frightful, so it has never seen so astounding a termination of
war, such a mingling of tragedy and comedy! In those extraordinary
street-scenes humanity was visibly struggling on the one side against
the follies of tradition, and on the other against the cruel ache
of unforgettable wounds. The German troops, repentent, broken,
realizing that they had been fighting for nothing higher than a pride
founded on their enslaved souls, seemed to crave recognition of their
emancipation—looked for some sign of pardon and good fellowship from
the people they had obediently ground to earth.
There were intervals between the passing of troops, but soldiers in
small groups constantly wandered about looking for a resting-place.
Nearly every house in Brussels was obliged to take some of them in
for a day or two—soldiers and such officers as had decided to throw
their lot in with the revolutionists. Others, the more aristocratic
officers, despisers of the red flag, fled as best they could.
Occasionally a high-power automobile tore through the city, bearing
three or four of these outraged gods toward the German frontier. But
soldiers, with levelled rifles, checked their course, two of whom
mounted the cars, and, dragging the shining epaulettes from their
superiors’ shoulders, threw them to the crowd. This done, they stepped
back, quietly replaced their weapons, and allowed the car to go on.
The officers offered no resistance; though blanched with rage, they
were as helpless before their armed slaves as Belgium had been before
the massed cannon and diabolic instruments of destruction.
During the first week after the revolution became known, a body of
higher officers, with some loyal soldiers, took possession of the
Gare du Nord, hoping to prevent the revolutionists making use of the
railway. Had they had a greater number on their side, this act might
have caused Belgium, besides all her other trials, to bear the brunt
of Germany’s internal strife. As it was, many Belgians suffered loss
of life and destruction of property through this selfishly stupid
attempt to defy the avenging hand. Great throngs of people were in the
streets; and I, with a friend, happened also to be in that crowded
quarter where the outrage took place. Unwarned and unsuspecting,
we were attracted thither by an interesting mass of troops, just
returned from the front, with cannon, mitrailleuse, field-kitchens,
and armoured war-cars. In the joy of freedom from stern military
authority, we all swarmed as close as possible to these, now
apparently harmless, features of war.
At a certain point on the main boulevard quite close to the station,
one or two armed soldiers stood ineffectually warning back the
throngs, without explanation, either too indifferent or too ignorant
themselves to enforce their orders. Consequently many curious
Belgians drifted past them, some returning the sentinels’ challenge
with laughing bravado. One guard menaced with his rifle a couple who
attempted to pass, but in so melodramatic a manner that, while those
threatened fled in terror, many others slipped by him unperceived.
Then the report of a revolver rang out, immediately followed by
others, and at the same moment a terrific volley of mitrailleuse was
brutally discharged into the street, from windows of the station
building—it was said by officers, who cared little how many civilians
might be sacrificed to their folly. The amazed and terrified Belgians
were driven back like dust before a hurricane—dazed by the deafening
roar, by the plunging of frantic horses, the crash of windows on
every side, and the whistle of deadly missiles that filled the air
like a sudden storm of hail, riddling adjacent houses and felling
many a startled Belgian, with the soldiers it recklessly aimed to
destroy. In less than two moments after the mitrailleuse opened fire,
the street was cleared as by magic of every living being, save the
troops firing back. Rushing blindly from a menace so little expected,
the people crowded into shops or fled up side-streets for protection.
Meanwhile the roar continued until the officers, surprised by troops
(who, I believe, entered the building unperceived from the rear), were
obliged to capitulate, and the irrational conflict was brought to an
end.
Local skirmishes of more or less serious character occurred at
intervals throughout the city, during the passage of troops returning
to their chastened Vaterland. In certain districts bullet-pierced
windows and damaged façades bear witness of these outbreaks, mostly
caused during an attack upon officers loyal to the Empire, discovered
in their place of concealment. But, considering the unparalleled
difficulty of the situation,—these vast armies of enemy troops,
flushed with freedom from autocratic control, coming into the midst
of a people taught to despise them,—there was extraordinarily little
discord. The troops, for the most part, were amiable, taking even
occasional gibes in a good spirit. Only the officers—those who still
remained, mostly without epaulettes and wearing a bit of red—appeared
to distrust the Belgians, and were ever on the alert for attack: the
fear of guilty consciences, apparently quite lacking in the soldier!
I myself saw some who (doubtless in accordance with von Hindenburg’s
suggestion) stayed to settle up matters pertaining to the government,
etc., carrying hand-grenades as they moved about the streets—weapons
they could hurl into the midst of that massed attack they seemed to
dread!
While standing, one day, at the Porte de Namur watching a battered
regiment pass by on its slow, foot-weary way to Liège and Germany,
I was amazed to hear what an amount of good-natured taunting they
received from the crowd, not only without resentment, but often with
responsive levity. One man near me cried out in Flemish: “They are
bound to get to Paris, but have decided the shorter and best route is
by way of Berlin!”
“_Ja, ja!_” returned laughingly a haggard-faced youth seated on a
cannon-wagon, “_Sie haben recht!_ the road to Berlin is the best of
all roads!”
Another man in the crowd took a toy cannon from his pocket, and
pointing it at a passing line of soldiers, cried: “Attention! The
British are coming!” And to the amazement, I think, of most persons
present, he was answered by the troops with a roar of spontaneous
laughter.
Some scenes presented by the retreat of Germany’s disillusioned and
crest-fallen army were pitiful enough to bring tears to the eyes of
their bitterest enemies. Often small detachments passed through,
not in line, but trudging along as best they could under heavy
burdens—probably the sorry remnants of once-proud regiments. These had
no commander and evidently no interest save the one fixed purpose
to get back to their homes. They carried their belongings either on
their backs, or in heavy carts which they dragged along, four or
five together straining at the ropes. These cumbrous country carts,
probably bought or stolen from peasants, were piled high with bulging
knapsacks, boxes, French and English helmets, and other trophies of
the battlefield. And, in strange contrast to these, were bits of
furniture, coops containing live hens, and often a cow or two tethered
behind.
Travel-worn peddlers could not have been more indifferent than these
men to public observation. Ill-clad and ill-nourished, they gazed
straight ahead, hungering for their wives and children; taking as
little interest in the revolution as they did in the Kaiser; trying to
forget what they had gone through—plodding along like animals, without
hope of reward or acclamation for all they had courageously endured.
I saw one soldier, an elderly man whose uniform was almost in
tatters, and his boots so worn they must have been painful to walk
in, trudging alone along one of the main boulevards, leading a very
small donkey attached to a cart in which were the treasures he was
taking home. On top of all was a wooden cage containing live rabbits.
He paid no attention to the amusement his appearance aroused in the
onlookers, and, appearing to have forgotten he had ever pertained to a
regiment, saw nothing but the long way ahead, toward the goal of his
one absorbing desire—_Heimat_!
Later on, the troops strode through in regimental order under command
of revolutionary leaders, but bearing, even then, little resemblance
to the brilliant legions that had marched so haughtily through
Brussels on the 20th of August 1914. The great monster had even then
met its master on the banks of the Marne; but it refused to recognize
the fact, or sacrifice Imperial pride in order to save the brave
sons of the then prosperous nation: it threw palpitating, living
hearts of those sons to the cannon, until a latent human instinct
of self-preservation was awakened in them. Then those who survived
understood, at last, that their real enemy was not behind those
determined and avenging guns; but at home, seated upon the throne of
despotism.
“Oh what a fall was there!” Not of a Cæsar deserving the eulogies
of a Marcus Antonius, but the dignity of a nation worthy a nobler
leader—diligent, prosperous, sober-minded Germany.