The Re-Taking of Aerschot
By Sub-Lieutenant Ch. Dendale of the 7th Line Regiment
On the 7th and 8th of September, the diminution of the forces besieging
Antwerp was known at Headquarters and a _sortie_, with all the troops
of the fighting army, was decided upon, either to inflict a defeat on
the enemy, or to oblige the Germans to bring back, towards Antwerp,
some of the forces now on the way to France. The _sortie_ commenced on
the 9th of September and began favourably.
On the 9th, the passages of the Démer and of the Dyle were conquered
and Aerschot was taken. On the 10th, a platoon of the 2nd Mounted
Chasseurs entered Louvain, but the 2nd Division was stopped at Wygmael
and at Putkapel. The enemy brought back the 6th Division of Reservists
who were then marching to France. On the 11th, the 3rd Division
succeeded in an offensive on Over de Vaart and the 6th Division reached
the railway from Malines to Louvain. On the 12th, it was the enemy's
turn to take the offensive and drive back the 2nd Division at Rotselaer
and Wesemael. This retreat drew with it the 6th Division and then the
3rd Division, and on the 13th the army fell back towards the retrenched
camp. The chief object was nevertheless attained. The adversary had
been obliged, not only to bring back to the Belgian front the 6th
Division of the 3rd Corps, but also to delay the march of the 9th Corps
towards France for two days, at the precise moment when the German
armies, in effecting their retreat on the Marne, had the most urgent
need of reinforcements.
This is not an account of a particularly glorious feat of arms, but
merely a statement of impressions during a combat which, although it
was less murderous than any other in which I took part, left the most
vivid impression on my mind.
During the second _sortie_ from Antwerp, the 27th Regiment, which
landed at Heyst-op-den-Berg during the night of the 8th and 9th of
September, received as its first objective: Aerschot. All along our
road we could see the ruins of the dwellings which had been destroyed
by fire by the Germans. These ruins stood out clearly and lamentably
against the blue sky. From the _débris_, which were still smoking, a
special, bitter odour emanated, which choked and suffocated us, giving
us an indescribable sensation. We did not dare stir the ashes, for fear
of exposing to view the calcinated remains of the martyrs who had been
burned, with all they possessed, on the bit of land where they had been
born, and where they had grown up, struggled, suffered, and where, with
visions of horror before their eyes, they had died.
We approached the town and the Boches had not yet shown any signs of
life. Suddenly, my attention was drawn to a forage cap, the red band of
which stood out in contrast against the green of the meadow. I rushed
forward and then stood still, deeply moved. The cap was attached to a
little cross, made of branches, planted on a small mound. This first
vision of the anonymous grave of a brave man, who had died for the sake
of his country, gave me a pang at my heart. Alas, how many such tombs I
have seen since then! I stood there thinking, and my thoughts went from
the hero, who had fallen in the midst of life and light, to the poor
old parents who were trembling for their son, to the poor parents who
would never know where their lad had been buried.
We entered the town after the vanguard, which did not meet with any
serious resistance. There were no longer ruins just here and there, but
heaps and heaps of them everywhere. Nothing had escaped the destructive
rage of the invader. Everything which had not been consumed by the
flames had been saccaged. The shop windows had been cleared, furniture
destroyed, glasses smashed, clothes thrown about in lamentable heaps.
It must have taken whole days to destroy all these things, with kicks
of heavy boots and with the butt end of guns. And what amazed us was
the number of empty bottles strewing the ground. There must have been
"colossal" drinking bouts. Perhaps the soldiers, in order to carry out
their cruel task, had lacked courage. Perhaps at the bottom of their
hearts, some sentiments of honour and of probity had been stirred, and
they had had to stifle all this by drinking until they had lost their
reason.
Gradually, a little curiosity mingled with our emotion. Silently, and
with heavy hearts, we visited these ruins, exhaustless and glorious
relics of patriotic love and virtue. Everything here, from the tombs
down to the very stones, proved that Belgians prefer death to cowardly
submission, prefer to suffer rather than to betray their word of
honour. An atmosphere of august sacrifice sanctified this spot.
Suddenly, I uttered a cry. Over yonder, on the front of a convent, a
big German flag was floating insolently in the wind. I rushed forward,
but the soldiers had already preceded me, and the Colonel stamped on
the accursed emblem. Our eyes shone with joy and hope. This sight was
a symbol to us. We saw in it German power laid low, Right triumphant,
Belgium delivered, and we were filled with absolute confidence....
Piff! paff! There was fighting going on over yonder and these
detonations exasperated us. We rushed forward spontaneously in a wild,
disorderly chase, crying out: "Long live the King!"
The Boches occupied the heights at the other side of the town. They
greeted our vanguard with a violent firing, but fortunately it was
badly aimed. Our Battalion rushed to the rescue. Just as we were
turning the corner of a street and entering the zone swept by the
firing, the first ranks hesitated for an instant. Then, and never shall
I forget that sight, the standard-bearer rushed forward, holding our
flag high with its three colours unfurled.
Electrified, the men rushed like a whirlwind, the clarions sounded
the assault, and a confused clamour rang out: "Hurrah, Hurrah for
Belgium!" The irresistible stream of our troopers gained the heights.
The men were mad with fury, for the sight of the German atrocities had
exasperated them. They hurried on, their hearts overflowing with rage.
"No prisoners! No quarter! Death to the bandits!"
Curses rang out on all sides. The men's faces were hard, savage,
pitiless.
"They shall be cared for, their wounded!" I heard someone say.
I turned round and saw our doctor. The expression of his eyes scared
me. A veritable flame of hatred had been lighted in all hearts.
"Yes, we are ready for anything. No pity! No conventions. So much
the worse for them. They have brought it on themselves! It is their
punishment!"
An immense joy took possession of us and transported us, the joy of the
idea of snatching from the invader a shred of our national territory.
* * * * *
A pitiful troop of German prisoners was halting on the road. The sun
was scorching. Our men, streaming with perspiration, grouped themselves
round them, looking at them curiously. What did I now see, though?
Was it possible? The same soldiers who had been intoxicated with the
madness of carnage, with vengeance and hate, were now looking after
these captives. One offered them cigarettes, another one coffee from
his flask. Our "ferocious" doctor was busy lavishing his care on them,
and dressing their wounds down to the very least scratch.
Suddenly calm again, on seeing the suffering of others, we were once
more kind-hearted, simple Belgians, hospitable and compassionate,
according to the traditions of our race. Moved by pity, we were doing
our best to relieve the sufferings of our wounded enemies. I looked
on at this poignant scene thoughtfully, and I was seized with deep
emotion. My eyes were dim with tears and my heart swelled with joy,
with unutterable pride, the joy and the pride of being a Belgian.
Hotel Dieu, Albert I. Hospital. 9. 11. 15.