In the Claws of the German Eagle | Page 7

"Salute the Major!" the Germans shouted. What
seeds of hate those words planted in those Belgian souls the future will
show, when they who sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind.
That is the unseen horror of war; pictures can reveal the damage
wrought by shot and shell, fire and flood in the blasted cities and in the
fields of the dead. But nothing can ever show the irreparable spiritual
damage wrought to the human soul by hates, humiliations, fears and
undying animosities.


Chapter II
Sweating Under The German Third Degree

By this time my lark-like spirit of the morning had folded its wings. My
musings took on a decidedly somber tinge. "Were the Germans going
to make a summary example of me to warn outsiders to cease prowling
around the war zone?" "Was I going to be railroaded off to jail, or even
worse?" It was no time to be wool gathering! It was high time for doing.
"But what pretexts could they find for such action?" At any rate I
resolved to furnish as few pretexts as possible.

I set to work hunting carefully through my pockets for everything that
might furnish the slightest basis for any charge against me. Before
coming to Brussels I had been warned not to carry anything that might
be the least incriminating, and there was not much on me; but I did
have a pass from the Belgian commander giving me access to the
Antwerp fortifications. I had figured on framing it as a souvenir of my
adventures, but my molars now reduced it to an unrecognizable pulp.
Cards of introduction from French and English friends fared a similar
fate. Their remains were disposed of in the shuffling that accompanied
the arrival of new prisoners. This had to be done most craftily, for we
never knew where were the spying eyes.
About six o'clock I was resting from my masticatory labors when Javert
presented himself, accompanied by two soldiers. I was led away into
the council room where first I had been taken in the morning. It was
now turned into a trial chamber. Javert, as prosecutor, was seated on
one side of the table, while around the farther end were ranged some
officers and a few men in civilian clothes who proved to be secret
service agents. I stood until the judge bade me take my seat at the
vacant end of the table.
One by one my documents were disposed of--an American passport
issued in London; a permit from the German Consul at Maastricht,
Holland, to enter "the territory of Belgium-Germany," finally, this letter
of introduction from the American Consulate at Ghent:
Consulat Americain.
Gand le 22 Septembre, 1914. Le Consul des Etats Unis d'Amerique a
Gand, prie Messieurs les autorites de bien vouloir laisser passer le
porteur de la presente Monsieur Albert Williams, citoyen Americain.
JULIUS VAN HEE, Consul Americain.
I pointed to the recent date on it, the 22nd of September, and to the
signer of it, Julius van Hee.
Van Hee was a man who met the Germans on their own ground. He
informed the German officer at his hotel: "If you send any spy prowling
into my room, I'll take off my coat and proceed to throw him out of the
window." Shirt-sleeves diplomat indeed! Another time he requested
permission to take three Belgian women through the lines to their
family in Bruges. The German commandant said "No." "All right," said
Van Hee, taking out a package of letters from captured German officers

who were now in the hands of the Belgians, and dangling the packet
before the commandant, "If I don't get that permit, you don't get these
letters." He got the permit.
After a few such clashes the invaders learned that when it came to this
Schrecklichkeit business they had no monopoly on the article. Van
Hee's name was not to be trifled with. But on the other hand there must
necessarily have existed a certain resentment against him for his
ruthless and effective diplomacy. It would no doubt afford Javert a
pleasant sensation to take it out on any one appearing in any way as a
protégé of Van Hee.
"Yes, it's Van Hee's signature all right," muttered Javert with a shrug of
his shoulders, "only he is not the consul, but the vice- consul at Ghent
and let us remember that he is of Belgian ancestry--that wouldn't
incline him to deep friendship with us."
On a card of introduction from Ambassador Van Dyke there were the
words "Writer for The Outlook." It's hard to understand how that
escaped my very scrutinous search, but there it was.
"Another anti-German magazine," commented, sardonically. I was
marveling at the uncanny display of knowledge of this man at the
center of the European maelstrom, aware