My Year of the War | Page 3

a position on the staff. In
America he was the employer of three thousand men-- a general of civil
life.
"But look how the Belgians have fought!" he exclaimed. "They stopped
the whole German army for two weeks!"
The best army was best because it had his sympathy. His view was the
popular view in America: the view of the heart. America saw the pigmy
fighting the giant rather than let him pass over Belgian soil. On that day
when a gallant young king cried, "To arms!" all his people became
gallant to the imagination.
When I think of Belgium's part in the war I always think of the little
Belgian dog, the schipperke who lives on the canal boats. He is a
home-staying dog, loyal, affectionate, domestic, who never goes out on
the tow-path to pick quarrels with other dogs; but let anything on two
or four feet try to go on board when his master is away and he will fight
with every ounce of strength in him. The King had the schipperke spirit.

All the Belgians who had the schipperke spirit tried to sink their teeth
in the calves of the invader.
One's heart was with the Belgians on that eighteenth day of August,
1914, when one set out toward the front in a motor-car from a Brussels
rejoicing over bulletins of victory, its streets walled with bunting; but
there was something brewing in one's mind which was as treason to
one's desires. Let Brussels enjoy its flags and its capture of German
cavalry patrols while it might!
On the hills back of Louvain we came upon some Belgian troops in
their long, cumbersome coats, dark silhouettes against the field, digging
shallow trenches in an uncertain sort of way. Whether it was due to the
troops or to Belgian staff officers hurrying by in their cars, I had the
impression of the will and not the way and a parallel of raw militia in
uniforms taken from grandfather's trunk facing the trained antagonists
of an Austerlitz, or a Waterloo, or a Gettysburg.
Le brave Beige! The question on that day was not, Are you brave? but,
Do you know how to fight? Also, Would the French and the British
arrive in time to help you? Of a thousand rumours about the positions
of the French and the British armies, one was as good as another. All
the observer knew was that he was an atom in a motor- car and all he
saw for the defence of Belgium was a regiment of Belgians digging
trenches. He need not have been in Belgium before to realize that here
was an unwarlike people, living by intensive thrift and caution--a most
domesticated civilization in the most thickly- populated workshop in
Europe, counting every blade of grass and every kernel of wheat and
making its pleasures go a long way at small cost; a hothouse of a land,
with the door about to be opened to the withering blast of war.
Out of the Hôtel de Ville at Louvain, as our car halted by the cathedral
door, came an elderly French officer, walking with a light, quick step,
his cloak thrown back over his shoulders, and hurriedly entered a car;
and after him came a tall British officer, walking more slowly,
imperturbably, as a man who meant to let nothing disturb him or beat
him--both characteristic types of race. This was the break-up of the last
military conference held at Louvain, which had now ceased to be

Belgian Headquarters.
How little you knew and how much they knew! The sight of them was
helpful. One was the representative of a force of millions of Frenchman;
of the army. I had always believed in the French army, and have more
reason now than ever to believe in it. There was no doubt that if a
French corps and a German corps were set the task of marching a
hundred miles to a strategic position, the French would arrive first and
win the day in a pitched battle. But no one knew this better than that
German Staff whose superiority, as von Moltke said, would always
ensure victory. Was the French army ready? Could it bring the fullness
of its strength into the first and perhaps the deciding shock of arms?
Where was the French army?
The other officer who came out of the Hôtel de Ville was the
representative of a little army--a handful of regulars--hard as nails and
ready to the last button. Where was the British army? The restaurant
keeper where we had luncheon at Louvain--he knew. He whispered his
military secret to me. The British army was toward Antwerp, waiting to
crush the Germans in the flank should they advance on Brussels. We
were "drawing them on!" Most cheerful, most confident,