My Year of the War | Page 5

Germans to
come; no Belgian wanted them; and this was the fact decisive in the
scales of justice. She said, as the officer had said, that the Germans
were "out there." Across the fields one saw nothing on that still August
day; no sign of war unless a Taube overhead, the first enemy aeroplane
I had seen in war. For the last two days the German patrols had ceased
to come. Liege, we knew, had fallen. Looking at the map, we prayed
that Namur would hold.
"Out there" beyond the quiet fields, that mighty force which was to
swing through Belgium in flank was massed and ready to move when
the German Staff opened the throttle. A mile or so away a patrol of
Belgian cyclists stopped us as we turned toward Brussels. They were
dust-covered and weary; the voice of their captain was faint with
fatigue. For over two weeks he had been on the hunt of Uhlan patrols.
Another schipperke he, who could not only hate but fight as best he

knew how.
"We had an alarm," he said. "Have you heard anything?"
When we told him no, he pedalled on more slowly, and oh, how
wearily! to the front. Rather pitiful that, too, when you thought of what
was "out there."
One had learned enough to know, without the confidential information
that he received, that the Germans could take Brussels if they chose.
But the people of Brussels still thronged the streets under the blankets
of bunting. If bunting could save Brussels, it was in no danger.
There was a mockery about my dinner that night. The waiter who laid
the white cloth on a marble table was unctuously suggestive as to menu.
Luscious grapes and crisp salad, which Belgian gardeners grow with
meticulous care, I remember of it. You might linger over your coffee,
knowing the truth, and look out at the people who did not know it.
When they were not buying more buttons with the allied colours, or
more flags, or dropping nickel pieces in Red Cross boxes, they were
thronging to the kiosks for the latest edition of the evening papers,
which told them nothing.
A man had to make up his mind. Clearly, he had only to keep in his
room in his hotel in order to have a great experience. He might see the
German troops enter Belgium. His American passport would protect
him as a neutral. He could depend upon the legation to get him out of
trouble.
"Stick to the army you are with!" an eminent American had told me.
"Yes, but I prefer to choose my army," I had replied.
The army I chose was not about to enter Brussels. It was that of "mine
own people" on the side of the schipperke dog machine-gun battery
which I had seen in the streets of Haelen, and the peasant woman who
shook her fist at the invader, and all who had the schipperke spirit.

My empty appointment as the representative of the American Press
with the British army was, at least, taken seriously by the policeman at
the War Office in London when I returned from trips to Paris. The day
came when it was good for British trenches and gun-positions; when it
was worth all the waiting, because it was the army of my race and
tongue.

II Mons And Paris

Back from Belgium to England; then across the Channel again to
Boulogne, where I saw the last of the French garrison march away,
their red trousers a throbbing target along the road. From Boulogne the
British had advanced into Belgium. Now their base was moved on to
Havre. Boulogne, which two weeks before had been cheering the
advent of "Tommee Atkeens" singing "Why should we be
downhearted?" was ominously lifeless. It was a town without soldiers;
a town of brick and mortar and pavements whose very defencelessness
was its best security should the Germans come.
The only British there were a few stray wounded officers and men who
had found their way back from Mons. They had no idea where the
British army was. All they realized were sleepless nights, the shock of
combat, overpowering artillery fire, and resisting the onslaught of
outnumbering masses.
An officer of Lancers, who had ridden through the German cavalry
with his squadron, dwelt on the glory of that moment. What did his
wound matter? It had come with the burst of a shell in a village street
which killed his horse after the charge. He had hobbled away, reached a
railroad train, and got on board. That was all he knew.
A Scotch private had been lying with his battalion in a trench when a
German aeroplane was sighted. It had hardly passed by when showers
of shrapnel descended, and the