The Log of a Noncombatant | Page 4

passed north of the Belgian lines and through
the western sector of forts, that is to say, Fort St. Nicholas, Fort
Haesdonck, and Fort Tete de Flandre. It was the same road along which
Winston Churchill's English marines and the remnant of the Belgian
forces retreated after the fall of Antwerp.
Ghent resounded with praises of its American Vice-Consul, Julius Van
Hee, a hair-trigger politician and a live wire if there ever was one. Van
Hee, with his intimate knowledge of four languages and the Yankee
knack of being on the right spot at the right time, twice saved
blood-shed in the streets of Ghent and in one instance probably
prevented a repetition of the scenes at Louvain.
In Ghent I again found Luther, with a fine young rumor in his pocket
--a rumor which turned out to be correct--that six German spies were to
be executed next morning at sunrise. The place mentioned was behind
the museum in a public park.
"I suppose we'll take it in," said Luther.
"I don't know about that," I answered; adding that, although executions
might be part of the day's work for a war correspondent, I drew the line

at seeing my first murder before breakfast. The tip was correct enough
except that it mentioned the wrong park.
The following noon the Military Governor, according to regulations,
caused to be posted circulars announcing that the men had been put to
death; but at all events I am glad to say that at that early date I did not
have the experience of watching six blindfolded wretches backed up
against a wall, of seeing the officer drop his arm as a signal, and of
hearing the fatal crack of a dozen muskets, as the bodies collapsed like
a telescope, crumpled inward with the chin upon the chest, and fell
forward to the earth.

Chapter II
The Second Bombardment Of Termonde

September 15th was our day with Henry Verhagen, the tall gray
alderman of the town that was once Termonde.
During all the time I was with him Verhagen did not speak a bitter
word. On the contrary, he was calm--particularly calm as he stood
beside the mound where the Belgian soldiers were buried in the center
of the ruined town, pointed to the pile of bricks where he had lived, and
told us how in two nights he had lost 340,000 francs, his son, his
factory, and his home. It was from him, from the burgomaster's wife,
and from a priest that we learned the story of the city that had ceased to
be.
It was the night before that I had wandered into Ghent alone, without
even the excitement of getting arrested. Luther, who became restive
early the next morning while I was jotting notes in the log-book, went
off in search of adventure. Because of the influence exerted by Vice-
Consul Van Hee an arrangement was very soon made whereby a
Belgian Government car and chauffeur were placed at our disposal. We
had no laissez-passer for the firing line; but we were accompanied by
the United States Consul and not governed by any stipulation as to our
destination. In our Belgian car, decorated with all the American flags
we could find, and "American Consular Service" pasted in huge letters

on the windshield and side flaps, we raced along the Boulevard de
l'lndustrie, swung into the southern suburbs, and, once outside the city
limits, we opened up the exhaust and threw down the throttle as Van
Hee shouted out the order:--"To Termonde!"
Termonde was at that time the scene of determined fighting between
units of the ninth German Corps and the Belgian defenders. Situated as
it is, twenty-one miles southeast of Ghent, it marks the southwest
corner of a square formed by Louvain and Termonde on the south, by
Ghent and Antwerp on the north. It controlled the bridge over the River
Scheldt and with it an important approach to Antwerp, the capital at
that time of Belgium. The heavy German siege guns, capable of
demolishing a first-class fort at a range of several miles, could not have
crossed the river so easily at any other point. For this reason the
Germans particularly wanted Termonde--an open bridge to Antwerp
was always worth the taking. The town had already at that time been
captured and recaptured; wounded and refugees were swarming into
Ghent full of battle stories and tales of terrible atrocities. So it was
Termonde that we vowed we would see.
We first saw Verhagen trudging in the same direction as ourselves on
the level, dusty road two miles southwest of Ghent. As we approached
a cross-road marked by a tavern, a couple of direction-posts, and
nondescript stucco buildings, we made out two Belgian sentries, with
their rifles lifted overhead and indulging in