Chapter XIII: The Lull in November (1)

[Dated Nov. 29.]

General inactivity is recorded along the English front, with the Germans pressing the attack in one quarter against the Indian troops, who have been extending their trenches in an endeavor to get in close quarters with the enemy. There has been some shelling of the rear of our front line south of the Lys, but this form of annoyance diminishes daily along the whole front. Sniping, however, is carried on almost incessantly. There seems to be little doubt that the Germans are employing civilians, either willingly or unwillingly, to dig trenches; some civilians have been seen and shot while engaged in this work.

While it is necessary to accept the evidence of all prisoners with caution, there is a change in the views expressed by some officers captured recently which appears to be genuine. They admit the failure of the German strategy and profess to take a gloomy view of the future. At the same time it must be confessed that as yet there is no sign that their view is that generally held by the enemy, nor has there been any definite indication of a lack of morale among the German troops.

The highways of Northern France are crowded with men responding to the various mobilization orders issued by the French Government.

Thousands of such troops were encountered in the course of a short automobile trip. The strange procession includes a curious mixture of types. A considerable proportion of these new drafts are composed of middle-aged men of good physique and likely young men from the countryside.

The change within the last few days of what may be termed the atmosphere of the battlefield has been marked. The noise of the cannonading has now decreased to such an extent that for hours at a time nothing is heard but the infrequent boom of one of the heavy guns of the Allies, the occasional rattle of machine guns, and the intermittent fire of snipers on either side. So far as the use of explosives is concerned, the greatest activity is found in local attacks with hand grenades and short-range howitzers. The enemy has practically ceased his efforts to break through the line by assaults, and he is now devoting his energies to the same type of siege operations which have been familiar to the Allies since the beginning of the battle of the Aisne.

Subterranean life is the general rule in the neighborhood of the firing line. Even those men not actually engaged in fighting live in underground quarters. Some of these quarters, called "funk-holes" are quite elaborate and comfortable and contain many conveniences not found in the trenches on the firing line. They communicate with the firing line by zigzag approach trenches which make enfilading impossible.

Attacks are made on the firing line trenches by blind saps, which are constructed by a special earth borer. When this secret tunnel reaches the enemy's trench, an assault is delivered amid a shower of hand grenades. The stormers endeavor to burst their way through the opening and then try to work along the trench. Machine guns are quickly brought up to repel a counter attack. Most of this fighting takes place at such close range that the guns on either side cannot be fired at the enemy's infantry without great risk of hitting their own men. Bombs have come to take the place of artillery, and they are being used in enormous quantities.

The short-range howitzers are of three types, and those used by the Germans have come to be termed the "Jack Johnson" of close attack. The smaller bombs and grenades thrown by hand, although local in action, are very unpleasant, particularly between the inclosed space of a trench. These grenades are thrown continuously by both sides, and every trench assault is first preceded and then accompanied by showers of these murderous missiles. This kind of fighting is very deadly, and owing to the difficulty of observation it is at times somewhat blind. This difficulty has in a measure been decreased, however, by the use of the hyperscope, an instrument which works very much like the periscope on a submarine. It permits an observer to look out over the top of a parapet without raising his head above the protection of the trench.

*THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY.*

By EDWARD NEVILLE VOSE.

THE old year dies 'mid gloom and woe--
The saddest year since Christ was born--
And those who battle in the snow
All anxious-eyed look for the morn--
The morn when wars shall be no more,
The morn when Might shall cease to reign,
When hushed shall be the cannons' roar
And Peace shall rule the earth again.

As we from far survey the fray
And strive to succor those who fall,
Let each give thanks that not today
To us the clarion bugles call--
That not today to us 'tis said:
"Bow down the knee, or pay the cost
Till all ye loved are maimed or dead,
Till all ye had is wrecked and lost."

Should that grim summons to us come
God grant we'd all play heroes' parts,
And bravely fight for land and home
While red blood flows in loyal hearts.
But now a duty nobler far
Has come to us in this great day--
We are the nations' guiding star,
They look to us to lead the way.

They look to us to lead the way
To liberty for all the world,
The dawning of that better day
When war's torn banners shall be furled--
The day when men of every race
Their right divine shall clearly see
To rule themselves by their own grace,
Forever and forever free.

*"Human Documents" of Battle*

*By Men Who Saw or Took Part./*

_Written in the hurry and confusion of battle, and without the
opportunity at hand to check up the impressions given, it is of
course likely that these dispatches from special correspondents may
contain many things which history will correct. But as human
documents they have no equal, and history will not be able, however
she may correct matters of detail and partisan feeling, to offer
anything which will give a more vivid impression of the glare and
roar of battle than do these letters, penned by men actually in or
near the firing line at the moment of great events. As such_ THE
TIMES _offers them, not as frozen history, but as history in the
making, and has no apologies to make for an error of fact here and
there, for those very errors are in a way testimony that adds value
to the story--the story of honest and hard-driven human beings
writing what was passing before their eyes._

*The German Entry Into Brussels*

*By John Boon of The London Daily Mail.*

BRUSSELS, via Alost, Aug. 20. (Thursday,) 10 P.M.

The Germans entered Brussels shortly after 2 P.M. today without firing a shot.

Yielding to the dictates of reason and humanity, the civil Government at the last moment disbanded the Civic Guard, which the Germans would not recognize. The soldiers and ordinary police were then entrusted with the maintenance of order.

After a day of wild panic and slumberless nights the citizens remained at their windows. Few sought their couches.

The morning broke brilliantly. The city was astir early, and on all lips were the words: "They are here" or "They are coming!"

The "they" referred to were already outside the boundaries in great force. The artillery was packed off on the road to Waterloo. Horse, foot, and sapper were packed deep on the Louvain and Tervervueren roads.

An enterprising motorist came in with the information and the crowds in the busy centres immediately became calm. At 11 o'clock it was reported that an officer with half a troop of hussars bearing white flags had halted outside the Louvain gate.

The Burgomaster and four Sheriffs went in a motor car to meet the officers. They were conducted to the German military authorities at the head of the column. The meeting took place outside the barracks of the carabineers.

The Burgomaster claimed for the citizens their rights under the laws of war regulating an unfortified capital. When roughly asked if he was prepared to surrender the city, with the threat that otherwise it would be bombarded, the Burgomaster said he would do so. He also decided to remove his scarf of office.

The discussion was brief. When the Burgomaster handed over his scarf it was handed back to him and he was thus intrusted for the time being with the civil control of the citizens. The Germans gave him plainly to understand that he would be held responsible for any overt act on the part of the populace against the Germans.

From noon until 2 o'clock the crowds waited expectantly. Shortly after 2 o'clock the booming of cannon and later the sound of military music conveyed to the people of Brussels the intimation that the triumphant march of the enemy on the ancient city had begun.

On they came, preceded by a scouting party of Uhlans, horse, foot, and artillery and sappers, with a siege train complete.

A special feature of the procession was 100 motor cars on which quick-firers were mounted. Every regiment and battery was headed by a band, horse or foot.

Now came the drums and fifes, now the blare of brass and soldiers singing "Die Wacht am Rhein" and "Deutschland Ueber Alles."

Along the Chaussee de Louvain, past St. Josse and the Botanical Gardens, to the great open space in front of the Gare du Nord, the usual lounging place of the tired twaddlers of the city, swept the legions of the man who broke the peace of Europe.

Among the cavalry were the famous Brunswick Death's Head Hussars and their companions on many bloody fields, the Zeiten Hussars. But where was the glorious garb of the German troops, the cherry-colored uniforms of the horsemen and the blue of the infantry? All is greenish, earth-color gray. All the hel- [Transcriber: Text missing in original.] are painted gray. The gun carriages are gray. Even the pontoon bridges are gray.

To the quick-step beat of the drums the Kaiser's men march to the great Square Charles Rogier. Then at the whistling sound of the word of command--for the sonorous orders of the German officers seemed to have gone the way of the brilliant uniforms--the gray-clad ranks broke into the famous goose step, while the good people of Liége and Brussels gazed at the passing wonder with mouths agape.

At the railroad station the great procession defiled to the boulevards and thence marched to encamp on the heights of the city called Kochelberg. It was truly a sight to have gladdened the eyes of the Kaiser, but on the sidewalks men were muttering beneath their breath: "They'll not pass here on their return. The Allies will do for them."

Many of the younger men in the great array seemed exhausted after the long forced march, but as a man staggered his comrades in the ranks held him up.

It was a great spectacle and an impressive one, but there were minor incidents that were of a less pleasant character.

Two Belgian officers, manacled and fastened to the leather stirrups of two Uhlans, made a spectacle that caused a low murmur of resentment from the citizens. Instantly German horsemen backed their steeds into the closely packed ranks of the spectators, threatening them with uplifted swords and stilling the momentary revolt.

At one point of the march a lame hawker offered flowers for sale to the soldiers. As he held up his posies a Captain of Hussars by a movement of his steed sent the poor wretch sprawling and bleeding in the dust. Then from the crowd a Frenchwoman, her heart scorning fear, cried out, "You brute!" so that all might hear.

There was one gross pleasantry, too, perpetrated by a gunner who led along a bear, evidently the pet of his battery, which was dressed in the full regalia of a Belgian General.

The bear was evidently intended to represent the King. He touched his cocked hat at intervals to his keeper.

This particularly irritated the Belgians, but they wisely abstained from any overt manifestation or any unpleasant feature of behavior. The soldiery as they passed tore repeatedly at the national colors which every Belgian lady now wears on her breast.

A more pleasant incident was when a party of Uhlans clamored for admittance at a villa on the Louvain road. They disposed of a dozen bottles of wine and bread and meat. The non-commissioned officer in command asked what the charge was and offered some gold pieces in payment. The money was refused.

Near the steps of St. Gudule a party of officers of high rank, seated in a motor car, confiscated the stock of the news vendors. After greedily scanning the sheets they burst into loud laughter.

Hour after hour, hour after hour, the Kaiser's legions marched into Brussels streets and boulevards. Some regiments made a very fine appearance, and it is well that the people of England should know this. It was notably so in the case of the Sixty-sixth, Fourth and Twenty-sixth Regiments. Not one man of these regiments showed any sign of excessive fatigue after the gruelling night of marching, and no doubt the order to "goose step" was designedly given to impress the onlookers with the powers of resistance of the German soldiers.

The railway stations, the Post Office and the Town Hall were at once closed. The national flag on the latter was pulled down and the German emblem hoisted in its place. Practically all the shops were closed and the blinds drawn on most of the windows.

At the time of writing I have heard of no very untoward incident. The last train left Brussels at 9 o'clock on Wednesday night. Passengers to the city cannot pass beyond Denderleeuw, where there are strong German pickets.

*The Fall of Antwerp*

*By a Correspondent of The London Daily Chronicle, Who Was at Antwerp During the Siege.*

[Special Dispatch to THE NEW YORK TIMES.]

LONDON, Oct. 11.--A Daily Chronicle correspondent who has just arrived from Antwerp tells the following story of his experiences:

Antwerp has been surrendered. This last and bitterest blow which has fallen upon Belgium is full of poignant tragedy, but the tragedy is lightened by the gallantry with which the city was defended.

Only at the last, to save the historic buildings and precious possessions of the ancient port, was its further defense abandoned. Already much of it had been shattered by the long-range German guns, and prolonged resistance against these tremendous engines of war was impossible.

Owing to this the siege was perhaps the shortest in the annals of war that a fortified city ever sustained. I have already described its preliminaries and the many heroic efforts which were made by the Belgians to stem the tide of the enemy's advance, but the end could not long be delayed when the siege guns began the bombardment.

It was at three minutes past noon on Friday that the Germans entered the city, which was formally surrendered by the Burgomaster, J. de Vos. Antwerp had then been under a devastating and continuous shell fire for over forty hours.

It was difficult for me to ascertain precisely how the German attack was being constituted, but from officers and others who made journeys from the fighting lines into the city I gathered that the final assault consisted of a continuous bombardment of two hours' duration, from 7:30 o'clock in the morning until 9:30.

During that time there was a continuous rain of shells, and it was extraordinary to notice the precision with which they dropped just where they would do the most damage. I was told that the Germans used captive balloons, whose officers signaled to the gunners the points in the Belgian defense at which they should aim.

The German guns, too, were concealed with such cleverness that their position could not be detected by the Belgians. Against such methods and against the terrible power of the German guns the Belgian artillery seemed quite ineffective. The firing came to an end at 9:30 o'clock Friday, and the garrison escaped, leaving only ruins behind them.

In order to gain time for an orderly retreat, a heavy fire was maintained against the Germans up to the last minute, and the forts were then blown up by the defenders as the Germans came in at the Gate of Malines. I was lucky enough to escape by the river to the north in a motor boat. The bombardment had then ceased, though many buildings were still blazing, and while the little boat sped down the Scheldt one could imagine the procession of the Kaiser's troops already goose-stepping their way through the well-nigh deserted streets.

Those forty hours of shattering noise, almost without a lull, seem to me now a fantastic nightmare, but the harrowing sights I witnessed in many parts of the city cannot be forgotten. It was Wednesday night that the shells began to fall into the city. From then onward they must have averaged about ten a minute, and most of them came from the largest guns which the Germans possess--"Black Marias," as Tommy Atkins has christened them.

Before the bombardment had been long in operation the civil population or a large proportion of it fell into a panic. It is impossible to blame these peaceful, quiet living burghers of Antwerp for the fears that possessed them when the merciless rain of German shells began to fall into the streets and on the roofs of their houses and public buildings. The Burgomaster had in his proclamation given them excellent advice to remain calm and he certainly set them an admirable example, but it was impossible to counsel the Belgians who knew what had happened to their fellow citizens in other towns which the Germans had passed through.

Immense crowds of them, men, women and children, gathered along the quayside and at the railway stations in an effort to make a hasty exit from the city. Their condition was pitiable in the extreme. Family parties made up the biggest proportion of this vast crowd of broken men and women. There were husbands and wives with their groups of scared children unable to understand what was happening, yet dimly conscious in their childish way that something unusual and terrible and perilous had come into their lives.

In many groups were to be seen old, old people, grandfathers and grandmothers of a family, and these in their shaking frailty and terror, which they could not withstand, were the more pitiable objects in the great gathering of stricken townsfolk. This pathetic clinging together of the family was one of the most affecting sights I witnessed, and I have not the slightest doubt that in the mad rush for refuge beyond the borders of their native land many family groups of this sort completely perished.

All day and throughout the night these pitiful scenes continued, and when I went down to the quayside early Thursday, when the dawn was throwing a wan light over this part of the world, I found again a great host of citizens awaiting their chance of flight.

In the dimness of the breaking day this gathering of "Les Misérables" presented, as it seemed to me, the tragedy of Belgium in all its horror. I shall never forget the sight. Words would fail to convey anything but a feeble picture of the depths of misery and despair there. People stood in dumb and patient ranks drawn down to the quayside by the announcement that two boats would leave at 11 o'clock for Ostend, and Ostend looks across to England, where lie their hopes.

There were fully 40,000 of them assembled on the long quay, and all of them were inspired by the sure and certain hope that they would be among the lucky ones who would get on board one of the boats. Alas for their hopes, the two boats did not sail, and when they realized this I fancied I heard a low wail of anguish rise from the disappointed multitude.

Other means of escape were, however, available in the shape of a dozen or fifteen tugboats, whose destinations were Rotterdam and Flushing and other ports of Holland. They were not vessels of any considerable passenger carrying capacity, and as there was no one to arrange a systematic embarkation a wild struggle followed among the frantic people to obtain places on the tugs. Men, women, and children fought desperately with each other to get on board, and in that moment of supreme anguish human nature was seen in one of its worst moods, but who can blame these stricken people? Shells that were destroying their homes and giving their beloved town to the flames were screaming over their heads. Their trade was not war; they were merchants, shopkeepers, comfortable citizens of more than middle age, and there were many women and children among them, and this horror had come upon them in a more appalling shape than it has visited any other civilized community in modern times.

There was a scarcity of gangways to the boats and the only means of boarding them was by narrow planks sloping at a dangerous angle. Up these the fugitives struggled, and the strong elbowed the weak out of their way in their mad haste to escape. The marvel to me as I watched the scramble was that many were not crushed to death in the struggle to get on board or forced into the river and drowned. As it was, mishaps were very few. One old lady of 80 years slipped on one of the planks and fell against the side of the boat, fracturing her skull. Several people fell into the river and two were drowned, but that is the sum total of accidents as far as I could ascertain.

By 2 o'clock Thursday most of the tugboats had got away, but there were still some 15,000 people who had not been able to escape, and had to await resignedly whatever fate was in store for them.

I have endeavored to describe the scenes at the quayside on Thursday morning, and I now turn to the Central Station, where incidents of a similar kind were happening. There, as down by the river, an immense throng of people had assembled, and they were filled with dismay at the announcement that no trains were running. In their despair they prepared to leave the city on foot by crossing the pontoon bridge and marching toward the Dutch frontier.

I cannot, of course, speak positively on the subject, but I should say the exodus of refugees from the city must have totaled 200,000 persons--men, women, and children of all ages--or very nearly that vast number, and that out of a population which in normal times is 321,821. One might estimate that fully 70 per cent. of those folk had little or no money.

There were three lines of exit. They could up to the time of the German invasion cross the pontoon bridge over the Scheldt; they could go along the countryside toward the Dutch frontier, or they could walk up the Scheldt toward the frontier and then cross by ferry to Belgian territory again.

Many of the aged women among the refugees, terrorized and hunger-stricken, died, I am told, on the way to the Belgian frontier. The towns were crowded with pitiful wanderers, fleeing from the ruthless invaders, and they begged for crusts of bread. They were simply starving, and householders did what they could to help, cottagers giving to their utmost out of their meagre larders, but still there was a cry for food.

I now return to the events of Thursday. At 12:30 o'clock in the afternoon, when the bombardment had already lasted over twelve hours, through the courtesy of a Belgian officer I was able to ascend to the roof of the cathedral, and from that point of vantage I looked down upon the scene in the city.

All the southern portion of Antwerp appeared to be a desolate ruin. Whole streets were ablaze, and flames were rising in the air to the height of twenty and thirty feet. In another direction I could just discern through my glasses dimly in the distance the instruments of culture of the attacking German forces, ruthlessly pounding at the city and creeping nearer to it in the dark. At that moment I should say the enemy's front line was within four miles of Antwerp.

From my elevated position I had an excellent view also of the great oil tanks on the opposite side of the Scheldt. They had been set on fire by four bombs from a German taube, and a huge, thick volume of black smoke was ascending 200 feet into the air. The oil had been burning furiously for several hours, and the whole neighborhood was enveloped in a mist of smoke.

In all directions were fire and flames and oil-laden smoke. It was like a bit of Gustave Doré's idea of the infernal regions. From time to time great tongues of fire shot out from the tanks, and in this way, the flames greedily licking the sides of other tanks, the conflagration spread. How long this particular fire raged I cannot say, for I saw neither the beginning nor the end of it, but while I watched its progress it seemed to represent the limit of what a fire was capable of.

After watching for some considerable time the panorama of destruction that lay unrolled all around me, I came down from my post of observation on the cathedral roof, and at the very moment I reached the street a 28-centimeter shell struck a confectioner's shop between the Place Verte and the Place Meir. It was one of these high explosive shells, and the shop, a wooden structure, immediately burst into flames.

The city by this time was almost deserted, and no attempt was made to extinguish the fires that had broken out all over the southern district. Indeed, there were no means of dealing with them.

As far back as Tuesday in last week the water supply from the reservoir ten miles outside the city was cut off, and as this was the city's main source of supply, indeed practically its only source, great apprehension was felt. The reservoir is just behind Fort Waelhem, and the German shells had struck it, doing great mischief. It left Antwerp without any regular inflow of water, and the inhabitants had to do their best with artesian wells. Great efforts were made by the Belgians from time to time to repair the reservoir, but it was always thwarted by German shell fire. The health of the city was thereby menaced, for there was danger of an epidemic.

Happily, stricken Antwerp was spared this added terror. It had plenty of other sorts, and some of these I experienced when, after leaving the cathedral, I made my way to the southern section of the city, where shells were bursting at the rate of five a minute. With great difficulty and not without risk I got as far as Rue la Moière.

There I met a terror-stricken Belgian woman, the only other person in the streets besides myself. In hysterical gasps she told me the Banque Nationale and the Palais de Justice had been struck and were in flames, and that her husband had been hit by a shell just five minutes before I came upon the scene, his mangled remains lying not a hundred yards away from where we were standing.

It was obviously impossible to proceed further, and so I retraced my steps toward the quay. As I was passing the Avenue de Keyser a shell burst within twenty yards of me. I was knocked down by the force of the concussion. A house not ten yards from where I was was struck and actually poured (I can think of no other word to describe what happened) into the street in a shower of bricks. A broken brick struck me on the shoulder, but its force was spent and I received no injury.

I had scarcely picked myself up and was hastening to a place of safety, if there were one, when a man about 40 years of age, almost half naked, rushed out of a house, screaming loudly. He had gone mad.

At this time I was fortunate enough to meet Frank Fox of The Morning Post. Mr. Fox is an ex-officer of artillery, and he told me he had found a hotel which, as long as the Germans fired in the direction they were then firing, was not within the reach of their guns. This was the Hotel Wagner, which stands behind the Opera House on the Boulevard de Commerce. It was the only hotel in the city except the Queens Hotel, in which some representatives of American newspapers had been staying, that was open. There I found Miss Louise Mack, an Australian authoress, and she, Fox, and myself were among the few British subjects left in the port.

As night came the city presented a fantastic appearance as I watched it from the Hotel Wagner. The glare from the fires that had burst out in all directions could be seen for miles around. The bombardment was proceeding furiously, and German shells were bursting in every direction. I reckoned they were coming in that time at the rate of at least thirty a minute.

I went to the Queens Hotel to ascertain what had become of the American journalists. I found they had left the city after having spent the night in a private house which had been struck three times by shells, and finally caught fire. Arthur Ruhl of the staff of Collier's Weekly had left for me this note:

Donald C. Thompson, photographer of The New York World, fitted up
for himself a cellar at 74 Rue de Peage, just by the Boulevard de
Keyser, where shrapnel fell with terrible force during the latter
part of Wednesday. With him were three other Americans. The entire
population, including, of course, the Government of Antwerp, have
made their escape across the pontoon bridge which still connects
the River Scheldt with the road toward Ghent. Two shells demolished
Thompson's retreat and at sundown it burst into flames. The
American Consul General and Vice Consul General had gone by this
time. The following Americans, all of them newspaper men, were
known to have spent the night in Antwerp; Arthur Ruhl, Horace
Green, staff of The New York Evening Post; Edward Eyre Hunt,
correspondent of The New York World; Edward Heigel of the staff of
The Chicago Daily Tribune, and Thompson himself.

Except for the glare of burning buildings, which lit up the streets, the city was in absolute darkness, and near the quay I lost my way in the byroads trying to get back to the Hotel Wagner. For the second time that day I narrowly escaped death by a shell. One burst with terrific force about twenty-five yards from me. I heard its warning whirr, and rushed into a neighboring porch. Whether it was from concussion of the shell or in my anxiety to escape, I cannoned against a door and tumbled down. As I lay on the ground the house on the opposite side crashed in ruins. I remained still for several minutes feeling quite sick and unable to get up. Then I pulled myself together, and ran at full speed until I came to a street which I recognized, and found my way back to the hotel.

As I hastened down the Avenue de Keyser shells were bursting in every quarter. Several fell into the adjoining street. At the hotel I found my friend Fox had been up to the Red Cross Hospital to inquire about a motor car in which we hoped to get away. It had gone, as had the entire personnel of the hospital.

We began to wonder how we should escape. However, Fox had a bicycle, and Mr. Singleton, Chief of the Boy Scouts in Antwerp, had given me the key of a house not far off, in which he told me there was one if I wanted it in an emergency. I ventured into that dangerous part of the city again to get it. I got to the house safely and found the bicycle, but as there was no tube in the back tire it was useless. On my return journey I was startled to see in the street through which I had just walked a hole six feet deep, which had just been made by a shell.

On returning to the hotel I joined in a meal, eaten under the weirdest [Transcriber: original 'wierdest'] conditions imaginable. Descending into the cellars of the hotel with Miss Mack and Mr. Fox we found the entire staff gathered there uncertain what to do and not knowing what was to happen to them. We were all hungry, and one of the men dashed upstairs to the kitchen and brought down whatever food he could lay his hands on, and we all partook of pot luck. Considering all the circumstances we made a very jolly meal of it. We toasted each other in good red wine of the country, pledging each other with "Vive la Belgique" and "Vive l'Angleterre," and altogether we were a merry party, although at the time German shells were whirling overhead and any moment one might have upset our picnic and buried us in the débris of the hotel.

How many of the inhabitants of Antwerp remained in the city that night it is impossible to say, but it is pretty certain they were all in the cellars of their houses or shops.

The admirable Burgomaster, M. De Vos, had in one of his several proclamations made many suggestions for safety during the bombardment for the benefit of those who took refuge in cellars. Among the most useful of them perhaps was that which recommended means of escape to adjoining cellars. The power of modern artillery is so tremendous that a cellar might very well become a tomb if shells were to fall on the building overhead.

We went to bed early that night but sleep was impossible in the noise caused by the explosion of the shells in twenty different quarters of the town. About 3 o'clock in the morning a twenty-eight centimeter shell fell into the square in front of the hotel and broke all the windows in the neighboring house. In spite of the terrific din one got to sleep at last.

About 6 o'clock Fox roused me and said he thought it was time we got out, as the Germans were entering the city. We hurried from the hotel, and found in the square a squad of Belgian soldiers who had just come in from the inner line of forts. They told us it was not safe for us to remain any longer. The streets were now completely deserted.

I walked down to the quayside, and there I came across many wounded soldiers, who had been unable to get away in the hospital boat. On the quay piles of equipment had been abandoned; broken-down motor cars, kit-bags, helmets, rifles, knapsacks were littered in heaps. Ammunition had been dumped there and rendered useless. The Belgians had evidently attempted to set fire to the whole lot. A pile of stuff was still smoldering. I waited there for half an hour, and during that time hundreds of Belgian soldiers passed in retreat, the last contingent leaving at about 6:30 A.M.

I went again to the Queen's Hotel to inquire what had become of the American newspaper men, and it was just about this time that the pontoon bridge which had been the way of the Belgian retreat was blown up to prevent pursuit by the Germans. The boats and woodwork of the superstructure burnt fiercely and in less than twenty minutes the whole affair was demolished.

Safe exit from the city was now cut off. A Red Cross officer whom I met when standing by the quay had been a spectator of the blowing up of the bridge.

"My God!" he said, running toward me, "it is awful!"

"How are you going to get out?" I asked him.

"I'm going to stay here and look after my wounded," he replied.

In further talk with him I learned that the greater part of the second line of forts had fallen at midday the previous day and that there was nothing then to stop the Germans entering the city save a handful of Belgian soldiers in three or four forts. At 8 o'clock a shell struck the Town Hall.

Fox had now joined me, and we took refuge in the cellars beneath the Town Hall. So far as I could gather, the remaining inhabitants of Antwerp must have assembled about this neighborhood, groups taking refuge in small and stuffy cellars, where developments were anxiously awaited. There must have been hundreds of people sheltered underground, and they included the Mexican and Dominican Consuls. Why these stayed I do not know, as none of their people were left behind. They were the only Consuls remaining in Antwerp.

About 8:15 o'clock another shell struck the Town Hall, shattering the upper story and breaking every window in the place. That was the German way of telling the Burgomaster to hurry up. There was a tense feeling as we waited for tidings of some sort or other. A quarter of an hour later M. De Vos went out in his motor car toward the German line to discuss conditions on which the city should be surrendered.

Another shell struck a furrier's shop opposite the Town Hall and the place burst into flames. Several of the gendarmes who had stayed behind were occupants of cellars, and two of them immediately rushed out to force a way into the shop in order that they might extinguish the fire. They found the door locked. It took them ten minutes to force an entrance. By this time the fire was burning fiercely, and at great personal risk one of the gendarmes made his way to the top floor of the premises, and there he endeavored to beat out the flames with a piece of timber torn from the roof. His efforts were futile, and he called for water. Soon a Flemish woman brought him two pailfuls, which Fox had carried to the house, and after half an hour's labor the fire was extinguished.

The proprietor of the shop was among the people in the cellars across the way. The news that his house was aflame was broken to him and he rushed into the street. He gazed for a moment on the scene and burst into tears like a child.

At 9 o'clock the bombardment of the city suddenly ceased and we understood the Burgomaster had by this time reached German headquarters. Still we waited, painfully anxious to learn what would be the ultimate fate of Antwerp. The Belgian soldiers hurried by on their way to the front. A number paused just as they reached a tobacconist's shop which had been wrecked by shells, scattering the stock in the street. There were cigars hurled across the pavement and roadway, and soldiers who had halted picked up a few of the cigars. A Belgian workman, taking advantage of this, entered the shop and began to stuff his pockets full of cigars and cigarettes, but immediately gendarmes hurried to the place and arrested him, the last arrest the Antwerp police will make for some time.

At 10:30 o'clock proclamations were posted on walls of the Town Hall urging all in the city to surrender any arms in their possession and begging for a calm demeanor in the event of German occupation. The list was also posted of several prominent citizens who were appointed to look after the interests of those Belgians who remained.

Just before noon a patrol of cyclists and armed and mounted gendarmes, who had escorted the Burgomaster to the gate of the city, informed Fox and myself that the Germans were entering by the gate of Malines. We hastily took our bicycles with the intention of making our way over the Dutch frontier. As we passed along the quay by a most timely stroke of luck we found a motor boat standing by. It was manned by a Belgian, and his mate.

"Can you take us to Flushing?" we asked.

"Yes," answered the Belgian.

"How much?"

"One hundred and fifty francs each."

We were in that boat in thirty seconds and in another thirty seconds had started down the Scheldt. By this time the Germans were in the city.

At a good ten knots we raced down the river. In twenty-five minutes we had reached the bend which blotted Antwerp from view. As we rounded the corner I turned for a last glimpse of the disappearing city. The Cathedral was still standing, its tower dominating surroundings. Here and there volumes of smoke were rising to the sky.

It took us twelve hours to get to Flushing. On either side of the river thousands of refugees were fleeing from the invaders. They swarmed along the banks in continuous lines, a vast pilgrimage of the hopeless, many laden with household possessions which they had been able to gather at almost a moment's notice. Numbers were empty-handed and burdened at that in dragging their weary bodies along the miles which seemed never ending. It was a heartrending spectacle. Infinite pity must go out to those broken victims of the war, bowed veterans driven from home, going they knew not where; women with their crying children, famished for lack of food, all or nearly all leaving behind men folk who were still fighting their country's battle or mourning the loss of loved ones who had already sacrificed their lives.

Where the Scheldt becomes Dutch property we were stopped by customs authorities and submitted to a rigorous examination. Dutch officials for a time believed we were either Belgian or English officers escaping, but eventually they were satisfied.

Upon arriving at Flushing we found the town in a tremendous state of excitement. Great crowds of refugees were there, 10,000 or more, and the hotels were choked. Many wretched people had left their homes absolutely without any money and were forced to camp in the streets. There was a vast crowd waiting to get on the Flushing-Folkestone boat, and it appeared we would be balked in our endeavor to get to England that night. However, we discussed our position with the Superintendent of the line, and he very kindly got us a berth.

*As the French Fell Back on Paris*

*By G.H. Perris of The London Daily Chronicle.*

[Special Dispatch to THE NEW YORK TIMES.]

CHÂTEAU [Transcriber: original 'Chateau'] THIERRY, Sunday, Sept. 13.--We first realized yesterday, in a little town of Brie which lies east of Paris, between the Seine and the Marne, how difficult it is to get food in the rear of two successive invasions. As in every other town in the region, all the shops were shut and nearly all the houses. It was only after a long search that we found an inn that could give us luncheon.

There, in a large room with a low-beamed roof and a tiled floor, our stout landlady in blue cotton produced an excellent meal of melon, mutton, macaroni, and good ripe pears. Dogs and cats sprawled around us, and a big bowl of roses spoke of serenities that are now in general eclipse. At a neighboring table a group of peasants, too old for active service, were discussing their grievances.

At a railway crossing just out of town we were blocked by a train of about a dozen big horse trucks and two passenger carriages, carrying wounded and prisoners to Paris from the fighting lines in the north. It had been a gloomy morning, and the rain now fell in torrents. Nevertheless the townsfolk crowded up, and for half an hour managed to conduct a satisfactory combination of profit and pity by supplying big flat loaves, bottles of wine, fruit, cigarettes, and jugs of water to those in the train who had money and some who had none. One very old woman in white, with a little red cross on her forehead, turned up to take advantage of the only opportunity ever likely to fall in her way. A great Turco in fez, blouse, and short, baggy breeches was very active in this commissariat work.

Some of the Frenchmen on board were not wounded seriously enough to prevent their getting down on the roadway; and you may be sure they were not ashamed of their plaster patches and bandaged arms.

There were about 300 German prisoners in the train. We got glimpses of them lying in the straw on the floor in the dark interior of the big trucks. I got on the footboard and looked into the open door of one car. Fifteen men were stretched upon straw, and two soldiers stood guard over them, rifle in hand. They all seemed in a state of extreme exhaustion. Some were asleep, others were eating large chunks of bread.

In the middle of the car a young soldier who spoke French fairly well told me that the German losses during the last three days had been enormous; and then, stopping suddenly, he said:

"Would it be possible, Sir, to get a little water for my fellows and myself?"

"Certainly," I replied; and a man belonging to the station, who was passing with a jug, said at once that he would run and get some. The prisoner thanked me and added with a sigh:

"They are very good fellows here."

One jocular French guard had put on a spiked helmet which he was keeping as a trophy, and, so much does the habit make the man, he now looked uncannily like a German himself.

As we passed through the villages to the northeast the contrast between abandoned houses and gardens rioting with the color of roses and dahlias and fruit-laden trees struck us like a blow.

In Gourchamp a number of houses had been burned, and the neighboring fields showed that there had been fighting there; but it was Courtacon which presented the most grievous spectacle. Eighteen of its two dozen houses had been completely destroyed by fire. The walls were partly standing, but the floors and contents of the rooms were completely buried under the débris of roofs that had fallen in. In a little Post Office the telegraphic and telephonic instruments had been smashed. Just opposite is a small building including the office of the Mayor and the village school. The outside of the building and the outhouses were littered with the straw on which the Uhlans had slept. In the Mayor's office the drawers and cupboards had been broken open, and their contents had been scattered with the remnants of meals on the floor.

But it is a scene in a little village school that will longest remain in my memory. The low forms, the master's desk, and the blackboard stand today as they did on July 25, which was no doubt the last day before the Summer vacation, as it was also the last week before the outbreak of the war. On the walls the charts remained which reminded these little ones daily that "Alcohol is the enemy," and had summoned them to follow the path of kindness, justice, and truth. The windows were smashed, broken cartridge cases lay about with wings of birds and other refuse. Near the door I saw chalked up, evidently in German handwriting, "Parti Paris," ("Left for Paris.")

The invaders had sought to burn the place. There was one pile of partly burned straw under the school bookcase, the doors of which had been smashed, while some of the books had been thrown about. They had not even respected a little museum consisting of a few bottles of metal and chemical specimens; and when I turned to leave I perceived written across the blackboard in bold, fine writing, as the lesson of the day, these words: "A chaque jour suffit sa peine," ("Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.")

One of the villagers gave us the following narrative of the experiences of the past week:

"It was last Saturday, Sept. 5, that about 15,000 Uhlans arrived in the village with the intention of marching on Provins on the morrow. They probably learned during the night that the British and French lay in force across their road, and perhaps they may now have received orders to fall back.

"At any rate, early Sunday morning they started to retire, when they met at the entrance to the village a regiment of chasseurs. This was the beginning of fighting which lasted all day. Under the pretext that we had learned of the presence of the French troops and had helped them to prepare a trap, the Germans sacked the whole of the village.

"Naturally there was a panic. All the inhabitants--mostly women and children, because since the mobilization there have been only nine men in Courtacon--rushed from their cottages and many of them, lightly clad, fled across the fields and hid themselves in the neighboring woods.

"In several cottages Germans, revolvers in hand, compelled the poor peasants to bring matches and themselves set fire to their homes. In less than an hour the village was like a furnace, the walls toppling down one by one. And all this time the fighting continued. It was a horrible spectacle.

"Several of us were dragged to the edge of the road to be shot, and there we remained for some hours, believing our last day had come. A young village lad of 21 years, who was just going to leave to join the colors, was shot. Then the retreat was sounded, the Germans fled precipitately, and we were saved."

I asked whether the cottages had not been fired by artillery.

"Not a cannon shot fell here," he replied. "All that"--pointing to the ruined huts--"was done by incendiaries." And then he added:

"Last Tuesday two French officers came in automobiles and brought with them a superior German officer whom they had made prisoner. They compelled him to become a witness of the mischief of which his fellow-countrymen had been guilty."

A peasant woman passed, pushing a wheelbarrow containing some half-burned household goods and followed by her two small children.

"Look," she said, "at the brutality of these Germans! My husband has gone to war and I am alone with my two little ones. With great difficulty we had managed to gather our crop, and they set fire to our little farm and burned everything."

Half an hour later we were at La Ferté Gaucher, a small town on the Grand Morin, now first made famous by the fact that it was here that the German flight began after the severe fighting last Monday. The invaders had arrived only on Saturday and had the disagreeable surprise of finding that the river bridges had been broken down by the retreating French. The German commandant informed the municipal officials that if the sum of 60,000 francs ($12,000) was not produced he would burn the town. Then he compelled the people to set about rebuilding the bridge, and they worked day and night at this job under the eyes of soldiers with revolvers and rifles ready to shoot down any shirker.

The relief of these people at the return of the Allies may be imagined. Here, as elsewhere, some houses were burned, but otherwise the damage did not appear to be very serious.

*The Retreat to Paris*

*By Philip Gibbs of The London Daily Chronicle.*

[Special Dispatch to THE NEW YORK TIMES.]

NEAR AMIENS, Aug. 30.--Looking back on all I have seen during the last few days, I find it difficult to piece together the various incidents and impressions and to make one picture. It all seems to me now like a jigsaw puzzle of suffering and fear and courage and death--a litter of odd, disconnected scraps of human agony and of some big, grim scheme which, if one could only get the clue, would give a meaning, I suppose, to all these tears of women and children, to all these hurried movements of soldiers and people, to the death carts trailing back from unknown places, and to the great dark fear that has enveloped all the tract of country in Northwest France through which I have been traveling, driven like one of its victims from place to place. Out of all this welter of individual suffering and from all the fog of mystery which has enshrouded them until now, when the truth may be told, certain big facts with a clear and simple issue will emerge and give one courage.

The French Army and our English troops are now holding good positions in a much stronger and closer line and stemming the tide of the German hordes rolling up to Paris. Gen. Pau, the hero of this war, after his swift return from the eastern front, where he repaired the deadly check at Mülhausen, has dealt a smashing blow at a German Army corps which was striking to the heart of France.