Chapter XIII: More Days in Antwerp

It might be thought that the war had dealt Antwerp and its commerce their death blow. But the city is merely asleep and there is no one who can tell how long its torpor will last. Just as the fall of the city was an event in the world’s history which brought German power within striking distance of Great Britain, so the city itself will in coming times of peace acquire a status of world-wide importance and become perhaps still greater than ever before. Both from a strategical and commercial point of view Antwerp is bound always to remain one of the nerve-centres of Europe. It was therefore interesting to have seen this great mercantile metropolis at the inception of its fateful crisis, and it is obvious that I could not have been content with my first short reconnaissance. Hence I obtained permission from the Governor-General’s office to return, and, if I wished to do so, to remain in the city for several days.

I accordingly planned another trip with Lieut. Dr. Hütten, to take place on the 11th of October. Just as I was starting out from my hotel, I met an old friend, Professor Georg Wegener, one of my chums from the time I was cramming with Richthofen at the University of Berlin. We had not many minutes to spare, but exchanged nevertheless a few impressions of the war.

Hütten drove the car himself and I sat at his side. It had been my intention to take a few photographs of the military life on the road and in the town, for the sights which were now to unfold themselves to our vision would soon vanish and make room for more tranquil scenes. The further we travelled northward, the slower we had to go, for the road was encumbered by an unceasing stream of marching troops and transport columns, Uhlans and Hussars, guns and ammunition wagons. Little contingents of marines were interspersed here and there amongst the other troops. They had their own amusing little train, consisting of a barrow drawn by a donkey and laden with an odd-looking contrivance of sheet-iron which might simply have been a stove with its pipes. “What are you going to do with that thing there?” we asked. “It’s going to be a field kitchen,” replied a stout, jovial fellow who was driving a couple of calves behind the donkey-barrow.

Farther on we passed a bivouac with its shelter-tents still up and the breakfast boiling in its caldrons. Another war picture, or perhaps I should call it a picture from the boundary line of peace and war, was furnished by an entire caravan of carts piled high with trunks, bags, bundles, bedclothes and what not, accompanied by a group of men, women and children. They were fugitives returning to Malines. But if it was their misfortune to live just south of the cathedral, they were doomed never to see their homes again.

Near Eppeghem we saw on an unpretentious wooden cross by the roadside the following inscription: “_Hier ruht ein tapferer Belgier von seinen deutschen Kameraden begraben._” (Here lies a brave Belgian buried by his German comrades.) The fallen hero has stuck to his post up to the last, and by his courage had evoked the admiration of his opponents.[25] Now we drive once more through the ruined street in Malines and stop outside the cathedral. Here are a couple of hundred Belgian prisoners guarded by a few marines. They wear little black caps with a red stripe and tassel, short tunics or greatcoats; some of them have water-bottles, bundles or bags carried on the shoulder by a strap. A herd of cattle is just being driven past by some German soldiers. “Quick march!” orders a German N.C.O., and the prisoners quickly disappear down one of the narrow alleys.

[25] Dr. Fr. Klefberg, when in the same neighbourhood, had come across the following inscription: “A brave Belgian soldier buried by German comrades. 4th Company, 26th Regiment of Field Artillery.”

We continue northward past the outer fortifications, with the German naval ensign floating on the crest, and meet fresh groups of returning fugitives, fresh marching columns, amongst them a field telegraph detachment, and fresh swarms of horsemen. And so at length we come once more to the long _Chaussée de Malines_, which in a car takes but a couple of minutes from end to end.

But it was chiefly to take photographs that I had planned this day’s excursion to Antwerp, and what could after all be more attractive for the camera than the _Grand’ Place_, the noble little square by the Townhall with its quaint gable façades? In the middle of the square stands a piece of sculpture not long since erected, illustrating the legend about the boy who throws the giant’s hand: “_Hand werfen, Antwerpen_.” A house close by is the birthplace of one of the greatest painters of all time, as is shown by a plate over the door, “_Geboortehuis von Antoon van Dyck, Kunstschilder 1599-1641_.” Van Dyck’s models and their progeny have disappeared, and the setting of the _Grand’ Place_ now consists of German troops. It is marines we see marching in with their knapsacks on their backs, rifles on the shoulder, cartridge pouches on the bandolier and bayonet and water-bottle by the side. A dog faithfully plods along beside a private in the ranks--one constantly sees German soldiers who have adopted ownerless dogs. Next come a few batteries of 6-cm. naval guns, pulled by their respective crews. One wonders whether horse teams have not been procured for marine artillery used on shore. In front of the Townhall itself a company has piled arms and is resting. Some soldiers are content to take a nap on the stone paving and use their knapsacks for pillows. Here we see food columns with canvas awnings over the carts and wisps of hay in front of the horses. Marine cyclists are moving about everywhere on their silent wheels. By the side of a car stands the great engineer, Captain Dreger, looking at a map of the road to Ghent, which Lieut. Dr. Hütten has just shown him. But the scene is kaleidoscopic in its variety and there is a coming and going, a rushing to and fro of animal and motor traffic, a tramping of horses’ hoofs and a rattle of artillery wagons which baffles all description. We had some singing, too, for as the marine troops crossed the square they broke into the swelling tones of _Die Wacht am Rhein_.

We drive on and reach the land of ferries below the cathedral. Here the scene is still more changing, and there is a literal crush. The car is left in charge of our orderly and we thread our way between horses, carts and closely packed columns of troops. The street leading down to the harbour is thronged with double marching columns. They mark time, move on and mark time again. Belgian (Flemish-speaking) policemen in black coats with silver buttons and black helmets help to keep order in the thoroughfare. “Where are all these troops and vehicles off to?” I asked. “They are going to be ferried across the Scheldt to _Tête de Flandre_; that is, where the road to Ghent begins. They are off to the coast to throw a glance across to England.”

It is difficult to get along. Everything seems in such a jumble. I am just on the point of snapping some kitchen wagons when a Uhlan perched on a baggage wagon shouts to me: “Neighbour, it is forbidden to photograph the field kitchen!” “Good,” I answer. “I have no need to, I have pictures of them already.” The salutation “neighbour” was, I thought, an excellent touch.

At the quay and bridges, built to allow for the considerable differences in level between high and low water, the ferries are in full swing. The bridging train we saw yesterday has not yet had time to throw a bridge across. Instead it has devoted its energies to building a species of ferry, consisting of a platform mounted on three pontoons. A tug took two of these contrivances in tow and three river steamers were busy conveying a double ferry of this kind across with troops, ammunition, ambulance and food wagons, field kitchens, field telegraph equipment and horses. Among the troops I noticed an Austrian artillery train belonging to the 30.5-cm. mortar batteries now stationed in Belgium.

“Drive up,” orders an officer. Immediately a column of vehicles moves forward and halts on the brink of the quay. The horses are taken out and the vehicles are pushed on to the ferry by the marines. Then the horses are led across the gangway. They stamp, snort and rear, for evidently they dislike the look of this queer-looking craft. But all to no purpose, on board they have to go. When two ferries are full, the steamer casts off and tows them in a twinkling across the Scheldt to _Tête de Flandre_. Here another gangway is thrown out, the vehicles are pulled on to the quay by hand, the horses are put to and the column proceeds on its way to Ghent.

As soon as the first load had left the east bank, another river steamer with its two ferries came alongside and took another contingent on board. So it went on all day and so it was to continue throughout the night by the light of electric lamps. The same programme would be repeated the next day, and so on as long as there were any troops, horses or vehicles left to ferry across the Scheldt; everything is done with the rapidity, efficiency, order and discipline which distinguish the doings of the German army down to the minutest detail.

The ferries do not return empty from _Tête de Flandre_, for enormous groups of returning fugitives, men, women and children with their carts, bicycles and barrows, bundles and packages are now gathering on the opposite bank. They form a picturesque and motley crowd, such as one is accustomed to see by the side of emigrant ships on the way to America. Most of them are Flemings. A remarkable order seems to reign amongst them. They do not squabble, do not shout, and do not push to get past one another on to the ferries, but wait quietly and obediently until the soldiers show them the way. The military and civilians seem to be on the best of terms. We saw the former, to the accompaniment of jest and laughter, exert themselves to the utmost to make themselves understood, and the result was a bewildering medley of German, French and Flemish.

When the Germans entered Antwerp, they found on the eastern quay in question enormous piles of Belgian uniforms, caps, helmets and knapsacks. None of these had yet been touched. Presumably all this kit had been intended for recruits recently called out.

In the course of our wanderings we also visited the northern parts of the harbour. Here one almost loses oneself in a gigantic maze of docks, piers, quays, basins, warehouses and sheds, and enormous stacks of timber and stores of ironware and colonial produce. Here is a profusion of customs sheds, office buildings, loading gear, cranes, railway wagons, wheel-less motor-cars, packing cases and sacks containing I don’t know what. “_Verboten te rooken_” (Smoking prohibited) is posted up everywhere in gigantic letters. As I saw it I could not help thinking that “_Verboten te bombardeeren_” would have been, if anything, a more fitting injunction. Without a guide it would have been impossible to find one’s way, and we were glad to get hold of a queer-looking fish sniffing round amongst the merchandise, who subsequently took us in hand. To-day there were a few more people about, amongst them Germans who were making the round of the harbour precincts to note the names of all the vessels lying there. I asked them if they had seen any Swedish boats, but the answer was in the negative. Barges, lighters and fishing boats were lying closely packed together in certain parts of the harbour. Here also we came across barricades of iron girders and barbed-wire entanglements, and behind a parapet close by stood a Belgian gun with the breech-block missing.

_Comte de Smets de Naeyer_ was the name of a fine-looking Belgian training-ship with light grey hull, white masts and spick-and-span rigging, but there was nothing on board to arouse our interest. We also paid a little visit to the great Australian liner, _Tasmania_. In the officers’ cabins all drawers had been pulled out and everything of value taken away. Nothing but books, papers and a quantity of accounts and other objects of no value remained. But on a writing-table in the captain’s own cabin stood a portrait of a woman and a photograph of a group of bonny children. In the dining saloon a table stood laid with a silver coffee-pot, half-full, cups and a box of cigars which had more or less been ransacked of its contents. All the passenger staterooms were empty and deserted. As we wandered through the endless corridors our steps gave off a hollow and eerie echo, and we actually stopped once or twice to discover whether it was really the echo of our own steps we heard, or whether someone was following us. One might believe almost anything in such times as these. Fugitives might for instance have hidden themselves on board. We shouted, but the sound of our voices died away in the abandoned ship and there was no answer. We looked into the forecastle, but nobody now slept in these bunks, so often rocked by the ocean swell. The same grave-like silence everywhere. It was quite uncanny to walk about this ghost-ship, this “flying Dutchman” with its crew of invisible spirits who seemed to eye us from every nook and cranny.

At half-past six we returned to the capital and it was pitch-dark before we arrived ninety minutes later. At first the road was fairly clear, but later on we drove past incessant columns marching on their way to Ghent. As so many times before, a kaleidoscope of horses, riders and wagons were brought into successive relief by the light of our lamps. The men, otherwise singing and joking, were now still and sat as if moulded in the saddle. Once again we heard this eternal clatter of iron-shod hoofs against the stone paving, this endless tramp, tramp, tramp which is the music of the marching columns. The rattle of the wagons, the creaking of the iron-tyred wheels, the jingling of the chains, the chafing of the leather and the tramping of the horses’ hoofs, these sounds seem still to haunt my ears as I write. Like a slow and irresistible tidal wave, like an implacable necessity, this train is rolling towards its goal. It is Germany’s train of victory. On hundreds of other roads similar streams are flowing to and from the greatest battle lines maintained by a single country ever since Noah left the ark to people the earth with human beings, for, as everyone knows, the continuous fighting line from Nieuport on the North Sea _via_ Rheims and round Verdun to the Vosges is an accomplished fact.

We see eyes gleaming at us through the darkness. It is the light from cars we meet, but what can their business be on the road to Antwerp at this late hour? From under the shadow of the trees fresh packs of horsemen, square-set, sturdy men on well-fed powerful mounts constantly emerge into the circle of light from our lamps. Later on comes a gun team, no longer needed here, on its way to other places where the guns will resume their music for the benefit of the _entente_ legions, and here and there among the trees the figures of soldiers preparing their evening meal are silhouetted against the ruddy glow of the bivouac fires. Their pipes are glowing in the darkness and one can see the gleam of their teeth as they break into a peal of laughter at some comical remark.

* * * * *

At the Banque de Paris and a couple of other banks they shook their heads over my Swedish letter of credit: “_Toutes les lettres de crédit sont annulées_.” I should certainly have had no difficulty in getting money by appealing to the Governor-General, but when I explained my unsound economic position at the Swedish Legation, Herr Pousette, who was _chargé d’affaires_, said that he would be very glad to lend me a thousand francs against the despatch of a telegram to _Skandinaviska Kreditaktiebolaget_. When this difficulty had been overcome, I took a trip to Löwen, which is German for Louvain. My friend, Lieut. Dr. Hütten, still acted as my guide. We had under our charge the energetic and charming Frau Koch, henceforth to be named Sister Martha, clad in cap and spotless white dress with a red cross on the left arm. The 12th of October turned out a brilliantly fine day. We passed out of the city under the triumphal arch between mirror-like ponds and yellowing trees. The _Chaussée de Louvain_ soon developed into a stone-paved road lined with a close beech wood, where hardly a ray of the sun penetrated to the ground and where cool shadows reigned over a bed of fallen leaves. We saw no German soldiers in this direction, nothing but the hand of autumn over this unhappy land which had lost its independence. There were no transport columns to be seen. The only vehicles on the road were civilian carts. The aristocratic carriages of the _grand monde_ had disappeared without a trace, after their owners had removed to other climes.

We have eighteen kilometres to go. Ruins do not meet the eye until we have travelled some distance into the precincts of Louvain. The whole city is not wrecked by shells as one had been led to believe. Hardly a fifth has been destroyed. But that fifth contained many precious and irreplaceable buildings, and the loss of the library with its collection of manuscripts, unless by some happy chance some remnants are still intact under the ruins, is regrettable in the extreme. But in the midst of the desolation, like a lonely crag in mid-ocean, stands the Townhall, that proud monument from the middle of the fifteenth century with its six slender fretwork turrets. I walked round the whole building, and with the best will in the world I was unable to detect a single scratch in its gorgeously decorated walls. There may, of course, be an occasional scar from a shell, but if so it escaped my attention. The German artillery had given a magnificent proof of its unerring accuracy of aim. It had hit everything round this building but without injuring as much as a cornice of any of the six turrets.

The reason of the German bombardment of Louvain is well known. On entering the town the German troops were fired on from windows by the civil population, and as there was no other means of checking this outrageous proceeding, a few houses were set fire to. When afterwards the German soldiers used every means in their power to extinguish the fire in the buildings nearest the Townhall, the _franctireurs_ lay once more in wait from their ambush. Then things grew serious. Any other army in the world would have acted in the same way, and the Germans themselves greatly regretted that they were compelled against their will to adopt such measures. From Louvain we proceeded to Malines, a lengthy trip along the canal joining the two cities, where we were startled to see the masts of fishing-smacks bob up amongst the trees of parks and alleys. We arrived just in time to witness the burial of a marine who had fallen at his post. The body of the dead man was carried to the grave on a Belgian hearse with a silver cross on the roof and drawn by one horse. Behind the hearse followed some hundred soldiers from the army and navy. After the funeral three rifle volleys were fired over the grave, which was then filled in. There were several German graves in the little churchyard, decorated with wreaths and helmets, and also two common graves containing the men who had fallen in some fight.

On a country road near by a battery of Austrian 30.5-cm. mortars stood posted. A single one of these batteries of two guns requires a train of forty-two vehicles. The barrel requires a lorry to itself, likewise the gun carriage. Then there are wagons for the men, the ammunition, accessories, tools, provisions, kitchen gear, etc.

In conclusion, we paid a visit to the great military hospital at Malines, where the surgeon-in-chief and another staff surgeon showed us round everywhere. The operating theatres more especially of this Belgian hospital seemed to meet all aseptic requirements. At the present moment there were only 140 wounded on the premises. Over every bed hung a metal frame to which an arm could be bandaged when it needed stretching, and other contrivances with weights and pulleys had been installed for stretching injured legs. Several interesting cases were explained to us. A soldier had received a bullet through the back of the neck, but the spinal medulla was uninjured and the patient could walk about although it was only six days since he was wounded. Another had been struck on the left side of the lower jaw, which had been crushed, the bullet having found its way out on the right side. By an ingenious arrangement of gilt brass wire fastened to the teeth, the doctors had succeeded in giving the necessary support to the lacerated jawbone. The patient could even move his lower jaw and speak. A third man had been struck by a bullet in the head and had lost the power of speech, but understood what was said to him and nodded yes and no. A Belgian soldier had received a nasty wound in the head. He seemed unbalanced, was delirious and spoke of his wife and children. If anyone asked whether he had heard from them or knew where they were, he merely answered: “Look there on the right,” and turned his head in that direction. In his delirium he described confusedly the fierce struggle at the Nethe, where he was wounded. Later we stood beside the bed of a little Belgian boy of twelve, who had happened to get too close to the firing lines and whose left arm had been cut off by a shell. Yet he was in good spirits and was looking at a book with coloured plates; he smiled pleasantly when the German doctor patted him on the head. They had succeeded in tracing his mother and she was to visit him daily for a little while.

The corridors were lined with solid-looking iron-hooped wooden cases inscribed: _Nicht stürzen_ (Not to be upset). They contained photographic apparatus and plates. There were separate rooms for X-ray photography and some photos shown to us clearly revealed where the projectile had lodged and what damage it had done on its passage. As a rule wounds from rifle bullets are far less malignant than those occasioned by shrapnel or shell splinters.

Soon we were on our way back again along the familiar road to Brussels and we were just in time to get ready for the Field-marshal’s supper-table. There were several interesting guests present. Grand Admiral von Tirpitz, regally tall and straight, was there. It is he who, after the Emperor, has worked hardest for the creation of the German Navy. Lofty forehead, frank and merry eyes, fair beard, resolute and manly bearing, in fact a real Teuton. It was like a draught of sparkling wine to speak to him. To such men nothing is impossible, and with them there is no trace of anxiety about the final issue of the war.

I also met here Herr K. F. von Siemens, head of the firm of Siemens and Halske, also a very robust-looking man of the Teutonic type and of a temperament in which humour and gravity are agreeably blended. Talking about the German losses, he estimated them at 250,000, of which, however, the great majority were slightly wounded and had already returned or would soon return to the front, and would then possess the advantage over the new-comers that they had already been under fire and had personal experience behind them. We discovered that we possessed a common friend in the charming Sir Walter Lawrence, one-time private secretary to Lord Curzon when he was Viceroy of India. Probably he was now lost to us as a friend, as this war has proved capable of sundering the closest bonds of friendship.

Another guest was Privy Councillor Kreidel, head of the commissariat department of the Governor-General of Belgium, and seventy-five years old. He had recently been subject to attacks of dizziness through overwork and was now on the point of returning to Germany to get strong again. The new Governor of Antwerp, Infantry-General Baron von Hoiningen, whom I had met in Karlsruhe, was also present. General of Fortifications Bailer, gentle and charming lecturer on æsthetics, was one of my special friends. He was in very good spirits to-day because he had seen his son of whom he had not heard for a long time and who served with one of the armies in France. Lieutenant Bailer had made the long journey through the air and was just on the point of returning in his aeroplane. We also talked about Ghent, which had fallen the same day after severe fighting in the open country. The General was now proceeding thither to study the Belgian field fortifications; the town itself is not fortified. From Ghent the German army was to continue to Bruges and Ostend. Finally we talked about the 300,000 volunteers who had just arrived at the front, where the youthful undergraduates with their merry pranks had greatly enlivened the older Landsturm men, who in turn had taught them their very best drill.

The next two days I rested, wrote, visited the Swedish Legation and spent my evenings with the Governor-General. The weather was by no means suitable for excursions. The rain poured down and heavy clouds from the Atlantic floated over the town. As a lady whom I overheard in a shop rightly observed, life was quite dark and sad enough without the heavens adding their share. But to the soldiers there is no difference between fine and foul weather, and the troops and transport trains passing through the city seem no fewer than usual. But for the German uniforms and military cars, one would scarcely have known what was going on. Apart from these phenomena, a stranger arriving in Brussels would have noticed nothing, unless it be the absence of Belgian motor-cars and the rarity of horse-drawn vehicles; for both cars and horses had been requisitioned by the Belgian army. He might perhaps also have wondered where all the _beau monde_ and all the rich and well-to-do citizens had got to, for those who could afford it had preferred to betake themselves elsewhere, rather than to remain under the foreign yoke. It is only the poor and the less well-to-do bourgeoisie who have to remain.

As regards the town itself, it is true that the stranger would notice that the theatres were closed and that a German sentry was posted outside the _Palais de Justice_ and other public buildings. But he would have seen no signs of destruction, no smoking ruins, no naked walls black with soot and smoke. The population of Brussels remained perfectly quiet when the Germans entered. There were no ambushes and there was no firing from windows. Therefore all the houses remain untouched and the town has been spared the fate which overtook Louvain and Dinant. And the population acted wisely. They would never have been able to inflict an appreciable check on the Germans, but would, on the contrary, have suffered enormous economic losses. The war requisition of fifty million francs imposed upon the town would in case of resistance have been multiplied over and over again.

I could not refrain from making another inspection of Antwerp, more thorough than the preceding ones.

Antwerp! The city of the dead! Lou-lan, the desert city, given over to destruction and oblivion when the sea of Lopnor wandered southward, was not harder hit than Antwerp. For have not the oceans retired and left high and dry this great hub of commerce which not many days ago was in close contact with all the earth’s continents and islands! These gigantic harbour installations now lay dead and idle, and there was not even an apprentice to be found in all the twenty-two ships which lay forgotten by the quayside when the blow fell. The whole city was paralysed. One of the things I wanted to see was whether in the course of the next few days there would be any signs of an awakening from this torpor. Of course, one realised that life in the harbour would remain dead as long as the sea outside was full of mines, and would not perhaps reawaken until the end of the war. But I thought it possible nevertheless that the city itself might rouse itself and that many of the unhappy fugitives who had fled across the Dutch frontier would return.

So on the 15th October I started out for the third time for Antwerp. I had been invited to join in an excursion, and we drove out in five cars. I was with my friend General Bailer and a couple of other officers. The participants included no less a person than the Imperial Chancellor, Herr von Bethmann Hollweg, as well as His Excellency von Treutler. We quickly reached Malines and stopped as usual outside the cathedral. In view of the Chancellor’s visit the interior had been cleaned up. All blocks of stone, dust and lumber had been removed. St. Rombaut’s fane now looked quite neat and tidy, and it was evident that it would not cost much, either in time or money, to restore it to its former condition. A tombstone, crushed by blocks of stone which had fallen from an arch between the middle and the north side-aisle, will, however, be difficult to replace. The effect of the shell fire was demonstrated by artillery officers, and it was made clear that the Belgian fire directed from the north had only consisted of shrapnel intended to drive the German observers away from the tower.

From Malines we proceeded north-east to Fort St. Catherine, one of Antwerp’s strongest forts, constructed, like the others, by the great Engineer-General Brialmont and equipped with nine modern armoured turrets. Most of these had been horribly knocked about by the heaviest German artillery, _die dicke Bertha und die schwarze Marie_ (“fat Bertha” and “black Maria”) as the 42-cm. mortars have been playfully dubbed by the soldiers. One of the turrets had been struck plumb by a shell which had flung its 40-ton cupola some ten metres to one side, where the gigantic structure had alighted on its side and eaten itself into the earth. The cupola having been removed in this somewhat energetic manner, we were able to get an idea of the interior construction of the turret. Another turret had merely been struck at a tangent by a smaller projectile and yet the effect was such that the metal of the cupola had been rent as the soil is torn by the ploughshare. Another shell had penetrated through a bed of concrete several metres thick and upon detonation it wrought the most appalling havoc.

At Antwerp the Chancellor was received by Admiral von Schröder, whom I shall have occasion to mention later on. He was a powerfully built man, with white head and beard, a thorough sea-dog. He also was renowned for his astounding energy.

In the afternoon I drove with General Bailer, Colonel Müller and Major Elert round the grass-clad slopes of the fortifications round the town, the innumerable gates of which were now guarded by German soldiers. It was really an initial tour of inspection that these officers were engaged upon. Among the discoveries made were several searchlights and old guns and a couple of excellently constructed barricades of cobble-stones and sheet-iron. The garrison seemed to have been prepared for street-fighting in the town itself, but things had never got thus far. Huts built of boards, tarpaulins and other materials had been put up for the defenders of the barricades.

We had taken rooms at the Terminus Hotel, close by the Central Railway Station. The German officers paid with _bons_ which are redeemed after the war, I in ready cash. The dining-room was filled with officers, naval surgeons and civilian German engineers who had come to repair the waterworks, gas-works, telegraphs and telephones. The shortage of water had made itself felt very disagreeably, but at least one could now get tea and soup, which had been an unobtainable luxury during the first two days, when we had to remain satisfied with wine and beer. No doubt it was distilled Scheldt water, or perhaps well-water which now figured in our soup tureens and water-jugs.

The streets with gas-lighting were pitch-dark at night, whilst the electrically lighted main streets were bathed in their usual brightness. Many shop windows were now also brilliantly lit, especially the tobacconist establishments, which attracted crowds of German customers. In the restaurants we saw the soldiers seated round the tables with their girl-friends, drinking beer or coffee. In the large avenues the traffic was almost animated. As long as daylight lasted we saw little knots of fugitives returning from the Dutch side. Their unkempt appearance, unwashed hands and faces and uncombed hair showed that they had been lying out of doors in the rain and cold and suffered great privations. Now they were returning with their bundles, their children, basket carriages, gramophones and other peculiar furniture, carried on the back or in little barrows drawn by dogs or donkeys. All looked calm and resigned. What else, indeed, could they do? In Holland they had been treated with great kindness and hospitality. In Antwerp they were to find that paralysis had seized upon all industries that gave them their livelihood. Doubtless they have a hard winter before them, but the Germans will, I subsequently heard, do all in their power to lessen the distress, and a special commission has, in fact, been nominated with this object. It may also surely be taken for granted that England, who says that she began the war to save neutral Belgium, and who can now afford to sacrifice £350,000,000 to encompass the destruction of Germany, will be able to offer a thousandth part of this sum to save the destitute in Belgium from that very fate.