The Log of a Noncombatant | Page 3

names to police headquarters. The St.
Antoine was at that time the residence of the diplomatic corps and the
Belgian ministers of state, and was fifty yards from the Royal Palace
and across the street from headquarters of the Belgian General Staff.
There is no need of describing in detail Antwerp at the time of my first
visit. One or two pictures will suffice to give a rough idea of its
existence up to the time of the bombardment. Try to imagine, for
example, going about your business in New York or Boston or Los
Angeles (of course Antwerp is smaller than these) when your country, a
territory perhaps the size of the New England States, was already two
thirds overrun, burnt, smashed, and conquered by a hostile nation,
whose forces were now within nineteen miles of the gates of the capital.
Imagine that nation's warriors in the act of crushing your tiny army,

whose remnants were already exhausted and on the verge of despair.
Then picture a quaint, sleepy city, with shadowy alleys and twisting,
gabled streets, in which every other store and house was decorated with
King Albert's picture or draped in the red, black, and yellow banner of
the country-a city whose atmosphere was charged with fear and
suspicion and excitement. Sometimes a crowd of a thousand or two
drew one toward the Central Station where bedraggled refugee families,
just arrived from Liege, Termonde, Aerschot, and Malines, stood on
street corner or wagon top and thrilled the crowd with tales of atrocities
and the story of their flight from their burning homes to the south. Now
and then the crowd parted before the clanging bell of a Red Cross
ambulance rushing its load of bleeding bodies to the hospitals along the
Place de Meir. Nurses, male or female, clung to the ambulance steps.
The first one I saw made a vivid impression on me. She was an
English-looking girl in a new khaki skirt, supporting with one hand
what was left of a blood-dripping head,--the eyes and nose were shot
away,--while out of the other hand she ate with apparent relish a thick
rye-bread sandwich. Occasionally she waved remnants of the sandwich
at the gaping crowd. It struck me as a peculiarly unnecessary exhibition
of her callous fitness for the job of nurse.
During the daytime the ordinary things of life went on, for the good
burghers and shopkeepers went about their business as usual, and,
generally speaking, fought against fear as bravely as the soldiers in the
trenches stood up against the German howitzers. It was only after dark
(when martial law permitted no lights of any kind) that the city seemed
to shiver and suck in its breath; doors were barricaded, iron shutters
came down, and behind them the people talked in whispers. Military
autos, fresh from the firing line, groaned and sputtered at the doorstep
of the St. Antoine; soldiers with pocket lanterns stamped about the
streets. From sheer nervousness after a day of confinement some
citizens, in spite of warnings, groped about the more important avenues
at night. Picture yourself on Broadway or Tremont Street, with not a
light on the street gleaming from a window, and walking up and down
with one hand on your wallet and the other in the pocket where your
Colt automatic ought to be.
Such, very briefly, was the condition of Antwerp at the time when we
arrived. That very evening word came in that the Belgian forces, which

had been engaged with the enemy for five consecutive days of severe
fighting, had retired behind the southern ramparts of the city.
During the night the stream of incoming wounded confirmed the news
of battle. In the moonlight, and later in the gray dawn, I watched the
long lines of Belgian hounds, pulling their rapid-fire guns out toward
the trenches. Many times later I was destined to see them. They made a
picturesque and stimulating sight--those faithful dogs of war --fettered
and harnessed, their tongues hanging out as they lay patiently beneath
the gun trucks awaiting the order to go into action, or, when the word
had been given, trotted along the dusty roads, each pair tugging to the
battle front a lean, gray engine of destruction.
For our purpose the best approach to Brussels was by way of Ghent.
Luther pushed on ahead while I was finishing a story. The following
morning, shouldering my knapsack, which now contained an extra
supply of army rations, and carefully stuffing my different sets of
credentials in different pockets (one for Belgian, one for German, and
one for English consumption), I crossed the River Scheldt and made a
slow and tortuous railway journey to Ghent.
Ghent lies thirty miles west of Antwerp. The trip took seven hours.
During the course of it I