The Log of a Noncombatant | Page 8

the American
Minister at Brussels, and another packet of mail from Henry W.
Diederick, United States Consul-General at Antwerp. Mr. Van Hee
hoped to obtain from the German authorities in Brussels some smallpox
vaccine to take back to Ghent, where a smallpox epidemic was feared.
Once out of the town limits of Ghent we bowled along at top speed,
with the American colors trembling fore and aft and impressive-
looking signs pasted on windshield and side-flaps. The autumn rains
descended heavily upon us, drenching everything except the carefully
protected mail bags.
Six miles southeast of Ghent, we ran into a regiment of Belgian
infantry moving back from the direction of Brussels, and farther on a
squad of cavalry and some more cavalry outposts; then two companies
of bicycle patrol, the men with their heads bent over the handlebars,
Mausers slung over their shoulders, pedaling heavily through the mud
and slush of a cold September storm. A few mitrailleuses, known as the
Minerva type, and mounted on armored motor-cars, were trained on the
ravine through which the road dipped a thousand yards ahead of us.
They had sighted the German outposts on the crest of a hill opposite us
about three quarters of a mile away. In a very poor kind of trench,

hastily constructed in the beet-fields, and little more than body deep,
the men lay on their bellies in the mud, nervously fingering their
muskets and adjusting the sights. A third company of bicycle scouts
were ordered to advance for the purpose of drawing fire.
I doubt if that particular body of men had ever before been under fire.
Never was the fear of death more plainly written on human face. All of
the men went ahead without flinching or failing, but the muscles of
their jaws were knotted, their faces were the color of chalk, and one or
two dismounted for a moment, subject to the physical effects of fear. I
have seen men tremble before important physical contests: Jeffries,
stepping into the prize ring at Reno, Nevada, ready for the beating of
his life and the loss of reputation. I have seen murderers condemned to
death. Charles Becker, as I watched him taking his death sentence that
evening in the Criminal Courts Building, did not give one the same
uncanny feeling as this handful of Belgian scouts pedaling out to meet
the German fire. I do not intend to say the Belgians were not brave men,
for this was an isolated instance. And indeed there was something
gruesome about that little company offered for the slaughter, simply for
the purpose of locating the German batteries. The men understood the
meaning of the order and appreciated the odds against them.
The mitrailleuses pointed down the road we were headed on, and the
Belgian gun-captain told us they were going to clean things up as soon
as their own scouts drew fire and the first Teuton helmet appeared
above the crest. Naturally we were ordered back. Had we continued on
this road we should have been between the Belgian fire behind and the
German fire in front, for the Germans would undoubtedly have
mistaken us for a scouting party in an armored car. As it was, Luther
jumped to the wheel and insisted on seeing the thing through. We went
ahead for about half a mile. I told him that if the shrapnel began to
burst too close he would find me tucked safely underneath the car
examining the gasoline tanks or in the nearest farmhouse cellar, and I
believe he would have. But nothing came close to us on that occasion.
My real "baptism" was reserved for another day, because Van Hee
suddenly wrenched the wheel from Luther and turned our machine
down a side road. It was a case of out of the firing line into the
frying-pan, for the side road led us into a trap from which there was no
turning back--the territory patrolled by the burly pickets of the Ninth

German Army Corps, forming part of the Kaiser's army of occupation
in Brussels.
Out of earshot, and certainly out of sight of that skirmish, we were
speeding at a great rate along a level, lonely road flanked by beet-fields
and long lines of graceful elms that shook hands overhead, when:
"HALT! WOHIN? WO GEHEN SIE?" rang suddenly out of the
darkness as two figures jumped from behind a farmhouse and leveled
their rifles at us. I shall always remember that sharp command as the
cold, gray muzzles followed us like a sportsman covering a bevy of
quail. Our fat Belgian chauffeur, violinist in times of peace, and posing
that day as an American,--one of those men who look as if they would
bleed water if you pricked them with a bayonet,--needed no second
warning. Running the