Drop Cap a

AFTER that tragic day, Brussels came more and more under the tyranny of the “iron fist” by which the Kaiser once boasted he would win the world-power unattained by other and far more capable enemies of peace. German soldiers swarmed through the streets, always hurrying to fulfil urgent business of their impatient leaders, who, on their way to overwhelm France, panted to thrust the sword of ruin deeper into hapless Belgium. During those first weeks of the occupation the city appeared obsessed by a restless mass of grey-robed energy. Every unit of the vast armies seemed infected by this passion. The streets fairly roared with frenzy-driven automobiles, enormous war-like things, sombre as mighty death-machines, mostly torpedo-shaped, driven, with entire disregard for the safety of pedestrians, through streets ridded of all traffic that might hamper their way. The harsh or piercing cries of their horns never ceased; nor, when an officer of high rank was the occupant, the gay bugle notes, clear and triumphantly joyous, which so racked the aching nerves and hearts of every native. I think no one then in Brussels, who took the invasion to heart, will ever forget that bright, repeated melody so galling to those whose dear ones had perished in the unequal struggle.

The voyous of the rue Haute districts, however, found a means of shaming it to silence, after the great repulse at the Marne. They put words to the melody and sang them at full voice in echo, each time the bugle announced the presence of a high official. The words, which fitted perfectly, were: “C’est loin À Paris!”

Presently, it was heard no more, and only then, it seemed, did the stunned Belgians begin to awake and take some interest in life. They could do little for their wounded; for all hospitals, as well as public buildings, were seized by the enemy to house Germany’s mutilated slaves, or serve as resting-places for troops. All the comfort many of these latter enjoyed was a litter of straw laid on the floors of corridors.

I was obliged to step over their sleeping and evidently exhausted forms when, seeking a pass one day to go to our villa, ten miles from Brussels, I was erroneously led by a dull-witted soldier, who should not have admitted me, to the top floor of the post-office building. There I saw his commanding officer—who (it turned out) had nothing whatever to do with the giving of passes! Though it was after midday, the men lay sleeping like animals all along the hallways, and their chief, roused from repose on a sofa in a separate room, was angrily struggling into his great boots when I was announced. His rage at being disturbed, but more at having me appear before he was ready to receive me with impressive dignity, was vented in a volley of abusive language hurled at the wretched subordinate.

The situation was indeed rather embarrassing for a leader—though a minor one—of the power-proud Prussian army. With feet clad only in grey woollen socks, hair roughened, and eyes red and heavy with sleep, he certainly presented a rather comical picture, crimson with anger and bellowing insults at the man, whom he ordered from the room. Of me he took not the slightest notice until the boots were on, and during that interval of silence, shut up as I was alone with him in a place where, as I saw at once, I had no proper excuse for intruding, my one desire was to find some means of escape before he should notice me; for I expected anything but polite treatment at his hands.

However, apart from a certain amount of silly boasting, and a rather superior expression of regret that he could not provide the desired pass, he said nothing really objectionable in answer to my surprising appeal, although his expression showed he had no very flattering idea of my intelligence. On learning my nationality, and how wrong direction had led me to him, the arrogance of his manner softened considerably: “You will not be able to go to your villa at present,” he said on learning where it was, “our armies are now in that locality; and even if you were permitted to go, it would not be safe.”

“But the house may be destroyed,” I replied, “and there are things I value there which no money could replace.”

He shrugged and returned, with mock sympathy quickly followed by vanity, “Schade!—but no exceptions can be made. Others have lost their treasures, and many more are likely to. War does not consider individuals.”

“But why is there war in this country?” I ventured. “What on earth is your excuse for coming here to ruin a peaceful nation?”

“Belgium was given her chance to avoid war—she would not take it; that is not our fault!”

I longed to tell him a few unflattering truths, but the fact of being four stories above the street, with hundreds of armed men within call, forced me to limit my reply to: “That depends how one understands fault; certainly the Belgians were not at fault.”

“They were; they were siding with England and France. Stupid people! What will they gain by making an enemy of Germany? The Allies must yield to us; then where will Belgium be?”

“And if they do not yield?”

He laughed softly: “Ach! There is no question of that! Are we not rushing on France already? In three weeks or less we shall be in Paris, and shortly after that we shall have England at our mercy.”

I forced a smile, though inwardly his confidence made me tremble. “Aren’t you counting a little too much on your successful invasion of a very small and unprepared country? England and France may also be unprepared, but they have greater resources and more time to collect them than poor Belgium had.”

“Ach, bewahr!” he replied scornfully, “they can never resist our armies. When we take Paris, England’s morale will be broken; she will not be able to raise an army!”

“If you take it!”

“No, when we take it!” he replied, with quite a genial smile. “Don’t deceive yourself; we Germans do not attempt things we are not sure of attaining. Everything is planned to the smallest detail. But tell me, are you in sympathy with the Allies?”

“I am a neutral.”

“Ach, so!... Are all Americans strictly neutral?”

“They are supposed to be.”

He eyed me thoughtfully before saying: “I think they are jealous of us, like England—like all the world! This war must prove Germany’s supremacy and put an end to all that!”

As this interview took place some little time before the battle of the Marne, I must own to a very unneutral pang of resentment, mingled with dread lest his boasting might prove well founded. But, galling as it was, I was convinced the man spoke only what had been drilled into him, and not his own sentiments. He was quite a young fellow, neither aristocratic in appearance nor so self-important as are most of his class. His round blue eyes often softened with the wistful musing of a mind not altogether sure of what he boasted, nor why he was there—what was leading men only slightly more enslaved than he, to fight for an object none could define. Later on he recited some of the horrors he had witnessed on his way from LiÈge—the so-called legitimate horrors of war, not those relating to civilians—and spoke almost with tears of certain friends he had lost in the conflict. Thus softened, he invited me to have coffee with him in his den, and pressingly repeated the invitation all the way down those interminable, man-encumbered flights of stairs which I made for as soon as politeness permitted. My entering of the room of an officer in command, to obtain a pass which only the administrative authorities could give, might very easily have been understood as an attempt to spy, or attributed to some other equally dangerous motive. Consequently, I could only be grateful, when again at liberty, that my blundering guide had not led me into the presence of a success-drunken superior officer, who might have exhibited his native bullying tendencies when he found me at his mercy. My chance host, it must be acknowledged, was not of this type, and only in regard to Belgium did he reveal that tyranny toward weakness so characteristic of most Prussians in authority.

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