In The Firing Line 10

In The Firing Line 10

On Tuesday, the 25th, many troops left the town. We had a few soldiers

in our house. At six o’clock, when everything was ready for dinner,

alarm signals sounded, and the soldiers rushed through the streets,

shots whistled through the air, cries and groans arose on all sides;

but we did not dare leave our house, and took refuge in the cellar,

where we stayed through long and fearful hours. Our shelter was lighted

up by the reflection from the burning houses. The firing continued

unceasingly, and we feared that at any moment our houses would be burnt

over our heads. At break of day I crawled from the cellar to the street

door, and saw nothing but a raging sea of fire.

 

At nine o’clock the shooting diminished, and we resolved to make a dash

to the station. Abandoning our home and all our goods except what we

could carry, and taking all the money we had, we rushed out. What we

saw on our way to the station is hardly describable, everything was

burning, the streets were covered with bodies shot dead and half-burnt.

Everywhere proclamations had been posted, summoning every man to assist

in quenching the flames, and the women and children to stay inside the

houses. The station was crowded with fugitives, and I was just trying

to show an officer my legitimation papers when the soldiers separated

me from my wife and children.

 

All protests were useless, and a lot of us were marched off to a big

shed in the goods yard, from where we could see the finest buildings of

the city, the most beautiful historical monuments, being burned down.

 

Shortly afterwards German soldiers drove before them 300 men and lads

to the corner of the Boulevard van Tienen and the Maria Theresia

Street, opposite the Café Vermalen. There they were shot. The sight

filled us with horror. The Burgomaster, two magistrates, the Rector of

the University, and all police officials had been shot already.

 

With our hands bound behind our backs we were then marched off by the

soldiers, still without having seen our wives or children. We went

through the Juste de Litsh Street, along the Diester Boulevard, across

the Vaart and up the hill.

 

From the Mont Cesar we had a full view of the burning town, St. Peter

in flames, while the troops incessantly sent shot after shot into the

unfortunate town. We came through the village of Herent--one single

heap of ruins--where another troop of prisoners, including half-a-dozen

priests, joined us. Suddenly, about ten o’clock, evidently as the

result of some false alarm, we were ordered to kneel down, and the

soldiers stood behind us with their rifles ready to fire, using us as

a shield. But fortunately for us nothing happened.

 

After a delay of half-an-hour, our march was continued. No conversation

was allowed, and the soldiers continually maltreated us. One soldier

struck me with all his might with the heavy butt-end of his rifle.

I could hardly walk any further, but I had to. We were choked with

thirst, but the Germans wasted their drinking water without offering us

a drop.

 

At seven o’clock we arrived at Camperhout, en route for Malines. We

saw many half-burnt dead bodies--men, women, and children. Frightened

to death and half-starved, we were locked up in the church, and there

later joined by another troop of prisoners from the surrounding

villages.

 

At ten o’clock the church was lighted up by burning houses. Again shots

whistled through the air, followed by cries and groans.

 

At five o’clock next morning, all the priests were taken out by the

soldiers and shot, together with eight Belgian soldiers, six cyclists,

and two gamekeepers. Then the officer told us that we could go back to

Louvain. This we did, but only to be recaptured by other soldiers, who

brought us back to Camperhout. From there we were marched to Malines,

not by the high road, but along the river. Some of the party fell into

the water, but all were rescued. After thirty-six hours of ceaseless

excitement and danger we arrived at Malines, where we were able to buy

some food, and from there I escaped to Holland. I still do not know

where my wife and children are.--_Reuter’s Special Service._

 

 

So far as available evidence goes, it seems clear enough that by

some misunderstanding the German soldiers fired upon each other in

the town, and then made the unhappy townsfolk pay the price of their

tragic blundering. There are hopes that the beautiful old Hotel de

Ville escaped the general holocaust; otherwise Louvain and its ancient

glories of art and architecture are things of the past.

 

 

“Louvain is no longer anything but a heap of cinders.... In the name

of Europe, of which you have till now been one of the most illustrious

champions,” writes the well-known French novelist, Romain Roland, in

an open letter addressed to the German dramatist, Gerhart Hauptmann,

“in the name of civilisation, for which the greatest of men have been

fighting for centuries--in the name of the very honor of the Germanic

race, I adjure you, Gerhart Hauptmann, and the German intellectual

élite, among whom I count so many friends, to protest against this

crime. If you do not, it can only mean one of two things, either that

you approve, or that you are impotent to raise your voice against the

Huns who rule you. In the latter case, how can you still pretend that

you are fighting for the cause of human liberty and progress?... Are

you the descendants of Goethe, or of Attila?”

 

 

 

 

IV

 

THE FIGHT IN THE NORTH SEA

 

“_Strong Mother of a Lion line,_

_Be proud of these strong sons of thine._”

 

TENNYSON.

 

 

In the three weeks that followed on the declaration of war, tidings

came to us from time to time of how our ships were chasing and sinking

the enemy’s cruisers, capturing his merchantmen and keeping the

ocean-highways clear for our own and neutral commerce; but no word

reached us from the great British fleet that was keeping watch and ward

in the North Sea, waiting sleeplessly for the German Navy that was

sheltered behind the impregnable fort of Heligoland to dash out and

make its loudly threatened raid upon our coasts. We heard no word of

those guardian sailormen, but we slept peacefully in our beds at night,

confident in their strength, their courage, their alertness. Then

suddenly, on the 28th August, whilst the British and French armies were

in the heat of their strategic retreat from Mons, news of our seamen’s

dashing fight and victory in the North Sea flashed through the land.

They had grown weary of waiting, and as the German was too discreet to

venture forth to the attack they had slipped into his fastness under

cover of the dark and hunted him out. Until it is possible to compile a

connected, orderly narrative, the tale of that brilliant engagement is

best told in the letters of the men who had part in it:

 

 

_Letter 22.--From Albert Roper, first-class petty officer of H.M.

cruiser “Talbot,” to his brother at Leeds:_

 

I cannot give you any news about our movements. It is against the rules

to do so, and it’s a jolly good job, too, for if it was not so, things

would leak out, and that is just what we do not want. We are waiting

patiently for Willie’s fleet to come out to enable our chaps to have

a little practice. We try to make ourselves as happy as we can in the

shape of a sing-song occasionally. These evenings are well appreciated.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 23.--From Seaman Wilson, of the “Bacchante,” to his wife at

Hunslet:_

 

You will have read of our victory in the North Sea. It was fine. Our

ship brought the dead and wounded and the prisoners back. A grim job it

was, too. I only wish the whole German fleet would come out. We may get

a chance of coming home soon. Their firing is rotten, whilst our men

behind the guns are perfect. They get a hit every time.

 

The bounders won’t come out. That was the reason our ships had to try

and drive them out. You see the place is all mined, and if a ship runs

into one of these mines it means destruction.

 

The commander of the _Liberty_, a torpedo boat destroyer, asked his

ship’s company if they would volunteer to go up Kiel Harbour with him,

and every man said “Yes,” although it looked certain death. Up they

went, and got under the forts of Heligoland and let rip at the German

cruisers in the harbour. One of the wounded sailors of the _Liberty_

told me that the shells fired at them were enough to sink a fleet. Our

ship had only one torpedo and one round of ammunition left. So they

turned round to come out, when a shrapnel shell struck the _Liberty’s_

mast, killing the gallant commander and three others. The coxswain,

although wounded, brought the ship safely to our fleet that was waiting

outside. We pray to God that we may come off victorious, and I am

confident we shall, as every man jack in the fleet has the heart of a

lion.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 24.--From a Welsh gunner on the “Arethusa”:_

 

Just a few lines to let you know how the war is going on. I cannot say

much, as correspondence is strictly secret and letters are likely to be

opened. The Commodore turned over to this ship last Wednesday, and we

were in action on Friday at 7.45 a.m. and finished a stiff eight-hours’

engagement, our loss being eleven killed and fifteen injured in this

ship alone.

 

We were done after the fight, engines disabled, and had to be towed to

Chatham. One man was all that was left at my gun. But still, after all,

we saw them off. We blew them to ----. Three fights we had. As soon as

we are patched up we shall be off again.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 25.--From Gunner John Meekly, of Leeds:_

 

Been in battle, and, wonder of wonders, haven’t scored a scratch. My

ship, as you know, is the _Arethusa_--“Saucy Arethusa” as history knows

her. She was the first there, and the first that shot home. It was her

that made them come out, and her that took the most prominent part, as

all the ship’s company know only too well. Now we are in dry dock.

 

We had to sacrifice ourselves almost to do what we did do--to get them

out of their shells. Not only were submarines and mines a menace, but

also the fire from the forts. We got within their range, and our ship

suffered the most. We have got a fearless admiral, and at the same time

a decent fellow.

 

I saw an account in the papers when we got in dock, and I was very

pleased with it, because another ship had been mistaken for us. The

name of our commodore is Tyrwhitt.

 

* * * * *

 

_Letter 26.--From Midshipman Hartley, of H.M. battle-cruiser “Lion,”

to his parents at Burton-on-Trent:_

 

At last we have had a taste of gunfire, but it was only a taste. We

ran into three light German cruisers. Two of them were sunk, and one

managed to make off in a sinking condition and badly on fire forward

and aft. Of course, their guns had about the same effect on us as a

daisy air-rifle. The funny thing, which you should have seen, was all

the stokers grubbing about after the action looking for bits of shell.

 

The Germans fought awfully well and bravely, but the poor beggars

hadn’t a dog’s chance of living through it. The _Mainz_ was the name

of one of those sunk. Two of their destroyers were also sunk.