Finally, we reached Dordrecht. The convoy was allowed to land, so that the prisoners might have a meal at the barracks. After this, we were to be taken to Groningen, in Friesland, to be interned there.
"Groningen, merciful Heavens!" we said to ourselves; "we absolutely must find a way of escape from here, as this is the last good card left in our hands."
We were placed four abreast and, between two rows of soldiers, the troop set out. The streets were full of spectators, who asked the soldiers for buttons and cartridges as keepsakes. This was just the thing for us. One of us, at the turn of a street, set to work distributing so generously that a crowd collected and there was disorder, and a break in the line of the troops. That was just what we needed and, very simply, turning half round we took our place with the crowd, and watched the procession pass, like all the other good people.
Oh, liberty! In order to relish its sweetness, we must first have been deprived of it for a time! How joyfully we went along in those narrow streets where we were quite unknown! How eagerly we discussed our plans for returning to our "free" Belgium!
The Return
We had the good luck to find a courageous Belgian boatman at Dordrecht. He put us up on his boat and provided us with the wherewithal for reaching Flushing. Once there, mingling with the refugees, we had no difficulty in passing unnoticed. We were at last on our way to Belgium: boat, train, carriages, motor-car, waggons, every kind of transport did we make use of in order to hasten our return. Our determination carried us through.
Finally, we reached the frontier and our feet were on Belgian soil. Oh bliss, no words can describe the feelings we had at that moment! It was then that I understood fully what the love of one's country really is. The very air seemed purer, the ground looked different, and we knew all the odours and the grasses which grew in the ditches by the roadside. The trees welcomed us and their branches told us over again old things that we already knew, with their familiar swayings, which awoke in the bottom of our hearts all kinds of adorable and mysterious memories. Oh, that profound life in all things, how it drank in and absorbed the life of our very souls, and with what happiness this expanded and mingled again with that other life!
The soul of our country was in everything and, whilst murmuring its captivating song, with its smile both sad and gay, it seemed to take us under its wings and at the same time implore our aid.
Poor Belgium! Mother of my blood and of my life, I should have liked to kiss thy martyred ground! But what my burning kiss could not have told you then, my blood, which is thine, shall tell thee some day, when it waters the soil for thee, glad to fertilise the germ of thy liberty!