"I will," I answered. "The road appears to be clear."
I was soon on my way. A French sailor, going in the same direction, went with me. It was perfectly dark. Stretching our heads forward, we tried to peer into the darkness. We had scarcely gone two hundred yards when we heard voices.
"Halt!" cried someone. Thinking I had to deal only with French soldiers, I replied: "Belgian doctor." "Hands up!" was the command. I could now see, in the ditch, to the left, some pointed helmets and also some bayonets confronting us. There was nothing to be done, as all resistance would have been in vain. If we had moved a step, we would have been killed. We had to go down into the ditch, where we found other victims. I protested in German, declaring that I was a doctor. Thanks to this, I had to attend a great lanky Teuton officer, who had been wounded in the leg. I gradually distinguished a certain number of prisoners, among whom I recognised Léon Deliens and Gaston de Marteau, Privates of the 11th Line Regiment. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their braces cut, and their trousers unbuttoned, so that it was impossible for them to escape. The same fate awaited me and also my companion in distress. I protested energetically in German, and this produced a magical effect. An officer questioned me and asked me about the position of the troops at Dixmude. "I am a doctor," I replied, "and I know nothing about military questions. Even if I could reply, though, I should not, as such questions are contrary to the stipulations of The Hague Treaty." The officer did not insist.
In the dark night, an absolute silence reigned, only broken now and then by the brief orders of the Chief, a Major with a hoarse voice, whose name was von Oidtmann. Presently a carriage appeared on the road. It was a French Red Cross ambulance car that the Boches had captured. The Major sent it to Dixmude with the order to get to the German lines and bring back instructions to him. When the carriage reached the bridge, the French sentinel cried out: "Halt! Who goes there?" "Red Cross," answered the German driver. You can imagine that, in an instant, the carriage was surrounded and that, one after another, the Boches were taken out.
In the meantime, the Major and his three Lieutenants were deliberating in the ditch. By listening to their discussions, I gathered that seventy Germans had managed to get through our lines at the junction between a French and a Belgian trench, that they had passed through Dixmude, crossed the bridge, and rushed along the Caeskerke road like a bomb, passing by the relief posts, the various Staffs, and reserves. They were now hiding in this ditch, three hundred yards away from the railway station, and were awaiting the remainder of their Battalion, which did not arrive. One or two of the Marine Fusiliers were captured as they were passing along the road, and a cyclist who refused to stop was killed. The time seemed very long and the Major was evidently getting impatient, for, whilst I was talking to one of my warders, I overheard him give the following orders: "Shoot the prisoners!" I protested and, to my great astonishment, my warder protested too. "No," he said, "we cannot behave inhumanely, not the doctor!" Knowing the severity of the German discipline, I was agreeably surprised at this instance of individuality. The young German who protested was charming. He was a Berlin law-student, and several of his university friends protested with him, so that the order was not carried out.
Presently, the Germans got up, and endeavoured to advance, but the head of their column came to a trench occupied by the Marine Fusiliers. A few shots were exchanged and the troop, after crossing a field, went in the direction of the railway line. There we made another halt and, for the second time, the order was given: "Shoot the prisoners!" The order was not executed this time, probably thanks to the intervention of a German soldier, who was a doctor. He had introduced himself to me whilst we were marching and he told me that he should speak to the army doctor.
The Germans now saw that their comrades had not been able to follow them and that their only chance of safety was to go back, by the railway bridge, across the Yser, and get to their own lines again. We went over the railway line from Caeskerke to Dixmude and were only twenty yards away from the armoured train which they did not see. We walked along in silence, two by two, with our warders on guard. Presently we came to a group of about fifteen Germans who were behind a mill and we all lay down on the ground. Four shrapnels burst over our heads. A young sailor had his leg shot through. Deliens dressed the wound quickly. A German said in a mocking tone: "Good German shrapnels!" This was true. We set off again and for more than two hours we walked across fields, jumping hedges, ditches, and streams. When we were trying to avoid a stream about three yards wide, a German asked: "Is that the Yser?" We could not help laughing. We were now quite lost and were plodding along in the mud, frozen to the bones. The officers went groping along. With the help of an electric lamp hidden in their long coats, they consulted their maps and the compass. Between the Major and his subordinates there were violent discussions as to the way we should go. I noticed the confidence the Germans have in their chief. Every minute we could hear someone asking: "Where is the Major?" and he, with brief orders, shouted in a hoarse voice, reminding them to pay attention to the prisoners, maintained cohesion among his grey flock. My poor companions in misfortune, some of whom, at my request, were freed, now helped each other, dragging along in groups with great difficulty. The young soldier who had been wounded, leaning on Deliens and de Marteau, trotted along courageously, leaving a track of blood behind him.
Several young law and theology students walked with me and we conversed in German. They were Volunteers of the 202nd Regiment, who had just arrived fresh from Berlin and who were under fire for the first time.
"How long do you think the war will last?" they asked.
"Six months, or perhaps more," I replied.