Brave Belgians

by Camille Buffin

I decided to go to Ermeton-sur-Biert, through Arbre and Bioul, and await events there.

We accordingly set off and, as I was mounting my horse, I gave one last look at the town. The sight was both imposing and terrible. In Namur itself, many of the houses were burning. The Citadel seemed to have a halo round it, formed by the fleecy bursting of the shrapnels. Farther away, the villages of Champion, Bonnine, and Bouge were in flames. Muffled detonations, repeated by the echoes, reverberated on every side. On all the roads from Namur and from Flawinne, could be seen the heads of the column of troops of the 4th Division, who were endeavouring to escape from the grasp of the enemy. Poor Namur! With heavy hearts, we then began that long retreat, which was to lead us, by Belgian and French roads, to the environs of Paris. I arrived at Ermeton-sur-Biert towards half past eight in the evening. I went a little further on than the village and fixed on an oat-field for our bivouac. An uninterrupted firing could be heard from a northerly direction. The march of the German troops was indicated, over half the horizon, by the villages and farms in flames. In a south-easterly direction, an immense glow, in strong contrast to the darkness of the night, revealed the incredible crime of Dinant.

Whilst some of my gunners were dressing the wounds of half a dozen French soldiers whom we had picked up at Denée, and the drivers were getting some oats for their tired horses, I remained at the roadside, anxiously questioning the dark figures who passed by in the night. The most contradictory rumours were circulating. According to some, the British troops had driven the Germans back, between Mons and Charleroi. According to others, on the contrary, we had already been turned by these same Germans.

I had been at my observation post more than an hour, when some French batteries passed by at a quick trot. There was no doubt now; it was very evident that the French were retreating. Tired though we were, it was indispensable that we should follow the movement. We, therefore, set out once more. It took us three hours to go the five miles which separate Ermeton from Rosée, as the road was blocked by waggons, trucks, refugees' carts, and vehicles of all sorts. They were advancing with the greatest difficulty, three or four abreast. Numbers of refugees on foot, men, women, and children, from the neighbouring villages, had slipped in among the horses and vehicles, adding considerably to the confusion. The night was particularly dark, and this darkness was only relieved by the distant light of the flaming houses and, from time to time, by the bright flashes of the St. Héribert Fort search-lights, which seemed to be sending us a last farewell message. We reached Philippeville at four o'clock the following morning. During the night, my column had increased in numbers. Soldiers of all arms, who had lost their regiments, had joined us, feeling instinctively that they were lost if they had not an officer in command.

The first person I met, on arriving at Philippeville, was Duruy, the French Battalion Chief, whom I had known before the war as Military Attaché at Brussels. Three months later, he was killed in Flanders, whilst marching bravely at the head of a Colonial Regiment.

I explained my situation to him quickly and asked for news of the battle. What he told me was by no means re-assuring. The Allies had been crushed by the invading stream and they were falling back, inch by inch.

I soon received instructions from the French officer in command of the district. I was to collect all the Belgian troops now in Philippeville and take them to Rocroi. We were to be in Rocroi that same day.

Twenty-two miles to march with troops which had been marching already for twenty-four hours! The order was definite, though, and I felt myself that it was necessary. Once more we set out.

Before leaving, I went and shook hands silently with my brave comrade, Hankar. Only the day before he was a lively Sub-Lieutenant from the Military School, and now he was lying in a motor-ambulance, with his foot smashed by a shell. I could do absolutely nothing for him. What a terrible thing war is!