With The Immortal Seventh Division

by Edmund John Kennedy

Our next billet was at Eeghem, where a stone kitchen floor was the utmost we could secure for the officers, after having bedded the men in barns on luxurious beds of sweet straw. In the early morning, in company with Mr. Peel, I enjoyed a brief stroll in the neighbourhood. In the course of our walk we passed one of those small wayside chapels, which are dotted here and there all over Belgium; not larger than some eight feet square, it offered all the facilities that we needed for prayer and quiet thought.

As we approached Roulers, we found the town alive with people who had assembled to welcome that which they regarded as an army of deliverance from the dreaded Germans.

After billeting the officers with considerable difficulty—for naturally people at times resented the intrusion of hungry and travel-stained men into their spic and span houses—I secured a most comfortable room for myself in the house of an old widow lady; one of those charming old world persons who are occasionally met with on life's journey, and who, by their innate courtesy and sympathy, accentuate the oneness of the human family. When a country is under martial law one cannot, of course, take 'no' for an answer in applying for a billet, and therefore, in the case of Belgium, one made the demand with the authority of 'in the king's name,' which invariably brought about the desired result. My dear old hostess could not do enough for me; with quavering accents she remarked, 'Thank God you English have come, for now we feel safe.' I must confess I felt very much of a hypocrite, for I knew that the enemy was pursuing us in hot haste. Indeed, a few hours afterwards they marched into the city, which they have held ever since.

As we pressed on to Ypres, via Zonnebec, our route ran alongside of the railway, and it was a stirring sight to see the naval armoured train dash along, seeking for a pot shot at the enemy who was not far distant, the sailors forming the crew regarding the work as a sporting venture.

The first view of Ypres was glorious. As we marched through the great square in front of the Cloth Hall, I was struck with the mediæval aspect of the place. The gabled houses carried one's imagination into the long ago; whilst the glorious Cloth Hall of the eleventh century, backed up by the equally fine cathedral of similar age, presented a picture not easily to be forgotten. Alas! when I next saw it, the place was a heap of crumbling ruins.

The Germans had passed through the city four days before we arrived; and according to their wont, had helped themselves very liberally to what they fancied. Many of the shopkeepers were loud in their complaints of the shameful manner in which they had been robbed.

I was able to secure most excellent billets for the mess in the house of Monsieur and Madame Angillis. These good people were in a state of considerable fear, for, not only had they two sons fighting in the Belgian army, one of whom had been wounded, but as the owners of considerable property in the city and the neighbourhood, they were anxious as to what the future would bring. Their worst fears have been realized, and I am afraid they are among the great mass of sufferers in unhappy Belgium. Their daughter was rendering splendid service in the Belgian Red Cross, and proved a great help in directing me to wounded British soldiers, who might otherwise have been lost sight of.

By this time fighting was in full swing, and our men had thrown up the first line of trenches in semi-circular form, some six or seven miles to the east of the town.

Very soon the wounded and German prisoners made their appearance, and doctors and chaplains were busily engaged. Most of the prisoners had a very scared look, for we learned afterwards that they had been told that we cut our prisoners' throats, or shot them out of hand, and their joy was great at finding even their personal belongings restored to them.

I was much struck with the characteristic behaviour of 'Tommy Atkins' to these men; even to the extent of sharing his rations with them, and handing out his 'fags,' which was an act of real self-denial.