Belgium is a Christian country. The religious houses have the words of Scripture prominently inscribed upon them. On one house of a Religious Order I saw painted, 'All for God.' On the cross roads there is frequently found a life-size crucifix, which points its wondrous teaching to many a weary soul.
A valued friend of mine,—an officer in a kilted regiment—writing home a short time ago described his sensations, as, emerging from the bloody ruck of his first engagement, he presently found himself, worn and spent, gazing at the figure of the Crucified One. And as he very beautifully said, 'Jesus came afresh into my heart.'
Again, one has not to travel far along any main road without encountering a small shrine, open day and night, for those who desire to draw aside from the ordinary pursuits of strenuous life, and enjoy prayer to God; and that almost lost art, meditation.
Thus we see a striking contrast between the conquerors and the conquered, exhibited in the ruthless invasion to which Belgium has been subjected. Roman Catholics as they are, the Belgians whom I met—and I conversed with many—seemed to realize that England, Protestant England, is honestly striving to exhibit 'the righteousness that alone exalteth the nation.'
It was in a state of the deepest gratitude, based upon such principles as I have set forth, that the people flocked to receive us. True, at times they revealed their feelings in very unorthodox fashion. For example, I remember at a midday halt one day, while the men stood preparatory to breaking off, an ecstatic Belgian girl rushed up to a 'Tommy,' and flinging her arms round his neck, kissed him warmly. I have no doubt that on occasion the man could have returned the salute with interest, but the suddenness and the publicity of the attack rendered him both speechless and powerless. There he stood blushing like a school girl; the while his comrades urged him to retaliate. He bore himself like a martyr; but when a man immediately afterwards proceeded to kiss him on both cheeks,—as foreigners often do—then 'Tommy' recovered his mental equilibrium; and his language, well! it was more forcible than elegant.
A far more pathetic welcome fell to my lot, as I walked across the square at Ypres, in the early days of the British occupancy. While talking to a brother officer, I suddenly felt my hand seized, kissed, and then stroked; and looking down, I saw a sweet little blue-eyed maid of some five years, not much above the level of the bottom of my tunic in height, who said in the prettiest broken English, 'Brave Ingleese.' The memory of a certain other blue-eyed kiddy, away in England, was too much for me, and this time I was the aggressor, for I took the little maid up in my arms and kissed her, much to the amusement of the passers-by I have no doubt.
Nothing seemed too good for the people to offer us. In our billets, indeed, the very best the house could produce was set before us.
As we marched through one town—I think it was Wynghene, which was evidently the centre of the tobacco industry, for tobacco is largely grown in that part of Belgium—thousands of cigars were handed to the column, and for days after the men would not look at the humble 'fag.' In country districts, too, the people were not to be outdone, for strapping farm wenches and men lined the road and literally showered apples and pears upon us.
At the gates of one fine park, the owner, his wife and servants bestowed cigarettes, matches and other acceptable gifts upon the men as they marched past. Oh, yes! those were brave days, and made us feel considerably pleased with ourselves, but do not grudge us such joys, for just below the horizon of that time dark clouds were fast rising, which soon darkened the skies of many and many a life. Anyhow, I will undertake to say that none who were on that trek will ever forget the enthusiasm of the people, as day by day we marched on to do battle for them, and the great principles which surely have made our nation great.