A Journal From Our Legation in Belgium

by Hugh Gibson

The staircase up this tower was a crazy thing, with rotten steps and places where two or three steps were missing altogether. It was bad enough going up where we could take hold and pull ourselves up, but it was far worse going down, because we were ordered down in a hurry and all came piling down in a steady stream. There were squeaks and screams at the bad moments, but we did manage to get down without mishap and take stock of ourselves.

We found some German prisoners lying on the straw in the entrance hall, and stopped to speak to them. They said that their troops were very tired from long, hard fighting, but that they had plenty of men. They seemed rather depressed themselves.

By the time we got down, our information had come and we set off through a welter of transport trains, artillery, ambulances, marching troops, and goodness knows what else, in the direction of X——. When we got within a couple of kilometers of the place, an officer stopped us and asked if we knew where we were going. He shrugged his shoulders when we said we did, and let us go straight into it. When we were bowling along about one kilometer from the town, three shells burst at once, about two hundred yards to our left, and we stopped to see what was toward. A hundred yards ahead to the right of the road was a battery of five big guns, and the Germans were evidently trying to get their range. The shells kept falling to the left, near a group of farm-houses, and as some of the spent balls of shrapnel kept rolling around near us, we decided we might as well go and see the big guns from nearer to.

In the shelter of the farm-houses were fifty or sixty men, some of them cooking their lunch, others sleeping, all quite oblivious of the roar of bursting shrapnel and the spattering of the bullets near by. And a few months ago probably any of these men would have been frightened into a fit by a shell bursting in his neighbourhood. It is wonderful how soon people become contemptuous of danger. The horses that were tethered by the roadside seemed to take it all as a matter of course, and munched away at their hay, as though all the world were at peace. A wobbly cart came creaking by with an infantryman, who had had a good part of his face shot away. He had been bandaged after a fashion and sat up blinking at us stupidly as the cart lumbered by, bumping into holes and sliding into ruts.

I was not keen on staying longer than was necessary to see what was there, but W.—— was very deliberate and not to be budged for more than half an hour. We finally got him started by calling his attention to the spent balls, which make a tremendous singing noise, but do no harm. The only really safe thing in the neighbourhood was what did the trick. The Germans were making a furious attack, evidently determined to break the line before the fresh troops could be brought up, and the cannonading was terrific. The whole front as far as we could see in either direction was a line of puffs of smoke from bursting shrapnel and black spouts of earth from exploding shells. The crackle of the mitrailleuses rippled up and down the whole line. The Belgians were pounding back as hard as they could and the noise was deafening. Finally, when we decided to leave, the officer in command of the battery loaded all five guns at once and fired a salvo for our benefit. The great shells tore away, roaring like so many express trains, and screaming like beasts in agony—a terrifying combination. My ears ache yet. It was getting hotter every minute and the Germans were evidently getting a better idea of the range, for the shells began falling pretty close on the other side, and I was quieter in my mind when we went back to our cars and pulled out of the actual line. We took a road a few hundred yards back, parallel with the lines, and drove along slowly, watching the effect of the shell fire, until we absolutely had to start back for lunch. On the way we stopped at a peasant's hut, and said hello to Jack Reyntiens.

When we got back to the hotel, about half an hour late for lunch, we found the Prime Minister waiting for us. At the door, in addition to the usual sentry, there were two privates of the chasseurs à cheval, one wearing a commander's star of the Legion of Honor. They saluted and smiled, and I bowed and went on in to my meal. They came in after me, still smiling, and I was taxed with not recognising them. They were the Duc d'Ursel and ————, the heads of their respective houses, who had enlisted, and are still fighting as privates. They had just been relieved and were on their way to the rear, where the Belgian army is being reformed and rested.

As soon as we had got through, I had to start back for my audience of the Queen. W.—— took me out to la Panne, where we found the Villa on the sand dunes, a little way back of the lines. There were a couple of gendarmes on duty, the King's Secretary, and the Countess de Caraman-Chimay, the one Lady-in-Waiting. I had just got inside when the door opened and the King came in. He had heard I was coming to see the Queen and had motored down from Furnes. I was able to satisfy him in a few minutes on the points he had wanted to see me about and then he questioned me about friends in Brussels. I suggested to him that it would probably help our committee in raising funds if he would write an appeal for help from America. He fell in with the idea at once, and together we got out an appeal that is to be sent across the water. Where we sat we could see the British ships shelling the Germans, and the windows of the dining-room were rattling steadily. The King stood beside the table with his finger tips resting on the cloth, watching the stuff ground out word by word. I looked up at him once, but could not bear to do it again—it was the saddest face one can imagine, but not a word of complaint was breathed.

Just as we were finishing, the Queen came and bade us in to tea. She was supposed to wait for her Lady-in-Waiting to bring me, but didn't. The King stayed only a minute or two and then said he must be getting back to Headquarters, where he would see me later.

I suggested to the Queen that she, too, make an appeal to the women of America, to which she agreed. Another appeal was prepared for her, and it, too, will be sent to America by the first post.

The Queen had wanted to see me about the subject of surgeons for the Belgian army. The Belgian surgeons in the Brussels hospitals have been replaced by Germans, and have nothing to do, although they are desperately needed here. The Queen was terribly depressed about the condition of the wounded. There are so few surgeons, and such tremendous numbers of wounded, that they cannot by any possibility be properly cared for. Legs and arms are being ruthlessly amputated in hundreds of cases where they could be saved by a careful operation. Careful operations are, of course, out of the question, with the wounded being dumped in every minute by the score. In these little frontier towns there are no hospital facilities to speak of, and the poor devils are lucky if they get a bed of straw under any sort of roof, and medical attendance, within twenty-four hours. We went to see one hospital in a near-by Villa, and I hope I shall never again have to go through such an ordeal. Such suffering and such lack of comforts I have never seen, but I take off my hat to the nerve of the wounded, and the nurses, most of them the best class of Belgian women, used to every luxury and getting none.