Outside many persons from near-by houses had gathered in the middle of the boulevard—men in shirt-sleeves, women only partly dressed, children, and aged grandparents, all electrified by a note of joy such as they had not heard since they had cheered their departing army only a few weeks ago; weeks already seeming like years! All were gazing upwards into the pale sky of a summer-like twilight. “Le voilà! le voilà!” was shouted on every side in rough men’s voices, the shriller tones of women, and the piping treble of children. When the object of interest became visible to all—an Allied aeroplane soaring, like a bird of good omen, just above the street—those disjointed cries blended into one universal roar, that seemed to shake to their foundations the lines of massive buildings against which it rang.
So hysterically intense was the excitement that it looked for some moments as if the people had lost control of themselves, and as if some perilous outbreak would be the consequence—an event that could only lead to ruthless slaughter of the unarmed citizens. But the pathetic, almost tragic, poetry of the scene made one oblivious of everything threatening. One felt only the doleful significance of that high-soaring, unapproachable friend from the outer world, at whose message of encouragement we could only guess; whose coming only made clearer the fact that all who watched it from the dusk-shadowed streets were prisoners, as much cut off from the free world as though interned on some island far removed from the sphere of former interests, and denied all communication with it.
I had not fully realized our woeful position before the air-craft’s appearance, which stirred me to echo the excitement and joy of that helpless throng, watching, many with tears in their eyes, this proof that they were not forgotten by the nations they had so bravely served.
Although it was nearly eight p.m., daylight still lingered in the heavens, or rather a soft, green aftermath of day where the great bird circled, high above the house-tops, dark and awe-inspiring in that sea of pale light.
“C’est un Anglais!” cried some; and others: “C’est un Français!” “C’est un Belge!” while again and again a wild shout of glad greeting rose from the streets to that far visitor, which was presently recognized as a Belgian.
Suddenly a still louder sound shocked these cries to a brief silence. The echoing report of cannon, already set up at advantageous points in the city, told that the visitor had been espied by less loving eyes. However, he seemed to know that nothing could reach him at that particular point. At any rate, he never wavered, and while the cannon roared, and cries rose again, now in frantic applause of his courage, he hovered as before, quietly winging in a circle above the darkening capital, seeming, by easy and fearless movement, to express sympathy and encouragement.
When light deepened and lamps began to flare in the sombre streets, the air-craft, whose driver evidently realized he would soon be invisible, turned with a wide sweep and, heading southward, flew off into the violet mist of distance, dying into a mere speck still passionately watched by yearning eyes from that sea of upturned faces.
Later on these aerial visits became frequent; but this one, the first sign we had had since the occupation from the outside world, made a lasting impression. It was said later that printed slips—a sample of which I unfortunately never saw—had been dropped from the aeroplane bearing this cheering message: “Have courage for a little time; we shall soon deliver you.”
That, alas, was in the first days of autumn 1914!