Secret organizations in Belgium occasionally brought us a ray of encouragement, despite the twenty thousand German civilians endeavouring to discover and destroy these sources of information opposed to what was allowed to appear in our papers. But, by dint of passing from mouth to mouth, the news became so distorted or exaggerated that one scarcely knew what to believe.
We all had maps spread over our walls, on which every mile that the British and French advanced was marked with pins bearing little flags of the nations. For how many months—years, indeed—we pored over that line as it crept closer and closer to St. Quentin, Cambrai, and other points considered the keys to a rapid and overwhelming victory! I cannot recall them without painful recollection of our many disappointments.
In the spring of 1918 we put those maps out of sight, and ceased reading the communiqués vouchsafed us by a German press.
The most trying element of all, in regard to the front, was the authentic information we received by word of mouth, as early as December 1916, of the taking of Courtrai, St. Quentin, etc., by the Allied armies. The stirring account grew as it passed from one excited recounter to another. It was originally obtained, as stated above, from some unknown but trustworthy source. But later on we came to believe that these stories were, in great part, spread by the Germans in order to weaken and destroy what faith and hope still survived in the country. I heard soldiers, even at this time, express very gloomy views as to their nation’s prospects in the war. Once in a tram, just before the last temporarily successful onslaught of the Germans at Verdun, I heard one, who pretended he was drunk and had possibly been taught the words in French, cry out hysterically: “Our cause is lost! Nous sommes fichus! Nous sommes fichus!”
For some reason beyond the comprehension of civil minds the occupying Government appeared bent upon destroying every vestige of hope in Belgian hearts. Invariably on the eve of a German victory, exhilarating rumours of great Allied successes were set forth from unknown sources awakening joy in the prison city which often verged on an outburst of dangerous enthusiasm. Then, as invariably, the blazing blue affiche appeared, announcing an overwhelming defeat of the Allies in the very section where they were understood to have been successful.
The subtle trickery of such tactics might in time have attained its object; certainly there could be no better method of wearying and torturing a people into losing faith. And while it did not succeed with the better classes, it tired and broke the spirit of the suffering poor to such an extent that, even when positive proof of successes reached us, they would not believe; for they had come to the conviction that the Germans were invincible and would never give up an inch of Belgium.
We who had witnessed the easy and rapid advance of the enemy through Belgium and deep into France, cut off as we were from all reliable information, could not, during the first years, form any idea of the vastly differing conditions affecting the Allied armies. As the Germans, opposed only by hastily-mustered, unorganized, and infinitely weaker forces, had swept on so quickly, we looked for like speed from the Allies when once their strength was massed and ready. That the enemy had had time to root himself in and fortify his positions almost invulnerably, while England was forming an army of untrained men, and France was preparing hers, we did not comprehend until later. Few details reached us from the outer world, although during the first year a London Times was occasionally smuggled in. A Times! No one outside can realize what that meant to us! The poor sheet, usually more than a week old, passed surreptitiously from hand to hand, was reduced to a flimsy rag before reaching its last reader! Enormous prices were paid for it. The members of the Anglo-American club paid a hundred francs for one copy which contained nothing of importance, but was nevertheless of inestimable value to us as a voice from friendly regions whence, week by week, we were further cut off. But soon these rare and precious journals appeared no more; and the apparently innocent newsvendors who shouted aloud: “La Belgique!”—and whispered, when someone known to be trustworthy passed: “Le Teems, Monsieur?”—no longer added the zest of dangerous intrigue to our saunterings through the dull streets.
But tales of heroic deeds done by the Belgians afforded a certain interest and satisfaction; tales only whispered to those who could be trusted not to repeat them. And many were performed by the Flemish, whom the Germans boasted they had won to their side. One may be given to illustrate the real sentiments of these people, so falsely represented in the German accounts. At Bruges, where the Flemish element predominates, an old man, for many years foreman in the unloading, etc., of canal boats, approached my friend the steel manufacturer in that town, gruffly complained that the Allies were making a mistake in bombarding the railroads from aeroplanes, since the Germans were shipping their ammunition and so forth exclusively by the canal, and asked the manufacturer if there was no means of sending them word to this effect. The latter, not wishing to betray himself, but meaning to attempt it, said he knew of no such means. Whereupon the old Fleming withdrew, muttering discontentedly, with bowed head and great bushy brows knitted over a pair of clever dark eyes, meditating mischief.
A few hours later, German officers came in hot haste to the manufacturer, and, in a frenzy of rage and excitement, made him accompany them to the canal. There a great crowd had gathered about the old foreman, who was under arrest, and threatened with death. He appeared stupidly indifferent to the menaces and curses heaped upon him by the infuriated Teutons, merely repeating over and over: