Occasionally, however, we were awakened at dawn by a thunder of near-by cannon, and, until taught by experience, sprang from our beds thinking the Allies had come. But it was only to see puffs of exploding shell surrounding a bird-like form far up in the sky—which we recognized as a friendly aviator winging through the explosives toward a Zeppelin shed rather uncomfortably close to our house. Once, at dawn, several biplanes appeared bent upon destroying this monster civilian slayer. Brussels, still asleep, resounded to the thunder of cannon from the many points where high-angle guns were set, one of these points being a water-tower two hundred yards or so from us. The shooting was continuous; and puffs of smoke, as the shells burst, surrounded the air-craft so closely it seemed impossible that they could escape destruction. Fragments of shell rained upon our roof, and crashed through the garden trees, while we, in our night-clothes, leaned from windows watching the brave flyers through our glasses. Our hearts almost ceased to beat, fearing lest one should fall; for it appeared almost beyond hope that they could all escape that determined and well-directed fire. Presently one descended into full view, and, after circling about the Zeppelin shed, slackened speed just above it. Shells burst round him on every side, but the intrepid aviator paid no heed. As we watched, scarcely breathing, he plunged downward close to the shed—hesitated—then, apparently in no great hurry, soared up like a fearless eagle to safer heights, through a very cloud of bursting shells. Almost immediately there was a tremendous explosion, which we scarcely heeded, so intent were we on his escape. For what seemed hours, though it was probably not more than a few moments, we followed his flight amid a storm of attack that seemed to miss him at times only by a hair’s breadth.
In a villa facing ours dwelt a young American widow, who, with her two sons, as little clothed as we, was also watching the combat. One of the boys, as reckless of risk as he was indifferent to his attire, had crawled from a window, and stood, bare-footed, in pyjamas, on the roof cornice in great danger of being struck by falling bits of shell. The widow, wrought to uncontrollable excitement, called out as though the daring flyer could hear her: “For Heaven’s sake hurry!—Fly!—Oh, they will bring you down!—God have mercy on him! Spare him! Spare him!”
Her cries came thinly to us, through the thunderous din, and, though she and we all laughed over it later, at that moment of tension nothing impressed us as extraordinary or comic. Every sense was centred on that rising form, until it finally disappeared in the mist of higher ether. Had he been brought down we should have all felt it as a personal tragedy; for, although at that time America was still comfortably neutral, we who had witnessed Belgium’s martyrdom were little in sympathy with our country’s attitude.
But this took place earlier; before the spring of 1917 the Machiavellian intelligence ruling us is supposed to have devised a means whereby it hoped to check aerial assaults upon these cherished perils-to-unprotected-towns. Although the trick was beyond all things diabolical, many in Brussels, taught by experience the inhumanity of Prussian war-methods, believed it was done with deliberate intention to terrify the inhabitants into opposing Allied aerial attack.
As the Zeppelin, unfortunately, was absent from its shed when a well-directed bomb was dropped on it during this attack, another attempt to destroy it was made later. During the latter raid several shrapnel shells tore with direful effect through the city’s crowded streets. Many ghastly details reached us, but one account, given by an eye-witness, will serve to illustrate the vileness of a scheme which, if indeed intentional, can only be equalled by the sinking of the Lusitania and that shooting of the French wounded, openly recorded in the German papers, under the heading: “A day of honour for our troops”!
One of the shells, in its mad career through the city, struck a brewer’s wagon, killing the driver, and the oxen which drew it, and severely wounded a second man. A physician in the vicinity hastened to the spot; and with those who gathered about the scene of butchery came two German officers who appeared already prepared for the event.
“Ach!” exclaimed one of these, in a tone of compassionate regret; “you Belgians can thank the British and French for this! What is it to them how many innocent beings are sacrificed to their senseless attacks in a vain effort to cripple us!”
But, all unknown to the speaker, several tell-tale bits of the murderous missile, proving it to be of German origin, had already been gathered up and secreted by the Belgians present. The physician had one of these, and, unable to control his fury on hearing this malin interpretation of the tragedy, he turned on the officer, his face white and quivering with reckless passion: “Pas du tout!” he cried; “no French or English hand committed this crime! Here is the proof!” He revealed the damning fragment. “Avions do not drop shrapnel, and neither you nor anyone can deny where that was made!”
The officers scorned the suggestion, but withdrew, for they were unsupported by others in the midst of a silent but enraged crowd.
One feature in the affair, which encouraged the belief that it had been arranged purposely, was that German soldiers immediately took possession of each locality where damage was done, ridding it of every condemning particle of shell. But fragments enough have been preserved by the Belgians as proof of a deed worthy only of those who committed it.