In the Prison City, Brussels, 1914-1918: A Personal Narrative

by J. H. Twells

I think, from all evidence, the shock was as great to the occupying Powers as to us. They may have been more prepared than we for disaster, but they certainly seemed taken by surprise when that red flag appeared, waving at the head of their defeated troops.

If the war came like a lightning-stroke, it went, so far as we could judge, like a falling star of incalculable speed. Most of us were too dazed to comprehend the meaning of events.

Suddenly the pompous officer with shining helmet, loaded revolver, and dangling sword, who had reigned supreme in streets, cafés, and trams, disappeared.

Those were stirring, extraordinary, unprecedented days! And yet, by remaining indoors, one might have lived through the first of them without suspecting anything unusual. The troops entered quietly, too contented, apparently, to be done with past strife to plunge into more. Numbers of them sought concealment in Belgium, rather than go back to the discord they expected at home, openly stating they did not wish to return to Germany. These were not deserters, but men known to have come direct from the front. It was a strange experience, and one of peculiar psychological interest, to watch these battle-worn men, soiled, weary, and haggard, crossing the city all with the same look of internal perplexity, as though just waking from a nightmare whose meaning they were trying to solve. They appeared to have no set purpose,—probably none, but the leaders had,—nor did they evince the slightest humiliation at returning vanquished through conquered lands. On the contrary, their attitude toward the people of Brussels was kindly, almost friendly; they seemed even to expect applause from the throngs that gradually gathered to gaze upon them. Some of those watching would doubtless have given them a cry of farewell, in sheer satisfaction at their departure (if not in compassion for the guiltless among them), but for the hideous memories their uniforms evoked. Despite those memories, a genial or joking word was thrown them occasionally from the crowd, and replied to in the same spirit.

If, even one year earlier, some trustworthy reader of the future had predicted such a scene, not one of that gaping crowd would have considered it possible; for, as History has never recounted a conflict so frightful, so it has never seen so astounding a termination of war, such a mingling of tragedy and comedy! In those extraordinary street-scenes humanity was visibly struggling on the one side against the follies of tradition, and on the other against the cruel ache of unforgettable wounds. The German troops, repentent, broken, realizing that they had been fighting for nothing higher than a pride founded on their enslaved souls, seemed to crave recognition of their emancipation—looked for some sign of pardon and good fellowship from the people they had obediently ground to earth.

There were intervals between the passing of troops, but soldiers in small groups constantly wandered about looking for a resting-place. Nearly every house in Brussels was obliged to take some of them in for a day or two—soldiers and such officers as had decided to throw their lot in with the revolutionists. Others, the more aristocratic officers, despisers of the red flag, fled as best they could. Occasionally a high-power automobile tore through the city, bearing three or four of these outraged gods toward the German frontier. But soldiers, with levelled rifles, checked their course, two of whom mounted the cars, and, dragging the shining epaulettes from their superiors’ shoulders, threw them to the crowd. This done, they stepped back, quietly replaced their weapons, and allowed the car to go on. The officers offered no resistance; though blanched with rage, they were as helpless before their armed slaves as Belgium had been before the massed cannon and diabolic instruments of destruction.

During the first week after the revolution became known, a body of higher officers, with some loyal soldiers, took possession of the Gare du Nord, hoping to prevent the revolutionists making use of the railway. Had they had a greater number on their side, this act might have caused Belgium, besides all her other trials, to bear the brunt of Germany’s internal strife. As it was, many Belgians suffered loss of life and destruction of property through this selfishly stupid attempt to defy the avenging hand. Great throngs of people were in the streets; and I, with a friend, happened also to be in that crowded quarter where the outrage took place. Unwarned and unsuspecting, we were attracted thither by an interesting mass of troops, just returned from the front, with cannon, mitrailleuse, field-kitchens, and armoured war-cars. In the joy of freedom from stern military authority, we all swarmed as close as possible to these, now apparently harmless, features of war.

At a certain point on the main boulevard quite close to the station, one or two armed soldiers stood ineffectually warning back the throngs, without explanation, either too indifferent or too ignorant themselves to enforce their orders. Consequently many curious Belgians drifted past them, some returning the sentinels’ challenge with laughing bravado. One guard menaced with his rifle a couple who attempted to pass, but in so melodramatic a manner that, while those threatened fled in terror, many others slipped by him unperceived.

Then the report of a revolver rang out, immediately followed by others, and at the same moment a terrific volley of mitrailleuse was brutally discharged into the street, from windows of the station building—it was said by officers, who cared little how many civilians might be sacrificed to their folly. The amazed and terrified Belgians were driven back like dust before a hurricane—dazed by the deafening roar, by the plunging of frantic horses, the crash of windows on every side, and the whistle of deadly missiles that filled the air like a sudden storm of hail, riddling adjacent houses and felling many a startled Belgian, with the soldiers it recklessly aimed to destroy. In less than two moments after the mitrailleuse opened fire, the street was cleared as by magic of every living being, save the troops firing back. Rushing blindly from a menace so little expected, the people crowded into shops or fled up side-streets for protection. Meanwhile the roar continued until the officers, surprised by troops (who, I believe, entered the building unperceived from the rear), were obliged to capitulate, and the irrational conflict was brought to an end.

Local skirmishes of more or less serious character occurred at intervals throughout the city, during the passage of troops returning to their chastened Vaterland. In certain districts bullet-pierced windows and damaged façades bear witness of these outbreaks, mostly caused during an attack upon officers loyal to the Empire, discovered in their place of concealment. But, considering the unparalleled difficulty of the situation,—these vast armies of enemy troops, flushed with freedom from autocratic control, coming into the midst of a people taught to despise them,—there was extraordinarily little discord. The troops, for the most part, were amiable, taking even occasional gibes in a good spirit. Only the officers—those who still remained, mostly without epaulettes and wearing a bit of red—appeared to distrust the Belgians, and were ever on the alert for attack: the fear of guilty consciences, apparently quite lacking in the soldier! I myself saw some who (doubtless in accordance with von Hindenburg’s suggestion) stayed to settle up matters pertaining to the government, etc., carrying hand-grenades as they moved about the streets—weapons they could hurl into the midst of that massed attack they seemed to dread!