When I was half way between Liège and the Netherland frontier, I noticed that the village of Vivignes was burning in various places. It is a beautiful spot, quite concealed between the green trees on the slope of the hills, west of the canal. And the finest and largest farms were exactly those ablaze. The fire crackled fiercely, roofs came down with a crash and a thud. Not a living being could be seen. From the windows of the burning houses small white flags hung, and they too were one by one destroyed by the fire. I counted forty-five farms that were burning, destroyed by the raging flames.
In a café, lower down, near the canal I saw a number of German soldiers, and was successful in having a chat with the inn-keeper, at the farthest corner of the bar. I asked him, of course, what they meant by burning the village, and he told me that the Germans had made a number of unsuccessful attacks on Fort Pontisse, until at last they reduced it to silence. They were now so near that they could open the final assault. They were afraid, however, of some ambush, or underground mine, and the Friday before they had collected the population, whom they forced to march in front of them. When they had got quite near they dared not enter it yet, and drove the priest and twelve of the principal villagers before them. That is how Pontisse was conquered.
Later on I heard the same story from several other inhabitants.
The people had been in deadly terror, and women and old men, fearing that they would be killed, had fallen on their knees beseeching the soldiers to spare them. At present many women and old men, and even strong men, were laid up with violent feverish attacks of nerves.
Only because these wretched people had not promptly obeyed the order of the military to march against the fort in front of the soldiers, Vivignes had been punished, and that morning over forty of the best houses had been set on fire.
I shuddered at the thought that in these days such barbarities were possible. I asked the soldiers whether I was allowed to enter the burning village, but the commanding sergeant refused his consent.
I also asked the inn-keeper whether he felt no fear in those surroundings. But, shrugging his shoulders, he answered: "All we can do is to wait quietly. I do all in my power to keep them in a good temper, give them beer and cigars, and yesterday killed one of my two cows for them. I may have lost everything at the end of the war, ... but even so, let it be, if I can only save the life of my family and keep a roof over my head. But my anxiety is great enough, for, you understand, I have two daughters ... and ... and...."
We had got near the door of the room that stood ajar, and from there came the sound of a couple of girls' voices: "Hail, Mary.... Hail, Mary...."
The frightened maidens were saying their rosary.