"And here, Madame, voyez vous! Here the floor is chipped and smashed where they stabled their horses, these barbarians!" says the young Lieutenant on my left.
And now we come to the Gate of Shame.
It is the door of a small praying-room.
Still pinned outside, on the door, is a piece of white paper, with this message in German, "This room is private. Keep away."
And inside?
Inside are women's garments, a pile of them tossed hastily on the floor, torn perhaps from the wearers....
A pile of women's garments!
In silence we stand there. In silence we go out. It is a long time before anyone can speak again, though the little sacristan keeps on moaning to himself.
As we step out of the horrors of that church some German prisoners that have just been brought in, are being marched by.
And then rage overcomes one of the young Lieutenants. White, trembling, beside himself, he rushes forward. He shouts. He raves. He is thinking of that room; they were of Belgium, those girls and women; he is of Belgium too; and he flings his scorn and hatred at the Uhlans marching past, he lashes and whips them with his agony of rage until the cowering prisoners are out of hearing.