“If they cross at the bridge there they will have the road open to them to Tongres and St. Trond—the main road to Brussels. I suppose we are defending it,” said the onder-officier, a man with a red moustache.
“Ja! Let’s hope so,” said Edmond, raising his Mauser rifle mechanically again, and discharging the five cartridges from its magazine.
At that instant the trench was suddenly swept by a perfect hail of lead from across the river, while from over the heights beyond came a Taube aeroplane, which noisily buzzed as it rose higher and higher, and then, out of range, made a complete circle, in order to reconnoitre the defenders’ position. Dozens of men in the trenches raised their rifles and fired at it. But it had already risen high out of harm’s way, and gaily it circled round and round over the line of the Meuse, noting all the Belgian positions on the north bank of the river, and signalling to the enemy from time to time.
The spot where Edmond was stationed with his regiment was situated about eight miles from Liège, and one from Visé. Just to his right was a bridge, which the Belgians had not destroyed, and which the enemy were now protecting from destruction by means peculiar to the “blonde beasts” of the Kaiser.
Placed upon it were two big furniture-vans, which had been hastily daubed in the Belgian colours—red, black, and yellow. And these were filled with Belgian soldiers, prisoners in German hands. By adopting these dastardly methods, they knew that the defenders would not shell the bridge and destroy it.
Edmond’s regiment did not present any picture of uniformity. Some men about him were dressed in the military fashion of thirty years ago—caps with enormous peaks, and wide-flowing capes covering green and yellow uniforms—while others, including himself, were in the dark-green modern uniform which has lately been adopted, and had been served out to those who had hurriedly rejoined the colours. While the enemy were all in the new service kit of greenish-grey cloth, which at a distance was exceedingly difficult to distinguish—with heavy leather boots reaching half-way up their calves—the Belgians marched in garments of all colours, from the sombre black of the carabineers to the bright amaranthe and green of the Guides.
In war some curious sights are seen in the trenches. Close to where Valentin was crouching there knelt a smart lancer, with a basket containing carrier-pigeons strapped to his back like a knapsack. Amid the roar and din the poor birds fluttered about restlessly inside their cage, eager to escape to their homes. But if the brave little Belgian nation lacked uniforms and accoutrements, it never lacked courage. All was a hubbub of hope, and a talk of victory.
“À bas les Alboches!”
“Vive la guerre!” had been shouted from Ostend to Givet, and the spirits of the nation—soldiers and civilians alike—were of the highest, for now that England had declared war, Belgium was fighting the battles of two great nations, France and Britain.
Both French and British soldiers would soon come to their aid, if they could only hold out.