I have seen 5000 of these refugees at night in the Halle des Fetes of
Ghent, huddled in the straw, their faces bleached white under the glare
of the huge municipal lights. On the wall, I read the names of the
children whose parents had been lost, and the names of the parents who
reported a lost baby, a boy, a girl, and sometimes all the children
lost.
A little later came the time when the people learned their last
stronghold was tottering. I remember sitting at dinner in the home of
Monsieur Caron, a citizen of Ghent. I had spent that day in Antwerp, and
the soldiers had told me of the destruction of the outer rim of forts.
So I began to say to the dinner guests that the city was doomed. As I
spoke, I glanced at Madame Caron. Her eyes filled with tears. I turned
to another Belgian lady, and had to look away. Not a sound came from
them.
[Illustration: BELGIAN OFFICER ON THE LAST STRIP OF HIS COUNTRY.]
When the handful of British were sent to the rescue of Antwerp, we went
up the road with them. There was joy on the Antwerp road that day.
Little cottages fluttered flags at lintel and window. The sidewalks were
thronged with peasants, who believed they were now to be saved. We rode
in glory from Ghent to the outer works of Antwerp. Each village on all
the line turned out its full population to cheer us ecstatically. A
bitter month had passed, and now salvation had come.
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