For him the
present turmoil is only a ripple on the vast sea of his racial history.
Behind the Tommy is his Devonshire village, still secure. His mother and
his wife are waiting for him, unmolested, as when he left them. But the
Belgian, schooled in horror, faces a fuller horror yet when the guns of
his friends are put on his bell-towers and birthplace, held by the
invaders.
"My father and mother are inside the enemy lines," said a Belgian
officer to me as we were talking of the final victory. That is the
ever-present thought of an army of boys whose parents are living in
doomed houses back of German trenches. It is louder than the near guns,
the noise of the guns to come that will tear at Bruges and level the
Tower of St. Nicholas. That is what the future holds for the Belgian. He
is only at the beginning of his loss. The victory of his cause is the
death of his people. It is a sacrifice almost without a parallel.
[Illustration: A BELGIAN BOY SOLDIER IN THE UNIFORM OF THE FIRST ARMY
WHICH SERVED AT LIEGE AND NAMUR.
In the summer of 1915 this costume was exchanged for khaki (see page
148). The present Belgian Army is largely made up of boys like this.]
And now a famous newspaper correspondent has returned to us from his
motor trips to the front and his conversations with officers to tell us
that he does not highly regard the fighting qualities of the
Belgians.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102