GETTING READY
“Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!” These words are uttered in hoarse whispers under my window while I dress. They send a nervous tremor down my spine. At breakfast I am informed that the Germans are only a day’s march distant. They have already crossed the frontier and are advancing on us. Bombarded Liège is safer than Manhay, situated on one of the high roads from the frontier. The blindest Teuton could not miss this short, straight line of white-washed houses.
I join the crowd of peasants standing in a cluster at the cross-roads. Everyone is busy advising, gesticulating, prophesying. Other peasants are pouring in from the neighbouring villages for directions and news. Any stranger at once forms the nucleus of an entranced group. There is much chattering but little real excitement. These people who live on the edge of big events are never unprepared.
M. le Précepteur is busy in the post office trying to decipher governmental wires. Severalmalle-postes,like two-horsed roofed-in wagonettes, are waiting about, their drivers ready to take round letters—the last batch, who knows!—to the scattered villages around. A very small girl, fortified by a very large dog, is deftly steering back some wandering cows from the direction of Malempré. The village idiot has been trying to get up a game in the skittle alley, but is promptly squelched.
Motor-cyclists are coming and going in the direction of Liège. Cars shoot through every few minutes at a break-neck speed carrying men in uniform. The Commandant, peaked hat and uniform complete, lolls at the door of the Gendarmerie. His horse is being walked up and down by a farmer’s boy.
He disappears into a back room to answer the telephone, but when he returns he does not impart his news to the gaping crowd. The little vicinal train puffs noisily down the street from its shed at the end of the village. The peasants of the 13th and 14th classes, called up to-day, climb in. They are very workmanlike in their dirty-white trousers, short belted coat, and “bonnet rond.” They carry necessaries in a small parcel. How I admire the plucky air of confidence on their manly faces as they lean over the side of the little car whichis to take them down to the railway ... to Liège ... perhaps to God.
They bend from the train to shake their relatives’ hands with something of the Commandant’s calm nonchalance. Matters are worse than I imagined. Men with pitchforks are even being called up to help guard the frontier. Too late! M. le Directeur is here in a khaki suit. The brave man. He is about to take dispatches. His motor-cycle needs petrol. The entire village hurls itself on the machine. We are all panting to be useful.
“Doucement, doucement, mes braves gens. Ce n’est pas un Allemand.” (Quietly, my good people! I am not a German), he says, laughing.
The spirit of the peasants obviously delights him. He breaks into a Walloon song. They all shout the chorus, beating time with their hands. Then he is off.
One thing is decided on. The magnificent avenues of trees which line the undulating roads must be decimated to bar the route against the German troops. To keep them back a few days, a few hours, will be something. Already knots of villagers in wideawake hats and stout corduroys are stealing away, axe hooked to shoulder, lengths of rope coiled round their left arms. They lookbored and indifferent, so I know they will work like demons. A bored-looking Belgian is a man to be feared.... Soon one hears the steady hack-hack, followed by a swirl and crash as some huge fir or oak falls prone across the great white road. There is something about the sound which makes one’s blood run cold. It comes as a foretaste of death.
A car drives up with four busbied officers. The Belgian guides. The Commandant speaks to them a moment. They drive on. He re-enters the Gendarmerie, comes out a moment later, locks the door and casts a lingering, almost affectionate glance at the yellow, black and red flag floating proudly from the masthead. He is wondering, perhaps, if he will ever see it again. Mounting his horse, he waves his hand to the villagers, and is off on his sixty-mile ride to Arlon. Brave Commandant of the nonchalant mien, but not brave enough to face those last good-byes. How I feel for you!
The day wears on. Already the end of the high road where it turns to Malempré is piled high with trees. The Noah’s-ark firs on the highway to Bomale have come toppling down like ninepins. My thoughts turn to weapons. I never dream foran instant but that the peasants will fight the common enemy from behind those bulwark barricades. It seems the only natural and proper thing to do. I know nothing of the duties of non-combatants.
A man from a neighbouring village drives up in his cart. He gets down and feeds his horse with hunks of black bread which he tears from the loaf. I feel ashamed not to be armed. He may help. I approach him.
“Have you a spare rifle?” I ask wistfully.
He stares at me stupidly. “A rifle? No,” he says. “Why?”
“I could help to shoot the Germans,” I suggest.
“It’s a pity,” he answers, and his mouth twists in a grin as he turns back to feed his horse.
I have never held a rifle in my hands. But I feel convinced that the mere sight of a loathsome Teuton would make the most difficult and antiquated weapon go off of its own accord.
Madame Job’s little girl, Rosa, was sent back from Liège some days ago. The school is turned into a hospital, and the good nuns are acting as nurses for the wounded. Rosa’s German fellow-pupils are left behind. They will presently enjoy the novel sensation of being shelled by their own countrymen.
Rosa runs about the house like an elf and sings. For a pupil of the Sisters at the Orphelinat de St. Joseph she is very lively. Youth has the happy knack of living in the present. She and Louisa take it in turns to act at “Prussien,” the fashionable game. They submit with a good grace to be chased and well thumped on capture by Victor and René, the aubergiste’s son.
To-night we all sit out on theterrasseat the little white tables. The whole family are here. M. andMmeJob-Lepouse, Floribert, Alfred, Louisa, Irma, and Rosa. M. le Précepteur and his wife come over from the post office. The postman and the picturesque poacher lounge against the wall. In the distance the old Maids of Manhay are enjoying their evening chase after the elusive pig, and the skeleton dog is giving a series of infuriated yaps at his own enforced detention. The fair unknown comes out of the red doll’s house opposite and waters therosierwith rather tremulous grace. This will be our last night of peace....