Chapter XCVIIIThrough Belgium
The evening of the Armistice I was sitting with the old curé of Somaine when the Englishman came up to tell me that orders had come for the brigade to march in the morning. We were to follow the retiring Germans, who had promised as one of the conditions of the Armistice to withdraw to a certain number of miles on the opposite side of the Rhine.
I looked at the old curé; I had just been telling him that I expected a long rest now. And here we were to traverse all Belgium on foot, and continue through the Rhineland of Germany till we reached the opposite bank of the Rhine!
At four o’clock in the morning, after I had received Holy Communion from the hand of the saintly old curé—I did not have time to say Mass—I left. It was a long march before us, yet we did not foresee that it was going to be interesting. We reached the border between France and Belgium before the end of the week. We descended a long hill, the band at the head of the column playing the “Marseillaise,” while on both sides of the road from many windows waved the tricolor of France. We then crossed a small bridge over a dyke, in the middle of which stood a pole about six feet high; at the top of the pole was a small metal sign-board about a foot long and eight inches high, running parallel with the road. On the end nearest us was the one word “France,” then a little line aboutone inch long, then the word “Belgique.” So we stepped from France into Belgium, and the band, which was the first to cross the line, having ceased to play the “Marseillaise” began “La Brabaconne,” the national anthem of the Belgians.
We spent our first Sunday in a little place called Quaregnon, where we witnessed a demonstration of the wonderful patriotism of the Belgians. The church was crowded and after Mass the curé in stole and cope, intoned the “Te Deum.” Instantly all present took it up, and the great volume of sound filled the church as Belgian, Frenchman and Canadian joined in the mighty hymn of thanksgiving. Then the little curé did something I had never seen done before: he turned towards the people and cried, “Long live Belgium, free, and independent!” The people repeated his words. Then he cried, “Long live the Canadians, our liberators!” and as he passed to the sacristy a full orchestra played “Le Sambre et Meuse,” while a number of the congregation joined in this war-song of the French.
At one place where we stopped a tall, thin priest spoke to me of the summer when the Germans had passed through—it seemed so long ago now, that summer of 1914—when great train-loads of enemy soldiers passed his house daily. He recalled one train in particular: the cars were gaily decorated with flowers, bunting and flags, and from the engine floated a big white pennant on which was printed: “William of Germany, Emperor of Europe.” He recalled the endless battalions that passed along the highway, fully equipped from boot to helmet, marching in perfect order.Their horses, too, were in excellent condition. Their wagons were shining. Every little while a voice from the ranks would call out, “Näch Paris! Näch Paris!”—“On to Paris! On to Paris!” and little Belgian children, terrified, scurried to cellar or other hiding places. “Yesterday,” continued the priest, “I saw the last of the German army pass through on their return march to Germany. They had scarcely any horses; and those that they had were extremely thin. Men were hauling wagons and carts. Their uniforms were worn and soiled; in fact, many were nondescript. Yesterday many of the boys remembering the words the Germans had called out on their way, four years before, standing on pavement or in doorways called out: ‘Näch Paris! Näch Paris!’—‘On to Paris! On to Paris!’”
It was very pleasant marching off early every morning while the band played some old favorite that had cheered the weary men after a hard day on the battlefield. All along the way, for the first week or two, we were greeted by happy peasants, who had been refugees for years, returning to their own country. Nearly always they pulled hand-carts piled high with bedding and gaily decorated with flags of the allies.
I remember once on the roadside we found that the railway track had been blown up, and a great length of rails, with the sleepers still attached, had been thrown completely over a two-story building, like a wide, curving ladder.
I found the Belgian priests very hospitable and very much interested in conditions in America. They werefilled with gratitude to the people of the United States.
In many shop windows we saw a picture representing the ocean, and Columbia passing bread across the waters to an emaciated woman sitting on the shore with two starving children near her. In the upper part of the picture were insets of President Wilson and Brand Whitlock, and underneath was written: “Grateful Belgium.”
I was in a little town not far from Brussels the day the king came back. Most of the broken railways had not yet been repaired, and as the Germans had taken the horses away from the people, many walked from ten to twenty miles to see the king come back to his kingdom.
We marched by Waterloo and through an old monastery called Villers L’Abbey, built by St. Bernard. In one place where we halted over night was a tiny three-nave church of grey granite, which had been built in the ninth century. Napoleon had stopped here once in passing and had given a crown of gold for one of the statues. It was the finest three-nave church in the world. It was pure Roman architecture.
Gradually we were drawing nearer the German border.