of the movement wore the marchers out. Each family group was
limited to the speed of its oldest member. Hundreds gave it up and
lay by the road, or formed little gypsy camps under the trees. At night
these were lighted by fires, overshadowed by the greater fire from the
distant burning city, and beside them stretched dumb-looking souls,
watching vaguely those who still had strength to move.

Watching these wretches got so on my nerves that I had to get out
and do something. With a British intelligence officer, formerly of Sir
John French's staff, I wandered down to the southern quarter of the
city known as Berchem. As usual, the guns at the outer forts had
been booming throughout the evening. From the city's ramparts you
could not only feel the shudder of the earth, but you could see
occasional splashes of flame from the Belgian batteries, answered, in
the dim distance to the south, by smaller, less vivid splashes issuing
from the mouths of the German instruments of "Culture" which
throughout the night pounded ruthlessly on the unprotected houses
without the city limits.

On the way home we stopped in at the British field hospital to see a
wounded British friend.




Chapter VI

The Surrender Of Antwerp