As we left the British field hospital, on the Rue de Leopold, a shrieking
skyrocket whizzed by above us and buried its hissing head in the
river to the north. One or two more fell at a distance of several
hundred yards, and in the southern part of the city flames from
several houses shot up into the quiet, windless night.

The bombardment was on--the time was 12.07 Wednesday
midnight.

For a moment I did not realize that this was the beginning of the end
of Antwerp. I had heard so much gun-fire and seen so many bombs
dropping from aeroplanes that I did not fully appreciate the
significance of these shells. I scribbled a few notes in my diary,
unstrapped my money belt, and then picked out an empty bed at the
Queen's Hotel and tumbled in. I must have slept for six or seven
hours.

When I arose everything was quiet. The hotel was apparently
deserted. I remember being particularly irritated because there was
no one in the kitchen who would give me breakfast, so I made myself
some tea and then strolled into the street. It so happened that the
Germans had been pumping lead steadily into the city for six hours
and that this was the morning lull. The Germans are methodical in
everything. When they bombard a city they stop for breakfast.

As I walked down the Avenue de Keyser I thought at first it was
Sunday--or rather a year of Sundays all rolled into one. Overnight
the city had been transformed into a tomb. Shops were closed; iron
shutters were pulled down everywhere; trolley cars stood in the street