saw made a vivid impression on me. She was an English-looking girl
in a new khaki skirt, supporting with one hand what was left of a
blood-dripping head,--the eyes and nose were shot away,--while
out of the other hand she ate with apparent relish a thick rye-bread
sandwich. Occasionally she waved remnants of the sandwich at the
gaping crowd. It struck me as a peculiarly unnecessary exhibition of
her callous fitness for the job of nurse.

During the daytime the ordinary things of life went on, for the good
burghers and shopkeepers went about their business as usual, and,
generally speaking, fought against fear as bravely as the soldiers in
the trenches stood up against the German howitzers. It was only after
dark (when martial law permitted no lights of any kind) that the city
seemed to shiver and suck in its breath; doors were barricaded, iron
shutters came down, and behind them the people talked in whispers.
Military autos, fresh from the firing line, groaned and sputtered at the
doorstep of the St. Antoine; soldiers with pocket lanterns stamped
about the streets. From sheer nervousness after a day of
confinement some citizens, in spite of warnings, groped about the
more important avenues at night. Picture yourself on Broadway or
Tremont Street, with not a light on the street gleaming from a window,
and walking up and down with one hand on your wallet and the other
in the pocket where your Colt automatic ought to be.

Such, very briefly, was the condition of Antwerp at the time when we
arrived. That very evening word came in that the Belgian forces,
which had been engaged with the enemy for five consecutive days of
severe fighting, had retired behind the southern ramparts of the city.

During the night the stream of incoming wounded confirmed the news