In the course of my travels I happened to run across two Belgians, one of whom had a brother at Andenne. Upon learning that I was an American he became very friendly and confidential and requested that I call upon his brother, giving me a card to him and assuring me that I would find a cordial reception. He said Andenne presented one of the saddest spectacles of the entire district and his brother had passed through the whole ordeal. At the time he told me this I was on my way from Liége to Namur. It was necessary to take a horse conveyance a part of the distance, between Flémalle and Huy, and I had this conversation with him in the hack. I was very glad to act upon his suggestion and instead of going into Namur that evening I got off at Andenne. It was not difficult to find the man's brother and when I gave him the card and told him I was an American he certainly did treat me royally. That evening we talked far into the night. He showed me the destruction which the Germans had wrought in his own home and told me of the things they had stolen from him. Incidentally, the desk in his front room had been locked when the Germans broke into the house, but they had overturned it, smashed the drawers in from the bottom and thoroughly looted it. The next morning he took me for a walk through the town. As we went through the streets I noticed that every house in the place had been riddled with bullet holes. There were hundreds of holes right through the solid brick. The German machine gunners had simply gone through the place and raked every house so that if there was a single person in it, even asleep in his bed, those bullets would seek him out and send him to meet his God. Besides this, every house had the front doors and windows smashed in and now temporary boardings were nailed up in the place of them. By and by in the progress of our walk we came to the edge of the town. There, along the side of the road, he showed me two tremendous graves side by side. I am sure they were not less than fifteen by twenty-five feet in dimension and piled up a couple of feet high with quicklime. "There are sixty of my fellow-townsmen buried in each one of those graves," said my escort. "Piled in there three deep. These men were shot down by the German soldiers when they entered the town for no other offense than that of being Belgian citizens." The thing seemed incredible. "Are you certain about this?" I asked him. "Were you personally acquainted with these innocent people who were murdered?" "I have lived here all my life," he replied, "and I am thirty-five years old. This was a place of four thousand people before the war and naturally I must have known almost everybody in the town."