The German Fury in Belgium: Experiences of a Netherland Journalist during four months with the German Army in BelgiumMokveld, L. (Lambertus)
History
The German Fury in Belgium: Experiences of a Netherland Journalist during four months with the German Army in Belgium
Mokveld, L. (Lambertus)
Belgium -- History -- German occupation, 1914-1918; World War, 1914-1918 -- Atrocities
But the shell-fire of the French overtook them then, as they were
retreating, while many others were killed by bombs from French
aeroplanes, which were in action in great numbers. The retreat
had not stopped before the Germans arrived in Cambray, where the
thousands of wounded could at last be put in long trains and sent to
Aix-la-Chapelle. A great many bombs from aeroplanes also hit these
trains and killed a great many; my own train was everywhere pierced by
fragments of those bombs. Within the carriages it was unendurable; the
wounded men and their malodorous bandages had occupied them such a long
time that the atmosphere was simply insupportable. Happily there was
a corridor, where I stood all the time, with the little girl, in the
company of some German military men who were sent home, not on account
of wounds, but because of internal complaints.
Very slowly the huge monster sauntered along, stopping and waiting
everywhere to allow long trains with fresh troops to pass. These came
straight from Germany, with the youngest levies and volunteers who had
just finished their drill. These had decorated their trains all over
with green boughs and outside painted all sorts of caricatures, from
which especially King George had to suffer much. Then one read "To
Paris, to England," and similar hopeful devices.
When their train approached ours they looked out of the windows, or
opened the doors, and waved and greeted and shouted at the top of their
voices.
But as soon as these "tender-foots" came alongside our train and
were not met with the same impetuous enthusiasm as they displayed
themselves, but, on the contrary, saw sick, discouraged, exhausted
faces gazing at them distressedly, their boisterousness suddenly
extinguished, and a nervous, terrified expression pursed up their
mouths. And the trains were already at some distance from each other
before the young soldiers remembered that they ought to shout and to
wave to those who had already done so much for the Fatherland.
We arrived at Landen, a place between Tirlemont and Waremme, where
we had a stop of forty minutes, in order to feed the wounded. Soup
was served from large washing-tubs, and I and my small companion were
also offered some of this soldiers' food. When I had finished my meal,
and walked up and down the platform in order to stretch my legs, my
attention was drawn to an uproar in front of one of the last wagons. I
went there, and shall not forget what I saw as long as I live; I wish
that I had never seen it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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