It was Frederick E. Small, the American doctor, attached to Brand’s crowd, who was with me on a night in Lille before the Armistice, when by news from the Colonel we were stirred by the tremendous hope--almost a certainty--that the end of the war was near. I had been into Courtrai, which the enemy had first evacuated and then was shelling. It was not a joyous entry like that into Lille. Most of the people were still down in their cellars, where for several days they had been herded together until the air became foul. On the outskirts I had passed many groups of peasants with their babies and old people, trudging past our guns, trekking from one village to another in search of greater safety, or standing in the fields where our artillery was getting into action, and where new shell craters should have warned them away, if they had had more knowledge of war. For more than four years I had seen, at different periods, crowds like that--after the first flight of fugitives in August of ’14, when the world seemed to have been tilted up and great populations in France and Belgium were in panic-stricken retreat from the advancing edge of war. I knew the types, the attitudes, the very shape of the bundles, in these refugee processions, the haggard look of the mothers pushing their perambulators, the bewildered look of old men and women, the tired sleepy look of small boys and girls, the stumbling dead-beat look of old farm-horses dragging carts piled high with cottage furniture. As it was at the beginning so it was at the end--for civilians caught in the fires of war. With two other men I went into the heart of Courtrai and found it desolate, and knew the reason why when, at the corner of the Grande Place, a heavy shell came howling and burst inside a house with frightful explosive noise followed by a crash of masonry. The people were wise to keep to their cellars. Two girls not so wise made a dash from one house to another and were caught by chunks of steel and killed close to the church of St. Martin, where they lay all crumpled up in a clotted pool of blood. A man came up to me, utterly careless of such risks, and I hated to stand talking to him with the shells coming every half-minute overhead. There was a fire of passion in his eyes, and at every sentence he spoke to me his voice rose and thrilled as he denounced the German race for all they had done in Courtrai, for their robberies, their imprisonments, their destruction of machinery, their brutality. The last Commandant of Courtrai was von Richthofen, father of the German aviator, and he was a hard, ruthless man and kept the city under an iron rule.