_Wednesday, September 30th._ The Company was still occupying the same position. The sun had scarcely risen, when the bombarding of the Forts, of the interval, and of the redoubt began as fresh as ever. A reinforcement arrived for me, the 2nd Company of the 3rd Battalion of the 6th Line Regiment, which at once occupied the shelter trench. More than three hundred men were huddled together in this hole. I began to fear a 42 dropping on this trench. What a horrible carnage it would be! I trembled to think of the danger my men were in. They never even thought of this themselves. They were delighted about the unexpected reinforcement and their one idea was victory. Shells of every calibre were raining down from every side, and shell-mines were exploding with a frightful noise. The firing was getting more exact and reached our parapet. The trench shook, and I wondered whether it would fall in. Fragments of the shells fell at our feet, and suddenly one shell hit the trench. As soon as the smoke was dispersed, we saw, with horror, that several men were buried under the _debris_. We could hear them calling out and, for the first moment, we all remained motionless, riveted to the spot in stupor and horror. Then several men rushed to the rescue of their comrades. I advanced and saw that our poor Vander Stappen had been decapitated. His head lay intact at his feet. Three others, one of whom was Sergeant Dooms, were seriously wounded. The shells continued to arrive in showers. It was frightful! The men were lying down on the ground, with their blankets over their heads to protect them from the shell fragments, and in order that they might not see anything. A soldier, near me, took out of his pocket-book the portrait of his wife and children. There were three of them grouped around their mother. During this infernal bombardment, the poor man, seeing death so near, wanted to see his own family once more. With tears in his eyes, he shook his head sadly. I sat down by him and, in a few words, I managed to revive his courage. He got up suddenly and, shaking his fist in the enemy's direction, called out: "Come on then, you vile Boches, we shall see whether you are as good with the bayonet as with your 42." He had scarcely uttered the last word, when a still more formidable explosion than all the others made us start. The powder room of the Fort had been blown up. Poor Catherine! Our Artillery, placed in the intervals, although like us subjected to a violent bombardment, was answering courageously. Our men were encouraged by this; they felt they were being supported. It was now exactly 11.45. A breathless messenger arrived and, with a trembling hand, gave me a sealed letter. It was an order from the Commander of the fortified position of Antwerp. "In spite of the bombardment, no matter how terrible it may be, you must resist to the uttermost, even to death!" Good, we will resist!