"Your hands are not the hands of a labourer, but of a soldier," he yelled. "Obey, or you will be shot." Under the surveillance of two soldiers, who carefully inspected my under linen, I put on the uniform and took my place among the Belgian soldiers they had thus improvised. Grouped in a column, we were triumphantly promenaded through the Lokeren streets, and insults and jokes were lavished on us by the German soldiery. The parade ended, after a mock interrogation, we were taken to a place without any egress and obliged to bury a lot of dead horses already in a state of decomposition. Whilst doing this, I took note of my surroundings and I saw, on the right, the entrance to a dark passage. Taking advantage of a moment of inattention, I slipped into this. It was an ice-house. It was intensely dark, but I groped along and crouched down behind some blocks of ice, where I spent several hours shivering with cold. I could hear the expressions of disgust uttered by my companions during their repulsive task. When this was accomplished, a sub-officer took it into his head to count the men. "There is one missing," he remarked. One of us, a wretched spy, denounced me. "He is in the ice-house," he said. The Germans entered, discovered me, and literally kicked me out. No one can imagine my state of fury and rage. If only any of these wretches ever fall into my hands, they will have no time to feel bored, for I am reserving for them a little fete of my own invention. On Tuesday, eight hundred English soldiers and three hundred Belgian soldiers were added to our number. They were real soldiers this time. As some of the Belgian ones were in civilian dress, I made an arrangement with one of them to change my uniform for his clothes. It would be more easy in this way to play my part as a citizen. The following day, escorted by Bavarians, we set out on foot and were taken to Termonde, a march of about twelve miles. The walk was very painful, as our only food was the turnips that the soldiers gathered in the fields and threw to us. Termonde was frightful to behold. In the midst of the houses which had been burned down were drunken sailors, holding bottles of wine under their arms, while they pillaged, saccaged, and turned out everything. In one of the streets, the Burgomaster of Waesmunster stopped us and, thanks to his protestations, obtained the liberation of the inhabitants of his commune. I saw an officer dressed as a Belgian and asked him to intervene in my favour, pleading that I was a civilian. The Belgian officer immediately spoke to the Commander of the convoy, who replied in excellent French: