I have been practically across the whole of Belgium, from east to west, from north to south. From Antwerp to Liége, from Namur to Tournai and to Ghent, by road and by rail, but mostly on foot, on horseback, or by prehistoric vehicles, as it is impossible to get a motor-car at any price. Always the same sight. A population that hardly dares to hope, aching for real news--a population that is feeling a grief too deep for tears, and is plunged into a tragic, dumb sorrow. There it lives and works under the mocking eye of the Conqueror. Sometimes this Conqueror is frankly rude and violent, as he loves to feel and to look like the real descendants of that Attila he has glorified. Sometimes he takes on a mask of scoffing politeness which is still more unbearable. During the first month or so the Germans tried to make friends with the population; the men tried to mix with the people; the officers with the best families. Their advances always received an icy though more or less polite reception, so now the enemy has assumed an air of disdain for the weak little nation it is keeping under its heel.
The little steamboat which took me from Flushing to Antwerp all across the Escaut was laden with a pathetic crowd. There were mothers going back to see their sons, who, being of age liable to military service, had not been allowed to leave Belgium; parents whose only desire was to discover the grave of their son; people who, having come to an end of their resources, were going back to their deserted ruined homes, to their little piece of land which is now covered by water two feet deep.
When we sight Antwerp it is already dusk, and round us is the large harbour, which has completely lost its wonderful multiform life. Carcases of old boats, breasts and keels of sunken ships, emerge from the lead-like water, suggesting the terrific curves of prehistoric monsters. Some of these boats were sunk by the British before they left. Others were sunk by the Germans, who madly shelled their own mercantile ships together with those of the Allies. On the top of a mast a French flag is still being washed continuously by the waves.
The complicated landing formalities distract my attention from the contemplation of this cemetery of ships. We are searched three times. Every scrap of paper in our pockets, every single article in our luggage, is carefully examined. Then our passports. Very few of these seem complete enough to please the German authorities. A man who is travelling with somebody else's pass is discovered and taken away. Two ladies are not allowed to land, and they are taken back on board screaming and crying; in two days they will be sent back to Holland. Only German is spoken here, though nearly all the officials know French perfectly. If one does not understand German, one cannot possibly get on. After a couple of hours we are allowed to go into the town. No more taxi-cabs are running owing to the shortage of petrol, and also to the fact that all vehicles have been taken up by the German Government. The town is dark for fear of an aerial attack. Patrols of Landsturm men pass continuously across the principal street, and fill the town with the squeaky noise of their nailed boots. The password is loudly shouted when they meet another patrol.