The German fury in Belgium; experiences of a Netherland journalist during four months with the German army in Belgium

Preface

Among the many books published on the behaviour of the German Army in Belgium, this account by a distinguished Dutch journalist must occupy a unique place. It is written by a neutral, who held, at the start, no brief for either side. It is written by an eye-witness, who chronicles not what he heard, but what he saw. It is written also by one who mingled with the German troops and was present at the inception of the whole compaign of outrage. Mr. Mokveld took his life in his hands when, with great courage and devotion, he visited Vise and Liege and Louvain at the most critical moments. His character of neutral journalist was only a flimsy protection among the drunken and excited German troops. But his boldness was justified, for after many adventures he came safely through, and he was enabled in those early weeks to see the whole of Belgium from Liege to the Yser and from Antwerp to Dinant. The result is an admirable piece of war-correspondence, which bears on every page the proofs of shrewd observation and a sincere love of truth and honest dealing.

There is much in Mr. Mokveld's narrative to interest the historian. For example, he gives a fuller account than we have yet had of that obscure period when Liege had fallen, but its northern forts vi PREFACE

were still holding out. But it is less a history of the campaign than a chronicle of those lesser incidents of war which reveal the character of the combatants. No more crushing indictment of German methods has been issued, the more crushing since it is so fair and reasonable. The author has very readily set down on the credit side any act of German humanity or courtesy which he witnessed or heard of. But the credit side is meagre and the black list of crimes portentous. Episodes like the burning of Vise and the treatment of British prisoners in the train at Landen would be hard to match in history for squalid horror.

Two facts are made clear by Mr. Mokveld's book, if, indeed, the world has ever doubted them. The first is that the German authorities, believing their victory to be beyond question, deliberately sanctioned a campaign of frightfulness. They did not imagine that they would ever be held to account. They wished to terrorise their opponents by showing them what resistance involved. The atrocities were not the blunders of drink-sodden reservists, but the result of the theories of half-witted military pedants. The second is that the invading armies were as nervous as a hysterical woman. Those would-be conquerors of the world were frightened by their own shadows. A shot fired by accident from a German rifle led to tales of attacks by Belgian francs-tireurs and then to indiscriminate murder by way of revenge. Mr. Mokveld examined the legends of treacherous Belgian assaults and the mutilation of the German wounded, and found them in every case wholly baseless. No German

PREFACE vii

•had ever seen these things happen, but had only heard of them. When definite details were given, Mr. Mokveld tracked them down and found them false. The Belgian atrocities lacked even that slender justification which belongs to reprisals. They were the work of a drunken and "rattled" soldiery — for fear is apt to make men brutal — deliberately encouraged by the authorities, who for this purpose relaxed the bonds of military discipline. When the battle of the Marne changed the complexion of affairs, these authorities grew scared and repudiated the policy, but Belgium remains a witness of what Germany's triumph means for her victims.

John Buchan.

Introduction

A few words by way of introduction.

I had wished to publish this book a long time ago, because I think it my duty to submit to the opinion of the public the things which I witnessed in the unfortunate land of the Belgians, and where I was present at such important events as an impartial spectator. I call myself an impartial spectator, for if this book be anti-German, it should not be forgotten that the facts give it that tendency.

That the book was not published sooner is because I could not foresee more than others how terribly long the war would last; and I should have preferred to wait till the end in order to insert several reports which I know are being kept in the occupied part, in order to acquaint the whole world with the full truth about the behaviour of the Germans. As long as the Germans keep the upper hand in Belgium, such a publication cannot take place without danger to several persons.

But because the German libels go on accusing the Belgium people of horrible francs-tireurs acts, I have thought that I ought not to wait any longer before giving my evidence to the public.

This book does not attempt to give more than evidence of the truth. It does not claim to have literary distinction; I have not even tried to give it that stamp. By relating various events succes-

ix x INTRODUCTION

sively witnessed, which have no mutual connection, this would be very difficult.

My stories are not exaggerated or touched up, but are true to reality. That is the reason why the German authorities have driven me away from Belgium, and tried to get hold of me to punish me. On that side they are afraid that the truth be known.

A long time after I had left Belgium I got hold of the Black List, in which I am mentioned twice over among eighty-seven other persons; once as Hokveld-Journalist and again as Mokveld-C or respondent. The list was published by me in De Tijd of June 2nd, 191 5.

That I was "wanted" is proved by the fact that two persons have had the greatest trouble because they were mistaken for the Mokveld-Correspondent of De Tijd. My colleague Kemper passed a fortnight in prison in Brussels, accused of having written various articles in De Tijd, which were written by me, and I relate, in the chapter "Round about Bilsen," what Mr. Van Wersch, another Netherlander, suffered for the same reason.

But although the Germans are afraid to let the truth be known, there is no reason why I should withhold my evidence. On the contrary, I will try to do everything I can to make public opinion do justice to the unfortunate Belgians, trodden down and insulted, falsely and vilely libelled by their oppressors, and accused of offences of which they never were guilty.

Contents

PAGE

Introduction ix

CHAPTER

Chapter I

When De Tijd sent me to Belgium as its correspondent, I had not the faintest notion practically how to perform my duties, for the simple reason that I could not apprehend at all how a modern war might be conducted. But I was destined to receive my first impressions when still on Netherland 1 territory and after my arrival at Maastricht. On the hot afternoon of August 7th, 19 14, the much-delayed train rumbled into the station at Maastricht. A dense mass stood in front of the building. Men, women, and children were crowded there and pushed each other weeping, shouting, and questioning. Families and friends tried to find each other, and many of the folk of Maastricht assisted the poor creatures, who, nervously excited, wept and wailed

1 The translator uses the words "The Netherlands, Netherlander," and "Netherland" on purpose. The Germans call themselves "Deutsch,"' the Americans call them "Dutch," the Flemish use "Duts" or "Duuts," and the Netherlanders "Duitsch"; so it is desirable to exchange "Dutch" for "Netherland."

for a father, for wife and children lost in the crowd. It was painful, pitiful, this sight of hundreds of fugitives, who, although now safe, constantly feared that death was near, and anxiously clutched small parcels, which for the most part contained worthless trifles hurriedly snatched up when they fled.

And over these nervous and terrified thousands at Maastricht rolled from afar the dull roar of the guns, thunder-like bursts from which had frightened them so terribly.

The streets leading to the bridge over the Meuse and into the town were also densely thronged with refugees. Here and there large groups listened to the stories told, with profusion of tears, of sufferings inflicted, depicted in far harsher colours than could have been possible. But the wretched creatures exaggerated unconsciously; in their affrighted state they had seen things that had never occurred.

Suddenly every one in the Vrijthof ran in the same direction. I waited calmly, and saw pass by a tragically long train of hooded carts and other peasants' conveyances. The drivers walked by the side of the horses, the Red Cross flag flew from the carriages, fresh clean straw covered their floor, on which wounded soldiers writhed in excruciating pain. The crowd did not press nearer, but, standing silently in long rows, let the sad procession pass by. Such were the first impressions of the war got in these days; nobody uttered a sound, but many stealthily brushed a tear away.

Thus it went on all day long: motors and other conveyances travelled to and fro between the battle-fields and hospitals at Maastricht; fugitives moved about in streets and squares, upsetting each other more and more by fantastic stories.

As dusk came on nearly the whole population of Maastricht, with all their temporary guests, formed an endless procession and went to invoke God's mercy by the Virgin Mary's intercession. They went to Our Lady's Church, in which stands the miraculous statue of Sancta Maria Stella Maris. The procession filled all the principal streets and squares of the town. I took my stand at the corner of the Vrijthof, where all marched past me, men, women, and children, all praying aloud, with loud voices beseeching: "Our Lady, Star of the Sea, pray for us . . . pray for us . . . pray for us . . . !"

At the same time bells rang . . . and guns roared.

Group after group went by, and I heard French and Netherland, the Maastricht vernacular and sweet Flemish spoken, all sorts of tongues and modes of utterance. The men were bare-headed, and each let his rosary slip through his fingers. Soon after the head of the procession reached Our Lady Square the huge church was packed, and those who could not find room inside stood in the square, which also very soon was full with these thousands oT people in a dense mass, like so many blades of grass in a meadow.

However large the crowd, it was silent as death when the priest Jacobs addressed them. He spoke words of encouragement, hope, and confidence, and urged them to send up their prayers to God Almighty — prayers for peace. When he had ended, these thousands sang the "Hymn to Mary," in such perfect order as if only one superhuman body sent forth an immensely powerful sound from earth to Heaven.

As I was listening to that hymn the storms in my heart subsided — storms raised by so many scenes witnessed during the day; but as soon as the sonorous voices were still, I heard again the dull boom . . . boom . . . boom ... of the guns. That dire realityl . . .

The next morning I got up early, having been unable to sleep. I realised already that my task was difficult, dangerous, and full of responsibility, for I had to find out and communicate to the public the truth about events, which would be related as beautiful or horrid, according to the interests of my informants. It was dangerous, because I might meet with the same fate that seemed to have been inflicted on so many civilians already.

Dressed in my sporting attire, and carrying some necessaries in a knapsack, I started early, going towards Vise along the canal. As I came to the Netherland boundary-stone and noticed that of Belgium, I had a moment of doubt, but it lasted for a second only. In order to divert my thoughts I walked somewhat more briskly, but was stopped suddenly on Belgian ground by a custom-house officer. I was astonished to see that official there still, for the Germans must be quite near and — as I had been told — small patrols had advanced frequently to this point. My papers were found to be in order, and the man seemed very happy to meet a journalist.

"It is a pity, sir, that you did not arrive a day sooner, then you might have witnessed great barbarity of the Germans. If you walk on a little farther along the canal, you will see three persons hanging from a tree near Haccourt; one of these is a boy of fourteen. Nobody was allowed on the road, and as a patrol met these three persons, they concluded immediately that they were francs-tireurs, strung them up on the tree, without a trial of any sort, and in addition shot each a bullet through the head. To-day another patrol arrived and had the effrontery to tell the members of the Maastricht Red Cross that the boy had murdered a captain. And we are not allowed to remove the corpses. Horrible! . . . horrible!"

"Yes," I reply, "it is bad, very bad, but is it really all true?"

"True? True, sir? You go and look for yourself! And let me tell you one thing — there are no francs-tireurs here! We know quite well what we may do and what not, and only a moment ago I received a message from the Minister of the Interior, saying that non-combatants who shoot at the enemy expose themselves to danger and their fellow-citizens to retaliations."

I asked him how things were farther on along the Meuse, but he knew nothing. He was stationed here, he said, and was going to stay as long as possible. As soon as the Germans arrived, most people fled, and those who had stayed on were no longer allowed to leave. So he lacked all information, and only understood that fierce fighting was going on, as was confirmed by the incessant thunder of the guns. Fort Pontisse was, moreover, not so very far

W THE GERMAN FURY IN BELGIUM

away, and frequently we could distinctly tell, by their whistling sound, in which direction the shells flew.

After a few encouraging words I walked on along the solitary, deserted road, leaving the canal on the right, until a by-way took me to the bank of the Meuse, opposite the Netherland frontier village Eysden. I entered a deserted inn. After shouting for a long time, the inn-keeper appeared, looked shyly at me, remaining constantly close by the door of his room. His attitude showed that he was prepared to fly at the slightest suspicious movement on my part; but as soon as I had convinced him that I was a Netherland journalist, he became more friendly, and called his wife and daughters, so that I might tell them all I knew. They were very desirous to know how the war went ... in the Netherlands, and whether we were fighting the Germans or the English? It was very difficult to make them understand that they were under a misapprehension, but when I had at last succeeded in this, I started in my turn to ask them what they thought of my intention to go farther.

"Go farther, sir? But . . . but . . . sir, don't do that! The Germans shoot every civilian whom they set eyes on."

"Oh, go on!" I answered. "I don't think that I need fear anything of the kind. I am in any case a Netherlander!"

"Netherlander or not, it does not matter. Whosoever one be, every civilian is shot down by them."

"Are they at a great distance from here?"

"Not at all! If you step outside, you can see them standing, ten minutes from here. Near Lixhe they threw a bridge across the Meuse. It is the third already which they put down, for each time they are smashed from the fort. Oh, it is horrible; there must surely fall a number of dead, and here we have seen corpses in the Meuse already. . . . But I do not understand how you ventured to come here. . . ."

Well, I did not quite fancy the prospect of being shot like a dog, and as I had not yet come into touch with the Germans, it was difficult to say whether these people exaggerated or not. But just opposite was Eysden, and I made up my mind to go there for further information.

Netherland soldiers and inhabitants of the village bustled about along the opposite river-bank. I shouted as loudly as possible; and when at last I succeeded in drawing their attention, I made them understand that I wanted to be pulled across in the little boat, which in ordinary times served as a ferry. A short consultation took place now on the opposite side, after which a soldier, who clearly possessed a strong voice, came as near as possible to the waterside and, making a trumpet of his two hands, roared:

"Not allowed!"

"Why not?"

"We are neutrals!"

"So am I; I am a Netherlander!"

"Possibly! Not allowed!"

And at the same moment he turned round and joined the others.

So I was left there. The Netherlanders refused to pull me across in consequence of an exaggerated fear of violating their neutrality; the Germans in front of me intended, it was said, to shoot me down as soon as I ventured to get near. But to retrace my steps . . . that is a thing I had never done yet. For a few moments I stood there undecided, but then made up my mind to see what was going to happen, and went on, in spite of the warnings of the kind-hearted innkeeper and his family, who called out to me to return.

The terrible thunder of the guns, of both besiegers and besieged, vibrated through the air. In the distance I noticed a couple of men, probably German soldiers, but a pontoon-bridge was nowhere to be seen. After a few minutes, however, I reached a spot where the Meuse makes a short curve, and had scarcely walked round it, when I saw, only a couple of hundred yards away, the bridge in question, across which a long train of vehicles was passing, loaded with victuals, hay, straw, etc.

On this side hundreds of soldiers were standing; they had taken off their uniforms in the fierce heat, and were busy loading and unloading and changing horses. From time to time the entire scene was hidden by the smoke from numerous burning houses at Lixhe, quite near the river. I walked in the most casual way, in an unconcerned attitude, looked calmly at some of the houses I passed, and which were for the greater part destroyed. The walls were pierced by bullets, the rooms generally burnt out; in the front gardens lay all sorts of furniture, dragged out of the house and then smashed to pieces.

The road was all strewn with straw. I approached the bridge past burning farms and villas. There the pieces of broken furniture were even lying in the road, and I had to go warily so that I should not stumble. The soldiers looked at me as if they were amused, but I went up to them in the same unconcerned manner and asked them to take me to their commanding officer.

"What do you want with him?"

"I am a Netherland journalist, and want to ask the commander's permission to go to Liege."

"Oh, you are a Netherlander; then come along."

They took me to two officers who stood near the bridge, and told them that I "pretended" to be a Netherland journalist. Having proved this by my papers, the officers gave me an escort of three men, who conducted me to the bridge-commander, on the other side of the Meuse.

I had to walk along the very edge of the unstable bridge in order to avoid the wheels of the passing carriages, which shook the whole bridge and made the rather loose boards clatter. In the meantime, at no considerable distance, some shells fell in the Meuse, fired at the bridge from Port Pontisse. Yet, I did not mind it at all, as all these new experiences stunned me, so to speak; the incessant hellish noises of the batteries, the burning houses, the smoke swooping down, the excited soldiers. . . .

As we crossed the bridge, I asked my escort why these houses were set on fire. I heard then, for the first time, that "they had been shooting," and they told me of cowardly civilians, who shot from the windows at unsuspicious soldiers, or stabbed them treacherously. But of course they had experienced nothing of the kind; it had happened to troops who were now moving ahead. They had, however, taken part in the revenge, and told of it with glittering eyes: how they fired the houses of francs-tireurs and then shot the people who, nearly stifled, appeared at the windows; how in "holy" anger, in order to avenge their comrades, they subsequently entered the houses and destroyed everything. I did not answer, did not know what to think of it, but shuddered, because it was so gruesome.

They told this, while we were waiting on a couple of protruding boards of the pontoon-bridge, so as to allow some extremely wide carts to pass. Once again shells exploded, a couple of hundred yards behind us, and one made a hole in the bank quite near.

"Horrible!" I sighed. "Have they not yet hit the bridge?"

"Oh yes, it has been destroyed already a couple of times, but we shall teach them a lesson! Why did not the Belgians allow us to pass through their country? What can their little army do against us? As soon as a sufficient number have crossed we shall go for these forts, then on to Brussels, and within a fortnight we shall be in Paris. Liege we have taken already."

"It will cost a great many men!"

"We have plenty of them; but many of us fall by the treacherous shooting of the civilians; they are swine, swine ! And these Belgian women . . . they are the dirtiest bitches . . . beastly swine . . ."

The man got more and more excited, but then he was more than "half-seas over." The smoke made him cough and he stuck in the middle of his "swine." He made me shudder, and I hastened to pull out a packet of cigarettes, some of which I gave to him and his mates. In consequence the two others became more communicative, and in touching harmony assured me that:

"Oh yes, the Netherlanders are our friends; they remain neutral. And that is the best, for otherwise the whole lot would be smashed up, exactly as here in Belgium."

They did not understand, of course, that poor Belgium would have liked nothing better than to remain neutral also.

Those wide carts had passed us now, and we could proceed slowly. The bridge led to a farmhouse with tall trees and underwood. They took me to the right, to a densely overgrown spot, where a clearing had been made amidst some smaller shrubs. In the centre stood a table covered with a shining white cloth, and a goodly number of wine-bottles and glasses. Half a dozen officers in fine uniforms, gilt collars and epaulettes, were seated around it.

The sight of that small group, hidden among the green foliage, was as brilliant as it was surprising. One of the officers, clearly the highest in rank, summoned us to come nearer, and asked the soldiers for an explanation. Standing smartly at attention, they gave it, as a school-child might haltingly recite a lesson learned by heart. The officer whom I thought it convenient to call "Captain" looked searchingly at me and then began:

"Have you got papers?"

"Yes, captain."

I pulled them out: birth certificate, certificate of good conduct, foreign passport, and press-card, which were examined the one after the other.

"Are they genuine?"

"Of course, captain; everything is properly signed, stamped, and legalised."

"And what do you want to write about?"

"I don't know yet. The things I see . . . and ... of course that cannot do harm to the German army."

"Hm! Hm! All right. So you intend to write friendly about us?"

"Certainly, certainly, sir! Exactly because we hear so many lies from foreign countries about the Germans, I want to try and find out the truth for myself."

"Is that so? Well, the Netherlanders are our friends, and have so much in common with our people."

"Certainly, captain; as a matter of fact we are of the same race."

But here he looked at me in a curious manner, scrutinising my face, as if he asked himself: "Is he pulling my leg, or not?" But not a muscle in my face moved, so that the "Captain" nodded approvingly . . . and wrote out a pass for me to go to Vise ! I was not allowed to go to Liege, for, as he said, he did not yet know himself how matters stood there. The other officers overwhelmed me with questions: how matters stood in The Netherlands, and whether Great Britain had already declared war against us? I think that at that question I looked utterly perplexed, for in the same breath they told me all they knew about the danger of war for The Netherlands: Great Britain first sent an ultimatum to The Netherlands, to force her into joining the Allies against Germany, and as she had refused, the British Fleet was now on its way to Flushing. I explained to them in detail that they were utterly wrong, but they believed only a half of what I said.

There was a continuous coming and going at the bridge-command, for when I left the shrubberies a great many soldiers of high and low rank, with portfolios and documents, were waiting outside. The soldiers were to escort me back across the bridge, so that I might go on to Vise along the other bank.

Before I got to the bridge I saw something gruesome: a number of corpses of soldiers were lying about and others were brought in ... a little farther away, on the farm, there they were digging. . . . I looked away quickly; I was not yet accustomed to that sort of thing. Most likely they were men killed a moment ago by shells aimed at the bridge, for wounded men were also brought in on stretchers.

At the other end of the bridge I was left by my escort, and went on alone; on my left the Meuse, on my right burning houses, above me hissing and whistling shells, that came down in front of me and behind me, with tremendous explosions, throwing the loose earth high into the air.

In Devant-le-Pont, a hamlet opposite Vise, the doors of all the houses stood open, as a sign that the inhabitants did not propose to offer any resistance to the Germans. After much shouting the landlady of a cafe appeared, distressingly nervous, but doing her utmost to look unconcerned.

U A glass of beer, madame."

"If you please."

"The guns are horrid, madame; are you not afraid?"

"No, sir, we must hope for the best."

"Have the Germans done no harm here yet?"

"Oh no, sir, not at all!"

"Are they tolerably kind?"

"Oh, quite nice people, sir!"

Her reserve told me that I would not get much information here, and, finishing my beer, I asked:

"How much is it, madame?"

"This? Nothing, sir, nothing."

"Nothing! But, madame, I want to pay for what I drink!"

"No, no, I won't take anything for it. It is hot, is it not, and a soldier ought to get something. ..."

I understood only then why the woman was so full of praise of the Germans, although she was shaking in her shoes: she thought I was a soldier! How heavily weighed the oppressor's hand on the wretched population, if now already the honest Belgian heart became hypocritical!

I had great trouble to make her understand that I was a Netherlander; and that changed at once her opinion for the Germans. She told me then that her husband and children had fled to The Netherlands, as had most of the inhabitants, and that she was left behind merely because she dawdled too long. And now she was constantly afraid that they might fire her house as they did the others, and murder her . . . for such had been the fate of several of the villagers. Even whole families had been killed.

Many civilians had been put to death, accused of having shot from the houses, and others for refusing to give up requisitioned food. Probably they had none, as preceding military divisions had already taken away all there was. Then some civilians were killed for refusing to work for the enemy. The houses of all these "condemned" had been burnt, and everything the soldiers fancied was looted. As a matter of fact, nearly all the soldiers I met later on were drunk, and they worried me constantly. Only when I had proved to be a Netherlander, they behaved a little better, and started abusing u the cursed Belgians," who, according to them, were all francs-tireurs.

A short distance beyond this little cafe lies the large bridge across the Meuse. Before the Germans arrived it was partly destroyed by the Belgians, but so inadequately that obviously the enemy could repair it easily. Bombs were therefore fired regularly from Fort Pontisse at the bridge, and only an hour ago it had been hit, with the result that a big hole was made in the undamaged part. In the road also big holes were made by the exploding projectiles. Having passed underneath the viaduct of the bridge, I found myself opposite Vise on the sloping bank of the Meuse. Two boys had been commanded by the Germans to work the ferry-boat for them, and after I had shown them my passport, they took me to the other side.