Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1918-04-09
:: The Truth About Belgium ::
- : By Brand Whitlock - -

| the corner, and lowered their rifles;
| one of them rested his feet in the
sling of his rifle, the other drew
| box of cigarettes from his tunic,
| proffered it to his cOmrade, fumbled
! for a match, then asked a light
from a Belgian standing near. The
| Belgian gave it to him with Belgian
| kindness; little knot of men
/ stared at them. And that was all.
! 1t did not seem bad.
Poor fellows!" sighed the count
| ess.
l assume that the poor fellows
| had fallen out to mark the way for
| those who were to follow. though
| the route was already marked by
arrows painted on boards that had
been fixed to the trees. We waited,
but no more came.
I The German Hussars
Then Bottaro-CastO came running
up and said they were going by an
other route; we babe the countess
| good-bye-she refused to accom-
pany us-rushed down, and Bot
taro-Costa, Villalobar and entered
! ViIlalobar's car and whirled away
to the rue Royale, where, the chauf-
feur said, the troops were passing.
But no troops were there, and find
ing ourselves in the rue de Ligne,
we heard the steady drumming of
! horses hoofs, excited crowds were
swaying this way and that, rushing
uncertainty hither and there; final
| ly they took a more stable course,
I -, NF h. hno &c
we drove then to Ste Gudule and,
! at VillalObar's insistence, out onto
! the terrace of the old church itself,
/ overlooking the little Place de Par
| Wis. And there, between the hedges
/ of the silent crowds packed along
/ the sidewalks, slowly descending the
rue Ste Gudule from the Treuren-
! berg and turning into the rue de la
! Montage, which twisted away to our
| left, riding in columns of twos, in
| the same field-grey uniforms, their
| black and white remnants fluttering
! from their lances, was squadron
! of German hussars. And as they
| rode they chanted in rude chorus,
/ Hell Die i'm Siegeskranz."
1t was very still; the crowds sui
! len and silent, there in the glitter
/ of the sunlight-the horses hoofs
| Gathering on the stones of the I'M
even pavement, the lances swaying,
/ the remnants fluttering and that
! deep-throated chant, to the tune
/ that the English know as God
| Save the King''-and we as Amer
| ica''-and over us the grey facades
of the stately old church. The
scene had the aspect of medieval
! ism, something terrible. too, that al
most savage chant and those grey
| horsemen pouring down out of the
Middle Ages into modern civiliza-
ton.
Villalobar turned and looked at
We'll remember this scene" he
said.
And think of where we are!"
said BottarO-Costa, glancing up at
the two lofty towers of Ste. Gudule
behind us, looking down calmly as
they had looked for seven centuries
on a scene that was not after all
new to them. They had seen
Frenchmen and Austrians and Span
iards riding thus, singing their
songs of conquest.
The column halted, the chanting
ceased; the last two troopers
promptly turned their horses
around No rear attacks. Then
after a moment they moved again.
/ taking up their savage hymn and,
still singing in those hOarse gut
| terals, wound down and away and
out of sight behind the walls, the
tiles and the chimney pots, where
h. Ill sv,TO h
rue de la Montague, and so to the
I Grand Place. We thought we had
seen it all and we turned away and
/ drove back to the Italian legation.
Huns Come laundering On
And as we turned into the Boule-
ward Bischoffsheim there was the
German army! All that we had
! seen was but an advance guard,
mere videttes, for there up and
down the boulevard under the
spreading branches of the trees, as
/ far as we could see, were undulat-
ing, glinting fields of bayonets, and
a mighty grey, grim horde, a thing
of steel, that came laundering on
with shrill flies and throbbing
drums and changing cymbals, nerv-,
/ Gus horses and numbering guns andI
wild songs.
And this was Germany. Not the'
stolid, good-natured, smiling Ger,
man of the glass of beer and tas-,
seled pipe, Willing away a Sunday
afternoon in his peaceful beer gar
/ deu, while a band played Strauss
waltzes, not the sentimentality of
/ the blue flowers and the moonlight
on the castled Rhine, not the poetry
/ of Goethe and Schiller, not the in
/ sipid sweet strains of Mendelssohn
/ nor the profound harmonies of
/ Wagner, nor the philosophy of EN-
manuel Kant; but this dread thing,
/ this Frankenstein, this mOnstrous
| anachronism, modern science yoked
to the chariot of the autocratic and
( cruel will of the Pagan world.
/ We sat there in the motor and
| stared at it; no one spoke for q
| long time. Then, as under scrutiny
masses disintegrate into their COM
/ ponent elements, we began to note
/ individual details, the heavy guns
/ that lurched by, their vicious
ALL
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