ave us new information about Antwerp. Clearly
the city was doomed.

I did not sleep that night. I packed. Next evening I was in
Holland. I saw a big story, hired a car, picked up a _Times_
courier, and, after "fixing" things with the Dutch guards, dashed
for Antwerp. The long story of a retreat with the rearguard of the
Belgian Army has no place here. But there were scenes which
contrasted with the boasting, confident, joyous capital I had left.
Belgian horses drawing dejected families, weeping on their
household goods, other families with everything they had saved
bundled in a tablecloth or a handkerchief. Some had their
belongings tied on a bicycle, others trundled wheel-barrows.
Valuable draught dogs, harnessed, but drawing no cart, were led by
their masters, while other dogs that nobody thought of just
followed along. And tear-drenched faces everywhere. Back in
Bergen-op-Zoom and Putten I had seen chalk writing on brick walls
saying that members of certain families had gone that way and would
wait in certain designated places for other members who chanced to
pass. On the road, now dark, and fringed with pines, I saw a faint
light flicker. A group passed, four very old women tottering after
a very old man, he holding a candle before him to light the way.

As I jotted down these things and handed them to my courier I
thought of the happy faces back in Berlin, of jubilant crowds
dashing from restaurants and cafes as each newspaper edition was
shouted out, and I knew that the men in the luxurious club were
figuring out to what extent they could mulct Belgium.

I pressed on in the dark and joined the Belgian army and the
British Naval Brigade falling back before the Germans. I came upon
an American, now captain of a Belgian company. "It's a damn shame,
and I hate to admit it," he said, "but the Allies are done for."
That is the way it looked to us in the black hours of the retreat.

Soldiers were walking in their sleep. Some sank, too exhausted to
continue. An English sailor, a tireless young giant, trudged on
mile after mile with a Belgian soldier on his back. Both the
Belgian's feet had been shot off and tightly bound handkerchiefs
failed to check the crimson trail.

London and Paris were gloomy, but Berlin was basking in the bright
morning sunshine of the war.

Although the fronts were locked during the winter, the German
authorities had good reason to feel optimistic about the coming
sprin