tions ready for them at points of
need.[A]

A Belgian soldier rode into a Belgian village one evening at twilight
during the early days of the war. An old peasant woman, deceived
because of the darkness, and thinking him to be a German Uhlan, rushed
up to him and said, "Look out--the Belgians are here." It was the work
of these spies to give information to the marauding Uhlans as to whether
any hostile garrison was stationed in the town. If no troops were there
to resist, a band of a dozen Uhlans could easily take an entire village.
But if the village had a protecting garrison the Germans must be
forewarned.

Three days after arriving in Belgium, in the early fall of 1914, a
friend and I met a German outpost, one of the Hussars. We fell into
conversation with him and became quite friendly. He had no cigarettes
and we shared ours with him. He could speak good English, and he let us
walk beside him as he rode slowly along on his way to the main body of
his troops. The Germans had won the day and there seemed to be nothing
at stake, or perhaps he did not expect our little group would be
long-lived, nor should we have been if the German plans had gone
through. It was their custom to use civilian prisoners as a protective
screen for their advancing troops. Whatever his motive, after we had
walked along beside his horse for a little distance, he pointed out to
us the house of the spy whom the Germans had in that village of Melle.
This man was a "half-breed" Englishman, who came out of his house and
walked over to the Hussar and said:

"You want to keep up your English, for you'll soon be in London."

In a loud voice, for the benefit of his Belgian neighbors, he shouted
out:

"Look out! Those fellows shoot! The Germans are devils!"

He brought out wine for the troops. We followed him into his house,
where he, supposing us to be friends of the Germans, asked us to partake
of his hospitality. That man was a resident of the village, a friend of
the people, but "fixed" for just this job of supplying information to
the invaders when the time came.

During my five weeks in Ghent I used to eat frequently at the Cafe
Gambrinus, where the proprietor assured us that he was a Swiss and in
deep sympathy with Belgians and Allies. He had a large custom. When the
Germans captured Ghent he altered into a simon pure German and friend
of the invaders. His place now is the nightly resort of German officers.

In the hotel where I stayed