rvice" pasted in huge letters on
the windshield and side flaps, we raced along the Boulevard de
l'lndustrie, swung into the southern suburbs, and, once outside the city
limits, we opened up the exhaust and threw down the throttle as Van Hee
shouted out the order:--"To Termonde!"

Termonde was at that time the scene of determined fighting between
units of the ninth German Corps and the Belgian defenders. Situated
as it is, twenty-one miles southeast of Ghent, it marks the southwest
corner of a square formed by Louvain and Termonde on the south,
by Ghent and Antwerp on the north. It controlled the bridge over the
River Scheldt and with it an important approach to Antwerp, the
capital at that time of Belgium. The heavy German siege guns,
capable of demolishing a first-class fort at a range of several miles,
could not have crossed the river so easily at any other point. For this
reason the Germans particularly wanted Termonde--an open bridge
to Antwerp was always worth the taking. The town had already at that
time been captured and recaptured; wounded and refugees were
swarming into Ghent full of battle stories and tales of terrible
atrocities. So it was Termonde that we vowed we would see.

We first saw Verhagen trudging in the same direction as ourselves on
the level, dusty road two miles southwest of Ghent. As we
approached a cross-road marked by a tavern, a couple of
direction-posts, and nondescript stucco buildings, we made out two
Belgian sentries, with their rifles lifted overhead and indulging in
some acrobatic exercises which we interpreted as a signal to halt. Van
Hee swapped cigarettes with them and gossiped in their native tongue, in
return for which they gave us some good advice. They warned us to pay
no attention to sign-posts, which, in order to fool the enemy, were
either marked with false names or else were pointed in the wrong
direction. While we were talking, a tall gray alderman came along the
road with a greasy package under his arm and at his side a priest--one
of those ubiquitous black-robed figures with a hat like an inverted
oatmeal bowl.

"Where to?" asked the Vice-Consul of Ghent.

"A Dendermonde," (to Termonde), answered Verhagen, sizing us up
as strangers, and using French instead of the local Flemish dialect.

"You know the road?"

"Yes, well," said Verhagen; and so, partly because of charity and
partly because we could have him as a useful guide, we took him into
the car.