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MORE DAYS IN ANTWERP 235
But it was chiefly to take photographs that I had planned
this day’s excursion to Antwerp, and what could after all be
more attractive for the camera than the Grand’ Place, the
noble little square by the Townhall with its quaint gable
facades ? In the middle of the square stands a piece of sculp-
ture not long since erected, illustrating the legend about the
boy who throws the giant’s hand :
" Hand werfen, Aniwcrpen."
A house close by is the birthplace of one of the greatest painters
of all time, as is shown by a plate over the door, " Gchoortehuis
von Antoon van Dyck, Kunstschildcr 1599-1641." Van Dyck’s
models and their progeny have disappeared, and the setting
of the Grand’ Place now consists of German troops. It is
marines we see marching in with their knapsacks on their
backs, rilles on the shoulder, cartridge pouches on the bando-
lier and bayonet and water-bottle by the side. A dog faithfully
plods along beside a private in the ranks—one constantly sees
German soldiers who have adopted ownerless dogs. Next
come a few batteries of 6-cm. naval guns, pulled by their
respective crews. One wonders whether horse teams have
not been procured for marine artillery used on shore. In front
of the Townhall itself a company has piled arms and is rest-
ing. Some soldiers are content to take a nap on the stone
paving and use their knapsacks for pillows. Here we see food
columns with canvas awnings over the carts and wisps of hay
in front of the horses. Marine cyclists are moving about every-
where on their silent wheels. By the side of a car stands the
great engineer. Captain Dreger, looking at a map of the road
to Ghent, which Lieut. Dr. Hiitten has just shown him.
But the scene is kaleidoscopic in its variety and there is a
coming and going, a rushing to and fro of animal and motor
traffic, a tramping of horses’ hoofs and a rattle of artillery
wagons which baffles all description. We had some singing,
too, for as the marine troops crossed the square they broke
into the swelling tones of Die Wacht am Rhcin.
We drive on and reach the land of ferries below the
cathedral. Here the scene is still more changing, and there
is a literal crush. The car is left in charge of our orderly and
we thread our way between horses, carts and closely packed
columns of troops. The street leading down to the harbour
is thronged with double marching columns. They mark time,
move on and mark time again. Belgian (Flemish-speaking)
policemen in black coats with silver buttons and black helmets
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