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ANTWERP THE DAY AFTER ITS FALL 223
deserted. In none of them the owner seems to have remained
behind, which perhaps is not to be wondered at. The houses
which we visited were quite untouched and bore no trace of
burglary or despoilment. We were among the very first to
proceed along this road after the occupation, and may there-
fore be accepted as trustworthy witnesses. As I have already
had occasion to mention, the soldiers are punished very
severely for theft or wanton destruction. But as such crimes
are exceedingly rare, there are but few occasions for such
punishment. No doubt an army of a million men must com-
prise a few undesirable characters. However strict the dis-
cipline, a commander cannot be held answerable for all that
his men may do when he is not personally present, especially
so when both he and his troops are worn out from violent
exertions. It must also be remembered that a seaport town
like Antwerp, one of the centres of international trade, must
contain a certain proportion of cosmopolitan riff-raff who at
such times are let loose upon society and steal and pilfer where
they can. It is therefore not to be wondered at if private
property is found to have been pillaged at the end of the war.
But up to now, as far as I could see, no such excesses had
been committed. The wealthy homes which we visited were,
as I have said, in the state in which their owners had left
them. One house had, judging from a military cap which had
been left behind, been occupied by a Belgian colonel. Outside
the library on the first floor was a balcony looking on to a
well-kept park, where the trees were now turning yellow. In
another house we found a bedroom which had not long since
been occupied by its master and mistress, but now they had
abandoned their house and home and fled. Over the beds
hung pictures of Christ, the Virgin Mary and Pope Pius X.
I was touched on catching sight of the portrait of a beautiful
boy in his coffin, with a wreath on his brow. Evidently many
tears had been shed and much sorrow had dwelt in this still,
deserted home.
As we drive on we pass more ruins and naked, jagged walls.
We cross the Nethe by a temporary wooden bridge guarded
by an ordinary Landsturm patrol, the permanent bridge having
been blown up by the Belgians. In a village, I don’t remember
which, the church had been badly battered by the bombard-
ment, and in the square fronting it stood a statue of St. Kilian
—headless. Along the edge of a tomato field a venerable
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