in a hastily dug trench firing steadily across the broad sunlit river, which lay deep in its valley.
On the opposite bank ran the railway from Liège, across the Dutch frontier to Maastricht, and from beyond the line there appeared all along, for miles, light puffs of smoke which betrayed the position of the enemy, who had crossed those picturesque green hills of the frontier, and who were endeavouring to force a passage across the Meuse.
On the right, over the hills where the river wound, could be heard the loud roar of the German guns which had been brought up against Liège, while from the left came the eternal rattle of the machine-guns. In that trench, before which the river and the canal ran parallel, the men on either ride of Edmond uttered no word. They were silent, firing with regularity, fascinated by the novel scene. Most of them had played the war-game at the annual manoeuvres, when one stood up in trenches and laughed in the face of blank cartridge. Yet here was real war. Already more than one of their comrades had fallen on their faces struck by German bullets, and not far away a shell had just burst behind one of their machine-guns.
The din and rattle of it all struck a strange, uncanny note upon that quiet countryside.
For nearly half an hour Edmond had been plugging away with his men, when of a sudden a machine-gun section ran up close to them. Room was made in the trench, and the gun, carried in parts by half a dozen sturdy soldiers, was quickly assembled.
Then, the belt of cartridges having been adjusted, at the word of command the terrible engine of destruction suddenly spat its hail of death across the river.
The onder-officier with the gun laughed gaily to Edmond, saying in Flemish:
“Our friends yonder will not like this — eh?”
“Oy hebt gelyk,” (you are right), laughed Edmond. “But see over there! What is that smoke; there — away to the left?”
“That is Visé,” was the reply, shouted above the rattle of the machine-gun. “The enemy must have set the place on fire — the brutes! Look?”
And as both watched they saw a great column of black smoke rising slowly into the clear, cloudless sky.
“If they cross at the bridge there they will have the road open to them to Tongres and St. Trond — the main road to Brussels. I suppose we are defending it,” said the onder-officier, a man with a red moustache.
“Ja! Let’s hope so,” said Edmond, raising his Mauser rifle mechanically again, and discharging the five cartridges from its magazine.
At that instant the trench was suddenly swept by a perfect hail of lead from across the river, while from over the heights beyond came a Taube aeroplane, which noisily buzzed as it rose higher and higher, and then, out of range, made a complete circle, in order to reconnoitre the defenders’ position. Dozens of men in the trenches raised their rifles and fired at it. But it had already risen high out of harm’s way, and gaily it circled round and round over the line of the Meuse, noting all the Belgian positions on the north bank of the river, and signalling to the enemy from time to time.
The spot where Edmond was stationed with his regiment was situated about eight miles from Liège, and one from Visé. Just to his right was a bridge, which the Belgians had not destroyed, and which the enemy were now protecting from destruction by means peculiar to the “blonde beasts” of the Kaiser.
Placed upon it were two big furniture-vans, which had been hastily daubed in the Belgian colours — red, black, and yellow. And these were filled with Belgian soldiers, prisoners in German hands. By adopting these dastardly methods, they knew that the defenders would not shell the bridge and destroy it.
Edmond’s regiment did not present any picture of uniformity. Some men about him were dressed in the military fashion of thirty years ago — caps with enormous peaks, and wide-flowing capes covering green and yellow uniforms — while others, including himself, were in the dark-green modern uniform which has lately been adopted, and had been served out to those who had hurriedly rejoined the colours. While the enemy were all in the new service kit of greenish-grey cloth, which at a distance was exceedingly difficult to distinguish — with heavy leather boots reaching half-way up their calves — the Belgians marched in garments of all colours, from the sombre black of the carabineers to the bright amaranthe and green of the Guides.
In war some curious sights are seen in the trenches. Close to where Valentin was crouching there knelt a smart lancer, with a basket containing carrier-pigeons strapped to his back like a knapsack. Amid the roar and din the poor birds fluttered about restlessly inside their cage, eager to escape to their homes. But if the brave little Belgian nation lacked uniforms and accoutrements, it never lacked courage. All was a hubbub of hope, and a talk of victory.
“À bas les Alboches!”
“Vive la guerre!” had been shouted from Ostend to Givet, and the spirits of the nation — soldiers and civilians alike — were of the highest, for now that England had declared war, Belgium was fighting the battles of two great nations, France and Britain.
Both French and British soldiers would soon come to their aid, if they could only hold out.
“They will never silence our forts at Liège,” declared the lancer with the pigeons. But just as he uttered the words, Edmond Valentin heard a sound like the shrill yell of a small dog in the distance, and the next second there occurred near them a terrific explosion.
The deadly German artillery were getting the range!
Again and again came the familiar yell, followed by the inevitable crash. A dozen or so men were lying about him, shattered, dead, or dying.
But the pom-pom continued to deal death, slackening only now and then when a fresh belt was adjusted.
Adding to the roar of heavy guns, and quite close to them, lay the hidden fort of Pontisse, while forts Barchon, Evegnèe, and Fleron, on the heists across the river, were thundering and dealing death in the enemy’s ranks. Behind them, to the left, lay three other forts — Liers, Lanlin, and Loncin — defending the city of Liège, and forming a further portion of the ring.
Time after time their huge guns roared, and the very earth quaked. Time after time the enemy across the river were decimated by the terrible fire.
Then, every now and then, the ear was deafened by the loud crackling of musketry, which sounded like the loading of granite blocks into a cart. They were of two pitches, the deeper from the rifles of the infantry, and the sharper from the cavalry carbines. And above it all — above the constant explosions of shrapnel — sounded the regular pom-pom-pom-pom, steady as the tick of a rapid clockwork motor — adding to the deadly fire now sweeping the valley for nearly twenty miles.
Edmond, quite cool and determined, lay there firing away in the direction of the little puffs of grey smoke, which were hardly distinguishable behind the distant railway line. It was his first experience of being under fire, and after the first few minutes he grew quite unconcerned, even though he saw that many of his comrades had, alas! been bowled over. The primeval fury of the male beast bent on fighting, which seizes every man who is called upon to defend his life, had also seized him.
“They say that the French will be at Liège to-night,” remarked the onder-officier with the red moustache, in charge of the machine-gun. “If they are, we will teach those German brutes a lesson. We will — ”
Next instant he reeled and fell forward upon his face. A bullet entering his jaw had passed
