In the Claws of the German Eagle

Shot As A

red costumes, gave to the city a distinctively holiday touch. The clatter of cavalry hoofs an

y to see this blaze of life while the city sat under the shadow of a grave disaster. At any moment the gray German tide might break out of Brussels and pour its turbid

f men whose plain clothes stood out in contrast to the colored uniforms of officers and soldiers crowded into the cafe. Wearied of my efforts at conversing in a foreign tongue, I went over and said: "D

nsisted that the Germans had already reached the end of their rope. A certain correspondent, joining in

e pumped all your best stories out of the refugees ten mil

of Europe and even around the globe. Where the clouds lowered and the seas tossed, there they flocked. Like stormy petrels they rushed to the center of the swirling world. That

to them out of the rain, carrying no other introduction than a dripping overcoat, they

still burning. As the enemy troops pulled out the further end of the street, the movie men came in at the other and caught the pictures of the still blazing houses. We

by the authorities for the "Service Militaire" and bore on the front the letters "S. M." Our car was by no means in the blue-ribbo

have any car at all; and, that they might continue to have it

diplomat obtained the permit to buy petrol, most precious of all treasures in the field of war. Indee

g band of Belgian soldiers who were in a free and careless mood and evinced a ready willingness to put themselves at our disposal. Under the command of the photographers, they charged across the fields w

be blowing the head off a Boche. He was properly disciplined and put out of the game, and we went on with our maneuvers to the

the automobile smoking his cigarette wh

u take these

that I just got a telegram from my paper saying, 'Pension off

rested from their mane

ned to me

ph of yourself in these war- surround

"I have it. Shot as a German Spy. There's the wall to stand up against; and we'll

had but recently witnessed the execution of a spy where he had almost burst with a desire to photograph the scene. It had been excruciating torture to restrain himself. But th

g up to the rehearsal. It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot of confidence in a stray band of soldiers. Some one of those

ghter in the eye," said

e eager actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer. That was a

n order to see me jump. I wasn't going to take any risk and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges were ejected. Even when the bandage was r

London Daily Mirror from a

hoot a German Spy

st that row of Melle cottages and being shot for the delectation of the British public. There is the

rat-hole spies. This one was caught near Termonde and, after being b

lications ranging all the way from The Police Gazette to "Collier's Photographic History of the European War." In a university club I once chanced upon a group gathered around this identical picture. They were discussing the psychology of this "poor devil" in the moments bef

he said. "You haven't any rig

been of real value to me. It is said that if one goes through the motions he gets the emotions. I believe that I

nd haunted them by night. They were in the Allies' councils, infesting the army, planning destruction to the navy. Any wild tale got credence, adding its bit to the general paralysis, and producing a vociferous de

rising newspaper man. Herewith he supplied tangible evidence

ional knowledge and staged the pictures as he had actually seen the spy shot. They must find their justification on the same basis as fiction,

are rarely found beneath the pictures, yet where would be our vivid impression of courage in daring and of skill in doing, of cunning strategy upon the field of battle, of wounded soldiers sacrificing for their comrades, if w

dispirited as the fog which hung above the fields. They were the famous Guarde Civique of Belgium. Our Union Jack, flapping in the wind, was very likely quite the most thrilling spectacle they had seen in a week, and they hailed it with a cheer and a cry of "Vive l'Anglet

d clamor for the ones with pictures. The English text was unintelligible to most of them, but the pictures they could understand, and they bore them away to en

ause the Germans had better maps and plans of the region than the Belgians themselves, maps which showed every by-path, well and barn. The chauffeur's brother had been shot in his car by the Germans but a week before, and he didn't relish th

the home direction, and at sight of the dreaded uniform we could make a quick leap for safety. At this juncture, however, I produced

tunate kinsmen who did venture too far into the war zone, they, too, would have had a chance to cool their ardor in some detention-camp of Germany. This cheerful prospe

an occasional peasant tilling his fields, the country-side was quite deserted until at Grembergen we came upon an unending procession of refugees streaming down the road. They were all coming out of Termonde. Term

ame tracking their way to where-God only knows. All they knew was that in their hearts was set the fear of Uhlans, and in the sky the smoke and fla

rably lighter and comporting more with their superior masculine dignity. I recall one little woman in particular. She was bearing a burden heavy enough to send a strong

home dug it out of the debris. In it was their little pet canary. While fire and smoke rolled through the house it had beat its wings against the bars in vain. Its prison had become its tomb. Its feathe

lent. The larger child stood stroking the feathers of her pet and murmuring over and over "Poor Annette,

on of horrors; corpses thrown into the death-cart with arms and legs sticking out like so much stubble; the death-cart creeping away with its ghastly load; and the dumping together of bodies of men and beasts into a pit to be

carried a smile and a pipe, and trudged stolidly along, much as though bound for a fair. Some of our pictures show laughing refugees. That may not be fair, for man is so constit

as though they were the ordinary fortunes of life. War has set a new standard for grief. So these victims passed along the road, but not before the record of their passing was etched for ever on our movi

battle of Sedan an old peasant plowing on his farm in the valley. While shells go screaming overhead he placidly drives his old white horse through the accust

or the mists from the low-lying meadows. Without warning our car shot through a bank of fog into a spectac

he morning air while the sun burning through the mists glinted on the tips of as many lances. The crack Belgian cavalry divisions had been gathered here j

is was before privations and the new drab uniforms had taken all glamour out of the w

ck out of

s the charge

es, the whole line rode past saluting our Stars and Stripes with a "Vive L'Amerique." Bringing

h its color and its action, the nearby peasants went on spreading

at it was perhaps as noble and certainly quite as useful to be held by a passion for the soil as to b

ay? Soldiers must figh

to keep the c

is European peasant in particular becomes. Wicked as the Great War has seemed to us in its bearing down upon these innocent folks, yet we can never unde