As a matter of fact, I ran across him two weeks later
in Liege. He had just been released and was trying to make his way back
to Brussels.
The way ahead of us was inky black. The outlines of the tall Belgian
houses on either side of the narrow street were barely visible, for
there were no lights in the windows at all and only dim candles or oil
lamps in the lower floors. No natives showed themselves. I do not
recollect that in all that mile-long tramp I saw a single Belgian
civilian--only soldiers, shoving forward curiously as we passed and
pressing the files closer in together.
Through one street we went and into another which if anything was even
narrower and blacker than the first, and presently we could tell by the
feel of things under our feet that we had quit the paved road and were
traversing soft earth. We entered railway sidings, stumbling over the
tracks, and at the far end of the yard emerged into a sudden glare of
brightness and drew up alongside a string of cars.
After the darkness the flaring brilliancy made us blink and then it made
us wonder there should be any lights at all, seeing that the French
troops, in retiring from Beaumont four days before, had done their
hurried best to cripple the transportation facilities and had certainly
put the local gas plant out of commission.
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