Not more than 1,000 or 2,000 people have there now, and they must hide in cellars most of the time, lest Boche shells search them out. Death lurks in every street, even though the British have held it for more than two years and have extended their lines beyond it considerably during the past few months. Though they have long since turned the town into scraps of its former self, the Germans seem filled with an insatiable lust to flatten out even the scraps. You walk through the Grand place, hugging close to the walls by order of your army guide, in perpetual danger that a souvenir from Krupps will laud at your feet and send fragments of you flying into the eternal eternal. But you are only living the life that the British garrison and indomitable little civilian rear guard of 1,500 or 2,000 people—mostly old men and women too fragile to seek a safer abode further behind the lines—are living day in and day out.

Puseum of German Savagery. 