ld talk anything but
Walloon--and French was of no use. Finally, a corporal was resurrected
from somewhere and came forth with a few words of French concealed about
his person. We used our best arguments with him, and he finally agreed
to let a soldier accompany us to the town hall and see what would be
done with us there. The little chunky Walloon who had held us up at the
barrier climbed in with great joy, and away we sped. The little chap was
about the size and shape of an egg with whopping boots, and armed to the
teeth. He had never been in a car before, and was as delighted as a
child. By carefully piecing words together through their resemblance to
German, we managed to have quite a conversation; and by the time we got
to the Grande Place we were comrades in arms. I fed him on cigars and
chocolate, and he was ready to plead our cause. As we came through the
streets of the town, people began to spot what was in the car and cheers
were raised all along the line. When we got to the Hotel de Ville, the
troops had to come out to keep back the curious crowd, while we went in
to inquire of the officer in command as to whether we could keep our
souvenirs. He was a Major, a very courteous and patient man, who
explained that he had the strictest orders not to let anything of the
sort be carried away to Brussels. We bowed gracefully to the inevitable,
and placed our relics on a huge pile in front of the Hotel de Ville.
Evidently many others had met the same fate, for the pile contained
enough trophies to equip a regiment. The Major and an old fighting
priest came out and commiserated with us on our hard luck, but their
commiseration was not strong enough to cause them to depart from their
instructions.

The Major told us that they had in the Hotel de Ville the regimental
standard of the Death's Head Hussars. They are keeping it there, although
it would probably be a great deal safer in Brussels. Unfortunately the
room was locked, and the officer who had the key had gone, so we could
not look upon it with our own eyes.

Heading out of town, a young infantryman held us up and asked for a
lift. He turned out to be the son of the President of the Court of
Appeals at Charleroi. He was a delicate looking chap with lots of nerve,
but little strength. His heavy infantry boots looked doubly heavy on
him, and he was evidently in a bad way from fatigue. He had to rejoin
his regiment which was twelve miles along the road from Diest, so