From the book by Granville Fortescue, Special correspondent of the Daily Telegraph

'At the Front with Three Armies'

My Adventures in the Great War

 

My Adventures in the Great War

German postcard commemorating the taking of Liege. The inset is a portrait of General von Emmich.

 

LIEGE

Chapter 1

It was the 6th of August, 1914. The clock of the Cathedral of St. Paul at Liége had struck half-past six when the first German shell fell into the city. The roar of the explosion was still in the air as I mounted the step of the refugee train, the last train out of Liége. Luckily I had a return ticket from Brussels, so I had not to wait in the terror-stricken crowd which was standing before the ticket window. I had turned the handle of the door of the third-class carriage when I heard a voice say in French:

“Will you please help me, sir?”

I turned to look down on a Sister of Mercy. She wore a Red Cross on her breast. Beside her stood an old lady; her hair was snow-white, her face was seamed with wrinkles and her eyes had taken on the peculiar glaze characteristic of the very old. She wore a black lace mantle over her white hair, a black silk dress, and supported herself with two black wood canes. Another woman, about thirty years old, handsome, in yellow furs, stood at her elbow.

With all care I lifted the frail figure and carried her into the coach. I placed her in a corner seat by a window. It was perhaps the first time she had travelled third class in her life. Looking around for some cushion or rug, I saw nothing but my light overcoat. This I rolled into a bundle to serve as a pillow.

"What more can I do?

"Nothing, monsieur, merci," answered the Sister of Mercy.

"Thank you, sir "-the woman in the yellow furs spoke in French. She was crying softly. She sat beside the old woman and took one of the thin wrinkled hands in hers and stroked it.

"How old is madam?" I asked.

"Eighty-seven on St. Anne's Day."

"Your home is in Liége?

"No, monsieur, our chateau was in Fléron. It is burned

The coach is filling up rapidly. Opposite to me sits a pale, cadaverous looking youth with consumption written on every feature. He is talking baby-talk to a Griffon lap-dog he holds on his knee. I hear soft squeals, but they are not the cries of the dog he is petting. Catching my questioning eye, he lifts the lapels of his overcoat pockets to show me, peeping out, the heads of four puppies. Two in either pocket, they whimper softly, their eyes are not opened. When the owner shows them to me, the mother dog gently nuzzles them.

"They are but five days old, monsieur, the babies. I could not leave them in Liége. The Germans would eat them."

Across the narrow aisle is a Walloon peasant woman. She has the hard-bitten, cross-grained aspect of those who work fourteen hours each day in the fields, every day in the year save Sundays. She keeps talking to herself in the rough guttural Walloon patois. I ask my neighbour what she is saying.

"Eight sons. Five with line regiments, two with the cannon and one who rides a horse. They are all fighting the Germans."

"Where is she going?”

“To Brussels."

"She has friends there who will look after her?”

"No. She has no friends. But there is the King. She will tell him she has given eight sons for the country. He will take care of her."

The carriage is crowded now. Facing me on the front seat sit two sisters, their arms around each other's waists. One is about twenty-two and the other not more than nineteen. They might be shop-girls. Soon the younger one pillows her head on the older's shoulder and falls asleep. The older sister holds herself stiff that she may not disturb the younger one's slumber. From time to time she strokes her hair.

On the seat behind me a priest sits reading his breviary. He is short and thin, with two days' grey stubble of beard on his face. In the poor light he is straining his eyes, through a pair of iron-rimmed glasses. Two buxom, voluble, middle-class women crowd the reading priest into the corner. They are telling their experiences of the past night, interrupted by a small boy who wants to know when he is going to get his dinner.

The last to enter the car is a tall man about forty, dressed in black. He leads four small boys, each holding the other's hands. They are dressed alike-brown caps, brown overcoats with velvet collars, brown socks and shoes. The eldest is six, perhaps; the youngest three. Mentally I christen them the Brownies. The father perches them about on various pieces of luggage, and makes each one happy with a stick of chocolate. I remembered seeing them running down the Rue de Guillemins linked together as if they were playing at horses with their father. The smallest had been snapped oft into the gutter in the path of a fast-running motor. But it had been stopped in time and the driver took in the father and the boys and ran them to the station.

While our carriage has been filling up, the one in front of us has been receiving a detachment of wounded. It is slow work lifting the stretchers through the narrow door, and when they are in, it is a problem how to dispose of them. Some are laid out on the floor, while others are arranged across the seats. Those of the wounded who can walk crowd into various corners of the coach and make themselves as comfortable as possible. They are remarkably cheerful. One with a bandaged head entertains the others with a stirring account of his part in the action of the night before. If his feats are but half true, the sturdy defence which the Belgian army is putting up against the Germans is explained. This habit of vaunting oneself, which is typical of the French as well as the Belgians, is not boasting. It is nothing more than the expression of their enthusiasm. And more remarkable is the fact that most of their exploits which are so graphically described are true. They fill the Saxon writer with envy.

The wounded show the marks of the combat. The heavy coats they wear are coated with mud, their caps are all awry, and they already have that haggard look that comes from constant watchfulness; but their spirit is undaunted.

"What was your position last night? "I asked a soldier of the Fourteenth Line regiment, his arm in a sling.

"Splendid! I was the nearest man of my regiment to the Germans."

And now we get another picture. The Civil Guard, with their preposterous Derby hats trimmed with red cord and their general caricature of the military appearance, march with bayonets fixed through a side door of the station. They form in double rank, opening a lane to the car behind the one where I have a place. It is a cattle-car, a solid black box-car, with only small iron gratings near the under section of the roof. One would feel sorry for the cattle that might be condemned to travel in it. The side door is rolled back. The chief of the Civil Guard gives a signal and a score of German prisoners appear.

They are mere boys. Not one of them is more than twenty-four years old, and for the most part I judge that they have not reached the twenties. Although they have stripped their dull grey uniforms of all insignia, it is apparent that they are cavalry-the dreaded Uhlans-from the clank and jingle of their spurs. The spike and eagle of each helmet is hidden under a grey drill covering. The buttons of the uniforms have been purposely tarnished, and it is evident that an attempt has been made to assume a service uniform as near khaki as possible. Conspicuous among them is an officer wearing the long grey German military cloak.

They are on the best of terms with their captors. Some of them are munching bread which I recognize as the Belgian ration, and when they step into the cattle-car they shake hands warmly with the Belgian soldiers who have conducted them so far. A railway attendant comes forward with a jug of water and they all swallow long draughts from it. All of them show the effects of the strain of scouting work. Their cheeks are hollow and covered with the scraggy beards of the young.

The German cavalry have been remarkably audacious. Like a pest of flies they have swarmed over the country to the north, east and south of the Meuse. Their seizure of the bridge at Visé was a daring bit of cavalry work. And I saw detachments of them working round the lines at Liége, and one squadron came into the town itself. Some hundreds of them have been captured, but if they have obtained the information that evidently the German General Staff needed, the sacrifice is warranted.

When I decided that there was to be some fighting at Liége, I was in Brussels making frantic but unsuccessful efforts to rouse the American Minister, Mr. Brand Whitlock, late Mayor of Toledo, to a condition of mind in which he would threaten to bring the United States into this war, unless I were given a laissez-passer to follow the Belgian army. In these modern days a war correspondent is about as welcome as a Catholic priest in Ulster. He is looked on as a sort of international spy. The Belgians imagine that he will give important information to the Germans if he sends out a story on the street scenes in Brussels. The English feel that he will disclose the position of the Fleet if he writes about the flight of tourists from Ostend. I suppose if I were captured by the Germans I should be condemned to be hung as a spy four times - one for each country the Prussians are fighting.

As the pass was not forthcoming, I thought of doing a little travelling on my own account. I undertook to reconnoitre in a motor car. This is an automobile war. Every one expected it to be an aeroplane war, but so far I have only seen three air craft, two of which I am sure belonged to the Belgian army, although they were reported as German.

It was a beautiful touring-car, limousine body painted a deep claret colour. When I stepped into it I thought that, after all, war-corresponding had its compensations. Very carefully I explained that we were to get to Liége, evading all pickets if possible.

We tried the straight road first, hoping we should be able to make a detour around Louvain. But this was not possible. The trouble with automobiling in the field is that you must stick to the roads. And every few hundred yards you run into the Civil Guards, who have the disagreeable custom of holding a fixed bayonet on your breast bone while they put you through your catechism.

After being turned back from Louvain I tried to get through by Namur. Here I did fairly well, bluffing past a number of outposts until I met Commandant Joostens of the Sixth Artillery. Now Commandant Joostens is the man who won the international cup at Olympia last year in the military jumping class. He spends most of his winters hunting in Leicestershire. He was very kind, really a most charming man, but he has strict views on the matter of passes in war-time. I offered to take any messages to friends he might have in Liége, if he would let me through. I even offered to notify all his hunting friends with the British army of his exact whereabouts, if he could see his way to letting me pass, but, stern soldier that he is, all was in vain.

I had little more success on the north. I swear we must have violated Dutch neutrality in our efforts to evade the vigilant patrols guarding the country between Brussels and Liege. But everywhere the same thing happened; we were turned back again.

Discouraged completely, I returned to the Palace Hotel in the Place Rogier, Brussels. It is opposite the Gare du Nord. Looking up at the clock on the railway station, I had an inspiration. I would see if I could get to Liége by train. On the face of it the idea was foolish. But in war you never know your luck. Putting on a business-like air, I stepped up to the ticket window and asked briskly:

“What time does the next train leave for Liége?”

“Thirteen-sixteen. Single or return? Return."

Just as easy as that. It was ten minutes to one, which is thirteen o'clock in Belgium, so I had a sandwich at the station restaurant, then stepped on board the train.

"All aboard for Liége! " the guard shouted in Flemish and French, and we were off. After all the fuss they had made along the roads, stopping me at every turn, here I was travelling to the enemies' objective as easily as if I were on a Long Island local.

That journey down was a page from Guy de Maupassant. It might have been 1870. I had the corner seat facing the engine. Opposite me there was a man with hay fever. Harvest time must be the season for hay fever. Anyway, he sneezed and blew, and sneezed again, until I thought of an awful advertisement I had once seen. It was a picture of a man sneezing and then the effect of that sneeze was painted on the atmosphere. Microbes of every genus were graphically depicted. I began to wonder if hay fever was catching. It was with relief I heard him say he was getting out at Tirlemont.

Next to Hay Fever sat a Conscript. He was not more than nineteen, and it was obvious that the red in his eyes came from much crying. He carried a few things done up in a brown paper parcel, and never said a word from start to finish of the journey.

Beside the conscript sat a jaunty man in uniform - black with silver buttons and marine blue collar and facings. It was cut in the French soldier style, and his cap was the shape used in the same army. I took him for some snappy cavalry officer. He turned out to be a veterinary surgeon.

Beside the veterinary sat a splendid looking young French priest. He was not more than twenty-two, and his light hair curled from under his biretta in a way to make a matinée idol jealous. And the way he talked about the war. He was full of enthusiasm. Let the Belgians only hold these Germans back until the French soldiers could come up, and then they would be sent scooting back to Berlin. If it were not for his vows I am sure that a perfectly good soldier was spoiled when that boy went into the Church.

Opposite the priest sat a woman with a basket. She wore a black shawl and talked about the war of 1870. She had been a young girl then living in Luxemburg. But her recollections of the Prussians were rather vague. They were all giants, she avowed. They ate like wolves. She remembered her father had said so.

"Why are you going to Liége? " I put the direct question.

"I have a little hotel in Liége myself and my husband. I am going back to be with him."

"But don't you know that the Germans may shell Liége at any moment? You must know the danger."

"Yes, monsieur, I have been told often, but my husband is there."

At the side of this woman sits another priest - a dark unshaven man immersed in his breviary. Next is another conscript, a fair, typical Flemish type of boy. He, too, is nursing a brown paper parcel. Then we come back to where I sit.

The talk is all on the war. I find myself of special interest, for the Belgian of the people classifies all English-speaking strangers as British.

I had to give all the details of the appearance of the British troops I could remember. But when all was said they came back to the same question - "When are you coming to help us?"

The roads that parallel the railroad are jammed with troops all moving in the direction we are. When we stop we are surrounded by them and hurrahs" are exchanged. Nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of the soldiers. Scene after scene passes, recalling those familiar pictures of the Franco-German war. In general appearance these troops look very French. The cut of their uniform is the same as the neighbouring nation, but the colours are different. Viewed at a little distance, marching through the wheat fields, they might readily be mistaken for their allies.

I have never seen a more wonderfully cultivated country than that through which we are passing. Field after field of yellow wheat meets the eye to the horizon. Already the harvest has begun. The sheaves are being gathered.

We arrive at last at the rim of a great bowl, out of which appear the steeples and roofs of Liége. Coming into the town, I can see plainly detachments of troops clearing the ground in front of the forts. Splendid bits of wooded country are being laid bare. Suddenly there is an explosion and a house that lies in the line of fire topples over in a cloud.

Stepping out into the station you might be in any one of a hundred of these continental towns. There is the same high-roofed building with primitive restaurant and newspaper stand. Pushing through you find the inevitable fiacre awaiting you; I hail the cocker and we start for the Grand Hotel - there is always a Grand Hotel. Hundreds of automobiles flying either the Red Cross or the Belgian flag are running about all over the place. It is the fashion to keep the muffler open, and horn sounding all the time, so the familiar noise of the auto is now as characteristic of war as the rattle of musketry or the booming of cannon. How the motors avoid the crowds swarming up and down the streets is a mystery. The main square in front of the city hall or, as they call it here, the Hotel de Ville, is crowded as if it were election night in New York, and everybody is talking at once. If you have ever been in Paris you have often watched two Frenchmen discussing politics; well, to get an idea of what the Place du Marché, Liége, looked like the evening before the assault, imagine five or six thousand Frenchmen talking politics all at once.

The Germans have been pressing in on the town all day, the last reports place them less than six miles away; it is certain that they will attack this night.

After moving about among the crowd and hearing as much as I could, I came back to my hotel and ordered the best dinner the card offered. I have a theory that it is always best to stoke up the human engine as much as possible beforehand, when the indications are that you will not get much fuel for some time.

While eating dinner I met Lieutenant-Colonel Flibus, Director-General of the personnel of the Ministry of War, and commander of the thirty-second regiment of the line; but compared to that officer, when I asked him a few simple questions about the troops, the Sphinx was loquacious.

About half-past eleven I looked out of the window to see if there was any change in the aspect of the town. Decidedly the excitement was on the increase. The motors were going as if each driver was a speed maniac immune from arrest. The crowds in the square talked louder and gesticulated more vigorously than ever. I strained my ears to listen, and over the wild hubbub of the streets I caught the distant "boom" of artillery. I grabbed my hat and my water-bottle and was downstairs in a minute.

From a guide-book map I had a general idea of how the city lay. Also I had settled in my mind the point from which the German attack would come. So, making myself as inconspicuous as possible, I started for the Exposition bridge to the south of the city. After I crossed that I left the roads - they were too dangerous for a man travelling without a laissez-passer from headquarters; in the temper of the populace any stranger might be set upon as a spy. Liége is built on coal mines; I remembered reading that in my guide-book, and it is true. When I left the main road leading to the south I soon lost myself among the coal dumps. It was a weird place in the moonlight, that section of the town; beside the smelting plants there were the city electric lighting works and a small-arms factory. A dozen chimneys towered to the moon; I felt like a regular spy as I worked my way to a high point of ground from which I knew I could get a good view of the country.

As I clambered up, now and then I caught sight of field batteries galloping along the road. I knew what this meant. Already I could distinguish the beginning of the fire of the infantry. It was plain that the German objective was the bridge over which I had just passed.

I got tied up among a lot of railway tracks as I went stumbling on across country. I lost myself three times before I finally reached the top of the clinker dump for which I was heading.

From the banks of the Meuse, which flows round the southern limits of the city, the land rises at a steep angle; the rim of hills must be all of three hundred feet higher than the river. Once you climb this ridge you get a splendid view of the whole country to the east and south. On the night of the fifth of August, 1914, that view was startling.

In the east was the Fort of Fléron. Its curious outline, with the turrets above the walls, gave it the appearance of some monster Dreadnought set down here in the foothills. This likeness to a battleship was heightened by the searchlights. They swept the ground before the fort, as if it were the sea full of approaching enemies; and so it was. The shadows were lit by flashes that told the story of the desperate resistance the Belgians were making. Above the fort great greenish-white shells broke like a rain of fireworks. The guns of the turrets replied, spitting out blazing flashes that bit into the darkness. Above, the full moon shone down calmly on all.

As I was watching the distant scene at Fléron, a crash of musketry sounded almost at my feet. The Germans had been discovered coming through the woods west of the Ourthe. Already the Uhlans were tangled up in the wire and the abattis defences. With my glass I could make out ghostly horsemen among the trees. The rifle fire increased. Suddenly above the crackle of musketry I heard the long wail of a shell speeding to its mark. The shell seemed to pass directly overhead. I turned and saw that the forts west of the city had entered into action. The woods are now alight with flashes such as gigantic fireflies might make. The fort at Embourg pours down what must be a telling fire on the flank of the advancing Germans. It is almost impossible to distinguish these in the moonlight. Time and again I get glimpses of what I take for battalions advancing, but they pass like shadows. Only the flaring rifles tell the position of the troops.

For hours the fight rages in the forest. The Belgians are firing at will, while the Germans continue with volley after volley that tell of their splendid discipline. In the early hours of the morning, when the sun throws its advance guard of light above the foothills, I begin to distinguish the lines of combat. And as I watch I see a battalion of Germans advancing in close order. This is against all modern theory of tactics. As they come on, they fall like standing corn before a hurricane. No discipline can stand before this blast of death. The line begins to waver; now it breaks. The Belgians redouble their firing. They swarm out of cover and now begins the repulse. So long have I been taught to think of the German infantry as invincible that I cannot believe my eyes. If, in our work at the Staff College at Leavenworth, I had advanced the statement that Belgium might smash the columns of the Kaiser, my brother officers would have ridiculed the idea. Whenever we had studied the problems of European wars this little nation was unconsidered. But now they were justifying what Caesar had said - "Of all the peoples I have fought, the Belgians are the most sturdy."

Battalion after battalion is hurried up from the German side. But nothing can stop the Belgians now. On they drive until the firing sounds more and more distant. Boncelles Fort is literally ablaze as it rains projectiles on the retiring Prussians. As the sun shines out of a bank of clouds on a new day, that bugaboo which has frightened the world for years is laid. The vaunted German military strength has given way before Belgian fire. The claws of the Imperial eagle do not tear.

For a time during the early morning I thought that the tide of battle was against the valiant defenders of Fort Fléron. About half-past five the turret guns were silent. From the rifle fire I judged that this brought a concentrated attack at this point; and it proved to be the case as I afterwards found out. But the audacious Germans who had come to the very slope of the fort were driven back again in helter-skelter disorder by the Belgian infantry. The mechanism of the turrets had been put out of order by the splendid artillery fire of the Germans, but the infantry came gallantly to the rescue and held back the invaders until the guns could be repaired.

During the early morning, the firing slackened along the line. Both armies must be exhausted after the night's work. In this interval of calm I start back in order to get off my news.

Coming into the town I find all the roads blocked by refugees. Most of them have such of their household goods as they could collect bundled in sheets and pillow cases. One woman has a bird cage, another carries a cat in a basket. All push on with eyes filled with terror. No intelligent statement can be got out of any, they are so frightened.

"Yes, the Germans have taken Fléron.”

“The Fort?”

Yes, surely, for all night long the obus have dropped on the village and on the fort. Oh, our poor little Belgians."

The road is blocked with a stream of cattle that come bellowing into the town. They pour over the bridges and into the main square. The problem is where to corral them. There is a tennis-court just below the English Consulate and one herd is turned in there.

I dropped into the English Consulate in order to tell Mr. Dolphin, the cordial British representative, that a Belgian battery has taken up a position to his right and rear, about fifty yards from the Consulate door.

The Consul is not in, but one of his clerks gives me a glass of champagne and a sardine sandwich, so I find the world a little more cheerful. While I am eating, the Consul arrives. He has been out on his motor cycle looking over things for himself. He does not believe that Fléron has fallen, and I afterwards find this to be true. Not one of the forts is in the hands of the enemy after the desperate assaults of the night. The Belgian resistance has been successful at all points.

It was not until after I got down into the town proper again that my troubles began. The first mishap was my meeting a loose lancer carrying his revolver ready for instant use. It was evidently his theory that anyone who could not speak Flemish or Walloon (I do not know which language he spoke, but I understood him perfectly) was a German spy. When I felt the point of that revolver pressing against my fifth rib, I knew exactly the answer required. The alacrity with which I produced my passport and a personal letter from the American Minister in Brussels and testified to my willingness to allow any one present to search me, somewhat mollified the vigilant cavalryman. Unfortunately, he could not read English or French, so he kept his gun handy until an obliging officer of the Ninth Line Regiment read over my papers and told the Lancer not to shoot me this time. He also advised me to try and not look so much like a German; it might lead to an unfortunate mistake. That was reassuring, as the comedian would say, I don't think. This is the only face I have got, and it will have to get me through this war, even if the Belgians can't recognize its American origin.

Going down to the Grand Hotel I met a Civil Guard. He was never entitled to the designation civil in his life. I never met a more uncivil person. He bustled me down to the police-station while a surly crowd followed shouting "Lynch the German!" in their own language. I rather enjoyed getting into that station house. You would not think it possible that one should welcome the sight of a jail, but on this occasion I did. Once inside I had to wait among the homeless refugees, who had gathered there for protection. I was in need of a little of the same thing.

If any one ever asks you, tell him, with my compliments, that the Chief of Police of Liége is all right. He can tell an American as far as he can see one. He saw this one four times that morning and recognized me every time. The last time I was brought in he called me

“Vieil ami," and asked me to stop to lunch. I was wondering how I could acquire a flat Flemish face after my last release, when I was surrounded by another mob.

"No need to send any one with me. I know my way to the jail," were the words on my lips, when a Flemish fist nearly broke my shoulder, and some one shouted: "Vive l'Angleterre !”

The crowd answered with a will that would have made stage hands jealous. I was a hero. The first of the army of the English allies.

Then I went to the bazaar and found an American flag on a toy cruiser, the only flag of our country in the shop, and I nailed my colours to my Dunlop.

When I was again foot loose I went to the Palace. A motor car had come in with two German officers to demand the surrender of the city and the forts. Of course I knew that the demand, as far as the forts were concerned would be refused. While the surrender talk was going on no one was allowed within a hundred yards of the Palace. I suppose they were afraid we would overhear the conversation. I came close enough to get a photograph, but as there was no dictaphone installed, no news leaked out.

Suddenly, while every one was waiting without the Palace, an explosion sounded that rattled half the city. Every heart stopped beating. Then the news ran through the crowd that the bridge of arches had been blown up to prevent the Germans crossing. As there were about seven other bridges, blowing up one seemed only an inconvenience, not a hindrance.

While I was taking a picture of the wrecked bridge, some one rushed up to say that the bombardment was about to commence. Another said this was not so. It was not ordered until six o'clock; it was now only a quarter past five, but the news soon spread through the city. The savage invaders were going to shell Liege. The women and children would be slaughtered.

In a wave the people moved to the station. It was a panic. Then at the station the line at the ticket window grew. No one with authority was near to override the crass stupidity of the minor official who would collect tolls while the fuses of the German cannon burned. Never shall I forget the anguished faces as the iron wheels ground on along the rails. Hope died in the eyes that watched.

The lamp in the carriage burns dimly. We have been jolting along for hours. I have just finished scratching these notes when a droning voice calls my attention. I recognize long forgotten Latin phrases: "Absolvo te," and then a mumbling. I search my mind for the association. Like a flash it comes, - the formula of the Last Sacrament. I catch another sentence : " Ora pro nobis." Death, who marches but a pace in the rear of War has entered the coach. I turn to see the unshaven priest administering Extreme Unction to the old lady. She is anointed. The handsome woman in the furs weeps. As the voice of the priest falls, the light in the lamp flickers and goes out. We are in darkness. No one stirs. The only sound is that of soft sobbing.

Now we are approaching Brussels. With many stops and starts the train works into the city. At last we arrive in the station. It is packed with people waiting for us. They rush first to see the prisoners. There is a cheer as the grey-uniformed Germans are led between the fixed bayonets of the Civil Guard. But the cheer dies when the wounded are carried out. The Civil Guard holds open a passage, through which the line of stretcher-bearers passes. There is a solemn hush as the slow-moving column winds through the waiting throng, past the doors of the station to where the Red Cross ambulances are standing in the street. The square in front of the station is jammed with humanity. The crowd have been shouting and singing, awaiting the coming of the train.

A hush comes over them also as the line of wounded appears. Here is the visible effect of war. But the splendid spirit of the people soon asserts itself. Suddenly a voice cries " Vivent les blessés ! " And the crowd answers with a roar : "Vive la Belgique !" "Vivent les défenseurs de Liége !”