Returning to our motor, we quickly reached Nieuport. The aspect of the
place was strange. The houses, as in all ancient fortified towns, press
closely one against another. The streets, however, are wide and regular.
They were as empty as the streets of a dead city. In the roofs of the
houses were large holes. Windows and doors had been destroyed, and
blinds and curtains were floating out on the wind.
To my great surprise I learned that four or five houses were still
occupied. About twenty inhabitants, I was told, were still living in
their cellars after the two months' bombardment. The soldiers did what
they could to feed these people, who said that rather than leave their
homes they would perish in the ruins. The rest of the inhabitants, about
4,000, had fled, taking with them only what they could carry in their
hands. In every house one could see broken furniture covered with dust.
In many of them gaping holes had been torn by shells, while some of the
front walls had been carried clean away. Bedsteads and wardrobes were
seen standing awry on the upper floors, ready to fall into the street.
Of other houses, reduced, one may say, to powder, only heaps of rubbish
remain, in which one can distinguish among pieces of tiles and bricks
and plaster chests of drawers, pianos, sideboards, sewing machines, and
so forth, broken and mixed with what is left of household linen and
crockery.
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