“Aim right across the bandage,” the director coached them.  I could hear one of the soldiers laughing excitedly as he was warming up to the rehearsal.  It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot of confidence in a stray band of soldiers.  Some one of those Belgians, gifted with a lively imagination, might get carried away with the suggestion and act as if I really were a German spy.

“Shoot the blooming blighter in the eye,” said one movie man playfully.

“Bally good idea!” exclaimed the other one approvingly, while one eager actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer.  That was altogether too much.  I tore the bandage from my eyes, exclaiming: 

“It would be a bally good idea to take those cartridges out first.”  Some fellow might think his cartridge was blank or try to fire wild, just as a joke in order to see me jump.  I wasn’t going to take any risk and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges were ejected.  Even when the bandage was readjusted “Didn’t-know-it-was-loaded” stories still were haunting me.  In a moment, however, it was over and I was promised my picture within a fortnight.

A week later I picked up the London Daily Mirror from a newsstand.  It had the caption: 

Belgian Soldiers Shoot a German Spy Caught at Termonde

I opened up the paper and what was my surprise to see a big spread picture of myself, lined up against that row of Melle cottages and being shot for the delectation of the British public.  There is the same long raincoat that runs as a motif through all the other pictures.  Underneath it were the words: 

“The Belgians have a short, sharp method of dealing with the Kaiser’s rat-hole spies.  This one was caught near Termonde and, after being blindfolded, the firing-squad soon put an end to his inglorious career.”

One would not call it fame exactly, even though I played the star-role.  But it is a source of some satisfaction to have helped a royal lot of fellows to a first-class scoop.  As the “authentic spy-picture of the war,” it has had a broadcast circulation.  I have seen it in publications ranging all the way from The Police Gazette to “Collier’s Photographic History of the European War.”  In a university club I once chanced upon a group gathered around this identical picture.  They were discussing the psychology of this “poor devil” in the moments before he was shot.  It was a further source of satisfaction to step in and arbitrarily contradict all their conclusions and, having shown them how totally mistaken they were, proceed to tell them exactly how the victim felt.  This high-handed manner nettled one fellow terribly: 

“Not so arbitrary, my friend!” he said.  “You haven’t any right to be so devilish cocksure.”

“Haven’t I?” I replied.  “Who has any better right?  I happen to be that identical man!” But that little episode has been of real value to me.  It is said that if one goes through the motions he gets the emotions.  I believe that I have an inkling of how a man feels when he momentarily expects a volley of cold lead to turn his skull into a sieve.