Higham Ferrers Soldier at Mons - Welcome to the King of the Belgian - The Price of Boots
Corpl. Fred G Felce, R.G.A., formerly Mayor’s Sargeant at Higham Ferrers, and a member of the “Rushden Echo” printing staff, in the course of a letter to a Rushden friends, says:-

After a strenuous year’s work, first in endeavouring to keep Jerry in his place, then in the memorable retreat of March 21st and 28th, a real live siege battery of the Royal Garrison Artillery eventually set about Jerry with such good effect that he promptly begun to “talley” with the result that we find ourselves in a few short months some 70 miles as the crow flies from our jumping off point. Billeted with Belgian civilians, who welcomed the infantry with open arms as their deliverers, we are having a quiet times enjoying ourselves as occasion arises in the way of football, smoking concerts and so forth, with an occasional trip to see the sights. On one such trip I visited Mons on Sunday, and was very agreeably surprised to find that except for the railway and roads being damaged—which is war—the city itself was undamaged, and but for the khaki element presented every indication of peace-time activity—except perhaps the price of commodities. I know pretty well the French and Belgian scale for British soldiers, but I never dreamt of seeing boots for civilians (gents’) at 150 francs a pair or for ladies at 180 francs. When I was at home recently I was told about the war prices of certain things in England, but, thank goodness, I never heard of them reaching such figures.

But to-day I went on a different errand—an errand which perhaps makes me feel repaid in a way for what by our dogged persistence we have made possible after four years of war. It is gratifying enough to have the civilians welcoming you in the various towns and villages, but somehow it is different at Mons. A fine city, decked with flags of all the Allies (but the Belgian flag naturally most in evidence) from end to end it presented a striking appearance as we entered. The huge crowds of Belgian civilians and our own crowds of khaki seemed to point to some important event. And what an event” The King of Belgium has come to his own again after four years of war, and is visiting his cities and towns as they are liberated. No wonder the crowds were there, for this was Mons Day. I was not able to get there in the morning to see the City Fathers greet his Majesty, but I did get there in the afternoon and witness his triumphal progress through the city. Riding in an open motor car, with the Crown Prince by his side, the King was acclaimed by the cheering populace from end to end of the city. I saw him first on his way to the Cathedral, and his welcome was enthusiastic. Without any military pomp or ceremony he proceeded on his way to the “Vive le Roi’s” and cheers of a thankful city. I saw him again in the Grande Place, as he was leaving the city, and there was no mistaking the genuineness of the ovations. And so we came away, pleased with what we had seen and more conscious than ever of the great deliverance of a martyred people. And it certainly does repay one for all the hardships which have been gone through during the war to see a liberated people in their homes, and free once again.

But even such days have their sadness. While there were thousands of the lads in khaki smart and trim, one could not help noticing our prisoners who are gradually drifting back to freedom. There seemed to be hundreds of them—and French as well—but the English prisoners looked unmistakably in the worst condition—gaunt, haggard, and in rags. The French did not look nearly so bad. I hope the treatment which our prisoners have received at the hands of the Germans will not be lost upon our delegates to the Peace Conference, and it is up to them to see that justice is done to those responsible. “A pound of flesh” must be enacted for all the pounds the Germans have enacted from our own defenceless (as prisoners) men. Some I saw at Valenciennes told me they were captured in the great retreat last March, but had never been to a prison camp, only behind the lines as working parties for Fritz. And you can imagine what they were like—mere skeletons.

And let the Rushden and district people remember all this. I was downright ashamed of them when I saw how those German prisoners who are encamped there were treated and how, apparently, they do as they like. Let the people act justly with them and without malice, but at the same time remember that their fellow countrymen have been going through a hell in Germany, with which there is no equal in all the annals of barbarism.