I edged my way along the broken stumps of wall to the shelter of a wood, and there, with bullets from snipers occasionally sending twigs, leaves, and even branches pattering down around me, with shells bursting all round, I continued to film the general attack until the spool in the camera ran out. To have changed spools there would have been the height of folly, so I plunged down a side path, where in the shelter of a dell, with thick undergrowth, I loaded up my camera again, and utterly careless of direction, made a dash for the edge of the wood again, emerging just in time to catch the passage of a French regiment advancing along the edge of the wood to cut off the retreat of the little party of Germans who had been endeavouring to hold it as an advanced sniping-post.

Snipers seemed to be in every tree. Bullets whistled down like acorns in the autumn breeze, but the French suddenly formed a semi-circle and pushed right into the wood, driving the enemy from their perches in the trees or shooting them as they scrambled down.

Through the wood I plunged, utterly ignoring every danger, both from friend or foe, in the thrill of that wonderful "drive." Luck, however, was with me. Neither the French nor the Germans seemed to see me, and we all suddenly came out of the wood at the far side, and I then managed to get a splendid picture of the end of the pursuit, when the French, wild with excitement at their success in clearing the district of the enemy, plunged madly down the hill in chase of the last remnants of the sniping band.

A few seconds later I darted back into the cover of the trees.

My mission was accomplished. I had secured pictures of actual events in the Vosges. But that was the least part of my work. I had to get the film to London.

The excitement of the pursuit had taken me far from my starting-point, and with the reaction that set in when I was alone in the wood, with all its memories and its ghastly memorials of the carnage, I found it required all my strength of nerve to push me on. I had to plough through open spaces, two feet and more deep in snow, through undergrowth, not knowing at what moment I might stumble across some unseen thing. Above all, I had but the barest recollection of my direction. It seemed many hours before I regained my stump of wall and found my skis lying just where I had cast them off.

It was a race against time, too, for dusk was falling, and I knew that it would be impossible to get out of St. Die by any conveyance after dark.

I had the luck to find a man with a sledge, who was returning to a distant village, some way behind the war zone, and he agreed for a substantial consideration to take me. We drove for many hours through the night, and it was very late when at last, in a peasant's cottage, I flung myself fully dressed on a sofa, for there was no spare bed, and slept like a log for several hours.

It was by many odd conveyances that I made my way to Besancon, and thence to Dijon. I had managed to clean myself up, and looked less like an escaped convict than I had done; but I was very wary all the way to Paris, where I communicated with headquarters, and received orders to rush the films across to London as fast as ever I could.

Having overcome the perils of the land, I had to face those of the sea, for the German submarines were just beginning their campaign against merchant shipping, and cross-Channel steamers were an almost certain mark. So the boat service was suspended for a day or two, and there was I stranded in Dieppe with my precious films, as utterly shut off from London as the German army.

I was held up there for three days, during which time I secured pictures of the steamer Dinorah, which limped into port after being torpedoed, of a sailing vessel which had struck a mine, and some interesting scenes on board French torpedo boat destroyers as they returned from patrolling the Channel.

I spent most of my time hanging around the docks, ready to rush on board any steamer that touched at an English port. At last I heard of one that would start at midnight. My films were all packed in tins, sealed with rubber solution to make them absolutely watertight, and the tins were strung together, so that in the event of the ship going down I could have slipped them round my waist. If they went to the bottom I should go too, but if I was saved I was determined not to reach London without them.

As it happened, my adventures were at an end. We saw nothing of any under-water pirates, and my trip to the fighting line ended in a prosaic taxi-cab through London streets that seemed to know nothing of war.



PART II



CHAPTER I

HOW I CAME TO MAKE OFFICIAL WAR PICTURES

I am Appointed an Official War Office Kinematographer—And Start for the Front Line Trenches—Filming the German Guns in Action—With the Canadians—Picturesque Hut Settlement Among the Poplars—"Hyde Park Corner"—Shaving by Candlelight in Six Inches of Water—Filming in Full View of the German Lines, 75 yards away—A Big Risk, but a Realistic Picture.

During the early days of the war I worked more or less as a free lance camera man, both in Belgium and in France, and it was not till the autumn of 1915 that I was appointed an Official Kinematographer by the War Office, and was dispatched to the Front to take films, under the direction of Kinematograph Trade Topical Committee. When offered the appointment, I did not take long to decide upon its acceptance. I was ready and anxious to go, and as I had had considerable experience of the work, both in Belgium and in the Vosges, I knew pretty well what was expected of me. Numerous interviews with the authorities and members of the Committee followed, and for a few days I was kept in a fever of expectation.

Eventually arrangements were completed, and the announcement was then made that Mr. Tong (of Jury's Imperial Pictures) and myself had been appointed Official War Office Kinematographers. I was in the seventh heaven of delight, and looked forward to an early departure for the Front in my official capacity. This came soon enough, and on the eve of our going Tong and I were entertained to dinner by the members of the Topical Committee, and during the post-prandial talk many interesting and complimentary things were said.

We left Charing Cross on an early morning in November, and several members of the Committee were there to see us off, and wish us God-speed. We reached the other side safely, after a rather choppy crossing, and soon I was on my way to the Front—and the front line trenches, if possible.

Passing through Bailleul, Armentieres and Ploegsteert, I was able to film some hidden batteries in action. As the whole road was in full view of the German lines we had to go very carefully. Several shells dropped close by me when running across the open ground. I managed at last to get into a house, and from a top window, or rather what was once a window, filmed the guns in action.

While doing so an artillery officer came and told me not to move too much as the Germans had been trying to find this battery for some considerable time, and if they saw any movement they would undoubtedly start to shell heavily. Not wishing to draw a cloud of shells on me, needless to say, I was very careful. Eventually I obtained the desired view, and making my way through the communication trenches to the front of the guns, I obtained excellent pictures of rapid firing. I had to keep very low the whole of the time. About forty yards on my right a small working party of our men had been seen, and they were immediately "strafed."

During the next few days it rained the whole of the time, and there was little opportunity for photography; but I obtained some excellent scenes, showing the conditions under which our men were living and fighting, and their indomitable cheerfulness.



About this time I arranged to go to the Canadian front trenches, in their section facing Messines. Arriving at the headquarters at Bailleul, I met Lieutenant-Colonel ——, and we decided to go straight to the front line. Leaving in a heavy rain, we splashed our way through one continuous stream of mud and water. Mile after mile of it. In places the water covered the entire road, until at times one hardly knew which was the road and which was the ditch alongside. Several times our car got ditched. Shell-holes dotted our path everywhere.

Apart from the rotten conditions, the journey proved most interesting; vehicles of all kinds, from motor-buses to wheelbarrows, were rushing backwards and forwards, taking up supplies and returning empty. Occasionally we passed ambulance cars, with some poor fellows inside suffering from frost-bite, or "trench-foot" as it is generally called out here. Though their feet were swathed in bandages, and they were obviously in great pain, they bore up like true Britons. Line after line of men passed us. Those coming from the trenches were covered in mud from head to foot, but they were all smiling, and they swung along with a word and a jest as if they were marching down Piccadilly. Those going in to take their places: were they gloomy? Not a bit of it! If anything they were more cheerful, and quipped their mud-covered comrades on their appearance.

We drew up at a ruined farm-house, which the Colonel told me used to be their headquarters, until the position was given away by spies. Then the Germans started shelling it until there was hardly a brick standing. Luckily none of the staff were killed. Leaving the farm, we made our way on foot to Ploegsteert Wood. A terrible amount of "strafing" was going on here. Shells were exploding all round, and our guns were replying with "interest." As we made our way cautiously up to the side of the wood, with mud half way up to our knees, we scrambled, or rather waddled, round the base of the much-contested hill, which the Germans tried their hardest to keep, but which, thanks to the Canadians, we wrested from them.

Under cover of canvas screens, which in many places were blown away by shell-fire, and bending low to save our heads from the snipers' bullets, we gained the communication trenches. Again wading knee-deep in mud and water, we eventually reached the firing trench.

The German front line was only sixty-five yards away, and the town of Messines could be seen in the distance.

Staying in this section of trench, I filmed several scenes of the men at work repairing and rebuilding the sides which the night previous had been destroyed by shell-fire and the heavy rains. Then followed scenes of relief parties coming in, and working parties hard at it trying to drain their dug-outs. This latter seemed to me an almost superhuman task; but through it all, the men smiled. Bending low, I raced across an open space, and with a jump landed in an advanced sniper's post, in a ruined farm-house. I filmed him, carefully and coolly picking off the Germans foolish enough to show their heads.

Then I set my camera up behind what I thought quite a safe screen, to film a general view of our front line, but I had hardly started exposing when, with murderous little shrieks, two bullets whizzed close by my head—quite as near as I shall ever want them. Dropping as low as possible, I reached up, and still turning the handle finished the scene. Then followed several pictures of scouts and snipers making their way across the ground, taking advantage of any slight cover they could get, in order to take up suitable positions for their work.

By this time the light was getting rather bad, and as it was still raining hard I made my way back. During the return journey, an officer who accompanied me showed himself unknowingly above the parapet, and "zipp" came a bullet, which ripped one of the stars off his coat.

"Jove!" said he, with the greatest of sang-froid, "that's a near thing; but it's spoilt my shoulder-strap": and with a laugh we went on our way.

Again we had to cross the open ground to the covered way. Accordingly we spread out about fifty yards apart, and proceeded. Careful as we were, the Germans spotted us, and from thence onwards to the top of the hill shrapnel shells burst all round us and overhead. Several pieces fell almost at my feet, but by a miracle I escaped unscathed.

For some minutes I had to lie crouching in a ditch, sitting in water. It was a veritable inferno of fire. I cautiously worked my way along. Where the rest of the party had gone I did not know. I hugged my camera to my chest and staggered blindly on. In about half an hour I gained the cover of some bushes, and for the first time had a chance to look about me. The firing had momentarily ceased, and from various ditches I saw the heads of the other officers pop out. The sight was too funny for words. With a hearty laugh they jumped up and hurried away. My chauffeur, who incidentally used to carry my tripod, was the most sorry spectacle for he was absolutely covered from head to foot with clay, and my tripod was quite unrecognisable. Hurrying over the top of the hill we gained our cars, and rapidly beat a retreat for headquarters.

The following day I went to film the ruins of Richebourg St. Vaaste. What an awful spectacle! A repetition of the horrors of Ypres on a smaller scale. Nothing left, only the bare skeletons of the houses and the church. With great difficulty, I managed to climb to the top of the ruined tower, and filmed the town from that point. I was told by an observation officer to keep low, as the Germans had the church still under fire. Naturally I did so, not wishing for a shell that might bring the tower down, and myself with it.

Remarkable to relate, the figure of Christ upon the Cross was untouched in the midst of this terrible scene of devastation. Subsequently the tower was completely destroyed by German shells.

Hearing that the Canadian guns were going to bombard Petite Douve, a large farmstead which the Germans had fortified with machine-guns and snipers, I started off from headquarters in the company of a lieutenant-colonel and a captain. A few passing remarks on the conditions of the road as we went along to Hill 63 will be interesting. No matter where one looked there was mud and water. In several places the roads were flooded to a depth of six inches, and our cars several times sank above the front axle in hidden shell-holes. The whole district was pitted with them. Entire sections of artillery were stuck in the mud on the roadside, and all the efforts of the men failed to move them.

All around us hidden guns, 4.5 and 9.2, were hurtling their messengers of death with a monotonous regularity. Passing a signpost, marked "Hyde Park Corner," which looked incongruous in such a place, we entered Ploegsteert Wood. But what a change! It was as if one had suddenly left France and dropped unceremoniously into the western woods of America, in the times of the old pioneers. By the wood-side, as far as one could see, stretched a series of log-huts. To the right the same scene unfolded itself. Our cars came to a stop. Then I had a chance to study the settings more closely.



What a picture! Amidst all the glamour of war, these huts, surrounded by tall poplars, which stood grim, gaunt and leafless—in many places branchless, owing to the enemies' shells, which tore their way through them—presented the most picturesque scene I had come across for many a long day. Upon the boards fixed over the doorposts were written the names of familiar London places. As the time of the bombardment was drawing near I could not stay at the moment to film anything, but decided to do so at an early opportunity.

Sharing my apparatus with two men, we started climbing through eighteen inches of slimy mud towards the top of Hill 63. The effort was almost backbreaking. At last we got through and paused, under cover of the ruins of an old chateau, to gain breath. To negotiate the top needed care as it was in full view of the German front. I went first with the Captain, and both of us kept practically doubled up, and moved on all fours. The men behind us waited until we had covered about one hundred yards, then they followed. We decided to make for a point in the distance which was at one time a grand old chateau. Now it was nothing more than a heap of rubble. We waited for the remainder of the party to come up before proceeding, the idea being that in case either of us was hit by shrapnel, or picked off by a sniper, no time would be lost in rendering assistance.

Resting awhile, we again proceeded in the same order as before. We were held up by a sentry, and warned to take to the communication trenches down the hill, as German snipers had been picking off men in the working parties the whole of the morning, and shrapnel was continually bursting overhead. We entered the trench, and as usual sank up to our knees in mud.

How in the world we got through it I don't know! Every time I lifted my foot it seemed as though the mud would suck my knee-boot off. After going along in this way for about three hundred yards, and occasionally ducking my head to avoid being hit by bursting shells, we came to a ruined barn. The cellars had been converted, with the aid of a good supply of sandbags, into a miniature fort. A sloping tunnel led to the interior, and the Captain going in front, we entered.

There by the light of a candle, and standing in a good six inches of water, was a captain shaving himself. This officer the previous week had led his party of bombers into the German trenches, killed over thirty and captured twelve, and only suffered one casualty. For this action he was awarded the D.S.O. I was introduced, and sitting on the edge of a bench we chatted until the others came up. A few minutes later the Colonel entered.

We then started off in single file down the other side of Hill 63. I had to take advantage of any bit of cover that offered itself during the descent. At one point we had to cross an open space between a ruined farm and a barn. The Germans had several snipers who concentrated on this point, and there was considerable risk in getting across. Bending low, however, I started, and when half-way over I heard the whistle of a bullet overhead. I dropped flat and crawled the remainder of the distance, reaching cover in safety.

At that moment our big guns started shelling the German trenches, and knowing that the diversion would momentarily occupy the snipers' attention the others raced safely across in a body. The remainder of the journey was made in comparative safety, the only danger being from exploding shrapnel overhead. But one does not trouble very much about that after a time. Reaching the front trenches, I made my way along to a point from which I could best view the Petite Douve. Obtaining a waterproof sheet we carefully raised it very, very slowly above the parapet with the aid of a couple of bayonets. Without a doubt, I thought, the Germans would be sure to notice something different on that section after a few seconds. And so it proved. Two rifle-shots rang out from the enemy trench, and right through the sheet they went.

Our object in putting up this temporary screen was to hide the erection of my tripod and camera, and then at the moment the bombardment began it was to be taken away, and I would risk the rest.

Just when the bullets came through I was bending to fasten the tripod legs. A few seconds earlier and one or other of them would have surely found my head. Getting some sandbags, we carefully pushed them on to the parapet, in order to break the contact as much as possible, and we put one in front of the camera in a direct line to cover the movement of my hand while exposing. I was now ready. Raising my head above the parapet for a final look, I noticed I was fully exposed to the right German trenches, and was just on the point of asking Captain —— if there was any possibility of getting sniped from that direction when with a "zipp" a bullet passed directly between our heads. Having obtained such a practical and prompt answer to my enquiry, though not exactly the kind I had expected, I had some more sandbags placed, one on top of the other, to shelter my head as much as possible.

All I had to do now was to focus, and to do that I lifted the bottom edge of the screen gently. In a few seconds it was done, and dropping the screen, I waited for the first shot. I was warned by an observing officer that I had still five minutes to spare. They were not bombarding until 2.15. German shells were continually dropping all round. The part of the hill down which we came was getting quite a lively time of it. The enemy seemed to be searching every spot. On the right a Canadian sniper was at work, taking careful aim. Turning to me, he said:

"Wall, sir, I bet that chap won't want any more headache pills."

The remark caused a good deal of laughter.

Boom—boom—boom. In rapid succession came two shells from our guns. Everyone was alert. I sprang to my camera. Two men were standing by me, ready to take down the screen. Boom came another shell, and at a sign the men dropped the screen.

I was exposed to the full view of the German lines, from my shoulders upwards.

I started exposing; the shells came in rapid succession, dropping right in the middle of the Petite Douve. As they fell clouds of bricks and other debris were thrown in the air; the din was terrific. Nothing in the world could possibly have lived there. After about thirty shells had been dropped there was a slight pause for about half a minute, during which I continued turning the handle. The Germans were too occupied in getting under cover to notice the fine target my head offered, for not a single shot was fired at me.

Once more our guns rang out, and in as many seconds—at least so it seemed to me—another thirty shells dropped into the buildings and tore them wall from wall. Word was then passed to me that this was the finishing salvo.

With the same suddenness as it had begun, the firing ceased. Dropping quickly, and dragging the camera after me, I stood safely once more in the bottom of the trench and, to tell the truth, I was glad it was over. To put one's head above the parapet of a trench, with the Germans only seventy-five yards away, and to take a kinematograph picture of a bombardment, is not one of the wisest—or safest—things to do!



CHAPTER II

CHRISTMAS DAY AT THE FRONT

Leave-taking at Charing Cross—A Fruitless Search for Food on Christmas Eve—How Tommy Welcomed the Coming of the Festive Season—"Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men" to the Boom of the Big Guns—Filming the Guards' Division—And the Prince of Wales—Coming from a Christmas Service—This Year and Next.

On December 23rd I met an officer, a captain, at Charing Cross Station. We were leaving by the 8.50 train, and we were not the only ones to leave Christmas behind, for hundreds of men were returning to the Front. Heartbreaking scenes were taking place, and many of the brave women-folk were stifling their sobs, in order to give their men a pleasant send-off, possibly for the last time.

Amidst hurried good-byes and fond kisses from mothers, sisters, sweethearts and wives, and with shouts of good luck from hundreds of throats, the train started off. Handkerchiefs were waved from many windows, cheerful heads were thrust out, and not until the train had cleared the platform, and the "hurrahs" had faded away in the distance, did we take our seats. Then with set faces, grim with determination, we resigned ourselves to the fate that awaited us on the battlefields of France. Reaching Boulogne, after a rather choppy voyage, our car conveyed us to G.H.Q., which we reached late in the evening.

The following morning I was told to leave for La Gorgue, to film scenes connected with the Guards' Division. Late that afternoon, the Captain and I set out for our destination, reaching there about 8 o'clock. I was billeted in a private house, and immediately enquired for some food, but it was impossible to obtain any there. Going out I walked through the town, in the hope of finding a place to get something. But none could be found. Feeling very tired, I began to retrace my steps, with the intention of going to bed.

On my way back I had reason to change my mind. Quite an interesting scene unfolded itself. The boom of the guns rang out sharp and clear. The moon was shining brightly, and at intervals there flashed across the sky the not-far-distant glare of star-shells. In the houses, lining both sides of the road, there was music, from the humble mouth-organ to the piano, and lusty British voices were singing old English tunes with the enthusiasm of boyhood.

On the pavement clusters of our Tommies were proceeding towards their billets, singing heartily at the top of their voices. Some batches were singing carols, others the latest favourites, such as "Keep the Home Fires Burning."

No matter where one went, the same conditions and the same sounds prevailed; just happy-go-lucky throngs, filled with the songs and laughter born of the spirit of Christmas. And yet as I reached my room, despite the scenes of joyousness and hilarity rampant, I could still hear the crash of the guns.



This was my second Christmas at the Front, although not in the same district. Last year I was with the brave Belgian army. This year was certainly very different in all respects except the weather, and that was as poisonous as ever. A miserable, misty, drifting rain, which would soak through to the skin in a few minutes anyone not provided with a good rainproof. Donning my Burberry, I proceeded towards a small chapel, or rather to a building which is now used as one. It was originally a workshop. On three sides it was entirely surrounded by the floods. The front door was just clear, but I had to paddle through mud half-way up to my knees to get there. I intended to obtain a film of the Guards' Division attending the Christmas service.

Fixing up my camera, I awaited their arrival. After a short time they came along, headed by their band. What a fine body of men! Swinging along with firm stride, they came past. Thinking I had got sufficient I packed my camera, when, to my astonishment, I saw the Prince of Wales, with Lord Cavan, coming up at the rear. Rushing back to my old position, I endeavoured to fix up again, to film them coming in, but I was too late. "Anyway," I thought, "I will get him coming out."

Fixing up my machine at a new and advantageous point of view, I waited. The service began. I could hear the strains of the old, old carols and Christmas hymns. Surely one could not have heard them under stranger conditions, for as the sound of that beautiful carol, "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men!" swelled from the throats of several hundreds of our troops, the heavy guns thundered out round after round with increasing intensity. Strange that at such a moment so terrific a bombardment should have taken place. It seems as if some strange telepathic influence was at work, commanding all the guns in the vicinity to open fire with redoubled fury. And high in the air, our steel "birds" were hovering over the enemy lines, directing the fire, and flecked all round them, like flakes of snow, was the smoke from the shrapnel shells fired on them by the Germans.

"Peace on earth, good will to men," came the strains of music from the little church. Crash! went the guns again and again, throwing their shrieking mass of metal far overhead. I fell into a deep reverie, and my thoughts naturally strayed to those at home.

Returning to my room. I donned my thick woollen coat, as I intended to rush off to G.H.Q. to see Tong, who had got a bad attack of dysentery, and try and cheer him up. Getting into my car, I told the chauffeur to drive like the wind. I had fifty kilometres to go. Away we rushed through the night, and as we went through villages where our Tommies were billeted, the strains of the old home songs—Irish, Scotch and English—were wafted to my ears. Except for the incessant shelling, the flash of guns, and the distant glare from the star-shells, it was almost impossible to believe we were in the terrible throes of war. I arrived at G.H.Q. about 8.30 p.m.

Poor Tong was very queer and feeling dejected. Not being able to speak French, he could not let the people of the hotel know what he wanted. I soon made him as comfortable as possible, and sat beside his bed chatting about this, the strangest Christmas Day I had ever experienced. After remaining with him for about an hour and a half, I again started for the front line, where I arrived about 1 a.m., dog-tired, and at once turned in.

So ended my second Christmas Day at the Front, and, as I dozed off to sleep, I found myself wondering whether the next Christmas would find me still in France. Should I be listening to carols and guns at the Front, or would the message of the bells peal from a church in an adjacent street at home, and announce the coming of another Christmas to me and mine?



CHAPTER III

I GET INTO A WARM CORNER

Boxing Day—But No Pantomime—Life in the Trenches—A Sniper at Work—Sinking a Mine Shaft—The Cheery Influence of an Irish Padre—A Cemetery Behind the Lines—Pathetic Inscriptions and Mementoes on Dead Heroes' Graves—I Get Into a Pretty Warm Corner—And Have Some Difficulty in Getting Out Again—But All's Well that Ends Well.

Boxing Day! But nothing out of the ordinary happened. I filmed the Royal Welsh Fusiliers en route for the trenches. As usual, the weather was impossible, and the troops came up in motor-buses. At the sound of a whistle, they formed up in line and stopped, and the men scrambled out and stood to attention by the roadside. They were going to the front line. They gave me a parting cheer, and a smile that they knew would be seen by the people in England—perchance by their own parents.

I went along the famous La Bassee Road—the most fiercely contested stretch in that part of the country. It was literally lined with shell-destroyed houses, large and small; chateaux and hovels. All had been levelled to the ground by the Huns. I filmed various scenes of the Coldstreams, the Irish and the Grenadier Guards. At the furthermost point of the road to which cars are allowed shells started to fall rather heavily, so, not wishing to argue the point with them, I took cover. When the "strafing" ceased I filmed other interesting scenes, and then returned to my headquarters.

The next day was very interesting, and rather exciting. I was to go to the front trenches and get some scenes of the men at work under actual conditions. Proceeding by the Road, I reached the Croix Rouge crossing, which was heavily "strafed" the previous day. Hiding the car under cover of a partly demolished house, and strapping the camera on my back, my orderly carrying the tripod, I started out to walk the remaining distance. I had not gone far when a sentry advised me not to proceed further on the road, but to take to the trench lining it, as the thoroughfare from this point was in full view of the German artillery observers. Not wishing to be shelled unnecessarily, I did as he suggested. "And don't forget to keep your head down, sir," was his last remark. So bending nearly double, I proceeded. As a further precaution, I kept my man behind me at a distance of about twenty yards. Several times high explosives and shrapnel came unpleasantly near.

Presently I came upon a wooden tramway running at right angles to the road. My instructions were to proceed along it until I came to "Signpost Lane." Why it was so dubbed I was unable to discover, but one thing I was certainly not kept in ignorance of for long, and that was that it was perpetually under heavy shell-fire by the Germans. They were evidently under the impression that it was the route taken by our relief parties going to the trenches at appointed times during the day, and so they fairly raked it with shell-fire.

Unfortunately I happened to arrive on one of these occasions, and I knew it. Shells dropped all round us. Hardly a square yard of ground seemed untouched. Under such conditions it was no good standing. I looked round for cover, but there was none. The best thing to do under the circumstances was to go straight on, trust to Providence, and make for the communication trenches with all speed. I doubled like a hare over the intervening ground, and I was glad when I reached the trenches, for once there, unless a shell bursts directly overhead, or falls on top of you, the chances of getting hit are very small.

I was now in the sniping zone, and could continually hear the crack of a Hun rifle, and the resulting thud of a bullet striking the mud or the sandbags, first one side then the other. The communication trenches seemed interminable, and, as we neared the front line, the mud got deeper and parts of the trench were quite water-logged.

Plod, plod, plod; section after section, traverse after traverse. Suddenly I came upon a party of sappers mending the parapet top with newly filled sandbags. At that particular section a shell had dropped fairly near and destroyed it, and anyone walking past that gap stood a very good chance of having the top of his head taken off. These men were filling up the breach. "Keep your head well down, sir," shouted one, as I came along. "They" (meaning the Germans) "have got this place marked."

Down went my head, and I passed the gap safely.

We were now well up in the firing trench. Fixing the camera, and the rest of the apparatus, I began taking scenes of actual life and conditions in the trenches—that mysterious land about which millions have read but have never had the opportunity of seeing. No mere verbal description would suffice to describe them. Every minute the murderous crack of rifles and the whir of machine-guns rang out. Death hovered all round. In front the German rifles, above the bursting shrapnel, each shell scattering its four hundred odd leaden bullets far and wide, killing or wounding any unfortunate man who happened to be in the way.

The trenches looked as if a giant cataclysm of Nature had taken place. The whole earth had been upheaved, and in each of the mud-hills men had burrowed innumerable paths, seven feet deep. It was hard to distinguish men from mud. The former were literally caked from head to foot with the latter. I filmed the men at work. There were several snipers calmly smoking their cigarettes and taking careful aim at the enemy.

Crack—crack—crack—simultaneously.

"Sure, sir," remarked one burly Irish Guardsman, "and he'll never bob his —— head up any more. It's him I've been afther this several hours!" And as coolly as if he had been at a rifle range at home, the man discharged the empty cartridge-case and stood with his rifle, motionless as a rock, his eyes like those of an eagle.

All this time it was raining hard. I worked my way along the never-ending traverses. Coming upon a mount of sandbags, I enquired of an officer present the nature and cause of its formation. He bade me follow him. At one corner a narrow, downward path came into view. Trudging after him, I entered this strange shelter. Inside it was quite dark, but in a few seconds, when my eyes had got used to the conditions, I observed a hole in the centre of the floor about five feet square.

Peering over the edge, I saw that the shaft was about twenty-five feet deep, and that there was a light at the bottom. It then dawned upon me what it really was. It was a mine-shaft. At the bottom, men worked at their deadly occupation, burrowing at right angles under our own trenches (under "No Man's Land") and under the German lines. They laid their mines, and at the appointed time exploded them, thus causing a great amount of damage to the enemy's parapets and trenches, and killing large numbers of the occupants.

Retracing my steps, I fixed the camera up and filmed the men entering the mines and others bringing up the excavated earth in sandbags and placing them on the outside of the barricade. Then I paused to film the men at work upon a trench road. Thinking I could obtain a better view from a point in the distance, I started off for it, bent nearly double, when a warning shout from an officer bade me be careful. I reached the point. Although about fifty yards behind the firing trench, I was under the impression that I was still sheltered by the parapet. Evidently I had raised my head too high while fixing up the tripod, for with a murderous whistle two bullets "zipped" by overhead. I must be more careful if I wanted to get away with a whole skin; so bending low, I filmed the scene, and then returned.

While proceeding along the line, I filmed the regimental padre of the Irish Guards wading through the mud and exchanging a cheery word with every man he passed. What a figure he was! Tall and upright, with a long dark beard, and a voice that seemed kind and cheery enough to influence even the dead. He inspired confidence wherever he went. He stayed awhile to talk to several men who were sitting in their dug-outs pumping the water out before they could enter. His words seemed to make the men work with redoubled vigour. Then he passed on.

Along this section, at the back of the dug-outs, were innumerable white crosses, leaning at all angles, in the mud. They were the last resting-place of our dead heroes. On each cross a comrade had written a short inscription, and some of these, though simple, and at times badly spelt, revealed a pathos and a feeling that almost brought tears to the eyes. For all its slime and mud it was the most beautiful cemetery I have ever seen. On some of the graves were a few wildflowers. No wreaths; no marble headstones; no elaborate ornamentation; but in their place a battered cap, a rusty rifle or a mud-covered haversack, the treasured belongings of the dead.

I had barely finished filming this scene when with a shriek several shells came hurtling overhead from the German guns and burst about a hundred yards behind our firing line. Quickly adjusting the camera, I covered the section with my lens. In a few seconds more shells came over, and turning the handle I filmed them as they burst, throwing up enormous quantities of earth. The Huns were evidently firing at something. What that something was I soon found out. An enemy observer had seen a small working party crossing an open space. The guns immediately opened fire. Whether they inflicted any casualties I do not know, but a few minutes later the same party of men passed me as though nothing had happened.

The rain was still falling, and the mist getting heavy, so I decided to make my way back to headquarters. Packing up, and bidding adieu to the officers, I started on the return journey through the communication trenches. One officer told me to go back the same way, via "Signpost Lane." "You will manage to get through before their evening 'strafing,'" he called out. After wearily trudging through nearly a mile of trenches, I came out at "Signpost Lane," and I am never likely to forget it.

We had left the shelter of the trench, and were hurrying, nearly doubled, across a field, when a German observer spotted us. The next minute "whizz-bangs" started falling around us like rain. No matter which way I turned, the tarnation things seemed to follow and burst with a deafening crash. At last, I reached the crossing, and was making my way down the trench lining the road, when a shell dropped and exploded not thirty feet ahead. But on I went, for a miss is as good as a mile. About a hundred yards further on was the battered shell of a farm-house. When almost up to it a couple of shells dropped fairly in the middle of it and showered the bricks all round. A fairly warm spot!

I had just reached the corner of the building when I heard the shriek of a shell coming nearer. I guessed it was pretty close, and without a moment's hesitation dropped in the mud and water of a small ditch, and not a moment too soon for with a dull thud the shell struck and burst hardly seven feet from me. Had I not fallen down these lines would never have been written. Picking myself up, I hurried on. Still the shells continued to drop, but fortunately at a greater distance. When I reached Croix Rouge, I was literally encased in mud. Our progress along the road had been anxiously watched by the sentries and by my chauffeur.

"Well, sir," said the latter, with a sigh of relief, "I certainly thought they had you that time."



CHAPTER IV

THE BATTLEFIELD OF NEUVE CHAPELLE

A Visit to the Old German Trenches—Reveals a Scene of Horror that Defies Description—Dodging the Shells—I Lose the Handle of My Camera—And then Lose My Man—The Effect of Shell-fire on a Novice—In the Village of Neuve Chapelle—A Scene of Devastation—The Figure of the Lonely Christ.

It occurred to me that an interesting film might be made out of scenes of the battlefield of Neuve Chapelle. The very thought of it conjured up a reeking, whirling mass of humanity, fighting with all the most devilish, death-dealing weapons that had ever been conceived by the mind of man. I decided to do a picture of the scene, and took with me an orderly who had never been under fire before.

We proceeded along the La Bassee Road, and at the Croix Rouge proceeded on foot towards Neuve Chapelle. As usual, Bosche shelling was so consistent in its intensity that we thought it advisable to spread out a bit in case a shell burst near us. My guide was Major ——, who commanded one of the regiments holding the ground on the other side of Neuve Chapelle.

Eventually I reached the assembly trenches, where our men concentrated for the great attack. In shape they were just ordinary trenches, branches off a main gallery, but they were in an awful state of decay, and literally torn to shreds by shell-fire. What tales these old sandbags might tell if only they could speak, tales of our brave boys and our Indian troops that would live for ever in the history of mankind. Standing upon one of the parapets, I looked round, and marvelled that it was possible in so small a section of ground so many men were hidden there. Quickly formulating my programme, I decided to begin at the assembly trenches, and follow in imagination the path of the troops during the battle, ending up in the ruins of Neuve Chapelle village itself, which I could see in the distance.

"Be careful," came the warning voice of a major, "the whole of the ground here is in view of the Bosche artillery observers. If they see anyone moving about they'll start 'strafing' like anything, and I assure you they do it very conscientiously."

I therefore kept as low as possible.

Fixing up the camera, I started to film the scenes from the assembly trenches to the old first line trench, and then into the stretch of ground known as "No Man's Land." Finishing this particular picture, we went along to the old German trenches, and during the whole time we bent nearly double, to keep under the line of the old parapets. In the old German trenches the frightful effect of modern shell-fire was only too apparent. The whole line, as far as one could see, was absolutely smashed to atoms. Only the bases of the parapets were left, and in the bottom of the trenches was an accumulation of water and filth. It was a disgusting sight. The whole place was littered with old German equipment, and whilst wading and splashing along through the water I saw such things, and such stenches assailed my nostrils, as I shall not easily forget. Dotted all over the place, half in and half out of the mud and water, were dead bodies.

But why recount the horrors of the scene? Imagine the sights and the smell. How I got through that section of trench Heaven only knows. It was simply ghastly.

To escape from the scene I hurried to the end of the trench and again crossed "No Man's Land." The sight here was not so bad as in the trenches. To obtain a good view of the spot I got up very gingerly on top of the parapet, fixed the machine, and filmed the scene. But this enterprise nearly put an end to my adventure, and also to the other members of the party. I had finished taking, and had got my camera down on the stand, in the bottom of the trench, and was on the point of unscrewing it, when two shells came hurtling overhead and exploded about forty feet away. The Major ran up to me and shouted that I had been seen, and told me to take cover at once. He and the others, suiting the action to the word, dived below the parapets. Snatching the camera off its stand, I followed, and paddled as close as possible to the mud. The shells began falling in quick succession. Nearer and nearer they came. Some just cleared the parapet top; some burst in front, some immediately behind.

"They have got our line; let's shift along further," some one said.

From one point of the trench to the other we dodged. The shells seemed to follow us wherever we went. Crash! One struck the crumbling parapet on the very spot where, a few seconds before, I had been sheltering. In the rush for cover I had lost the handle of the camera, and as it was the only one I had there, I began to work my way back to find it.

"Don't be a fool," called the Major. "If you show yourself they'll have you, as sure as eggs are eggs." But my anxiety to obtain pictures of the bursting shells was too much for me. I set to to make a handle of wood. Looking round, I spotted an old tree-trunk, behind which I could take cover. Doubling towards it, I crouched down, and finding a piece of wood and an old nail I fashioned a handle of a sort.

At this moment a funny incident occurred. I had momentarily forgotten the existence of the other members of the party. I was hoping against hope that they had escaped injury. What had happened to them? Where were they? It almost seemed as if my thoughts were communicated by telepathy to one of them, for just above the parapet in front of me rose the head of Captain ——.

"I say, Malins," he said, "did you find your handle?"

The words were barely out of his mouth when a shell shot by. Captain ——'s head went down like a jack-in-the-box. The sight was too funny for words. If he hadn't ducked the shell would have taken his head off, for it struck the ground and exploded, as we found out afterwards, only ten feet away.

For three-quarters of an hour this "strafing" continued, then giving Bosche ten minutes to settle down we came out of our holes and corners. What sights we were!

Collecting my apparatus, I again crossed "No Man's Land," and carefully made my way into the village of Neuve Chapelle itself. To describe it would only be to repeat what I said of the devastated city of Ypres. There was nothing whole standing. The place was smashed and ground down out of all recognition. And yet, from its solitary high position upon the cross, the figure of Christ looked down upon the scene. It was absolutely untouched. It stood there—this sacred emblem of our Faith—grim and gaunt against the sky. A lonely sentinel. The scene was a sermon in itself, and mere words fail to describe the deep impression it made upon me.



CHAPTER V

FILMING THE PRINCE OF WALES

How I Made a "Hide-up"—And Secured a Fine Picture of the Prince Inspecting some Gun-pits—His Anxiety to Avoid the Camera—And His Subsequent Remarks—How a German Block-house was Blown to Smithereens—And the Way I Managed to Film it Under Fire.

To-day has certainly been most interesting, and not without excitement. I was to film the bombardment of a concrete German block-house from the Guards' trenches at ——. Previous to starting out from —— news came through from headquarters that the Prince of Wales was going to inspect some guns with Lord Cavan.

The staff officer who told me this knew the trouble I had previously experienced in trying to obtain good films of the Prince, and warned me to be very careful. I enquired the time of his arrival at the gun-pits. So far as I could ascertain, it was to be at 11.30 a.m. I therefore decided to be there half an hour earlier, and make a "hide-up" for myself and camera. I was determined to succeed this time. Proceeding by way of ——, which place has suffered considerable bombardment, the church and surrounding buildings having been utterly destroyed, I stayed awhile to film the interior and exterior of the church, and so add another to the iniquitous record of the Bosche for destroying everything held sacred.



A short distance outside the town I came upon the gun positions, and crossing a field—or rather shall I say a mud-pond, for the mud very nearly reached my knees—I selected a point of vantage at one side of a hedge which ran at right angles to the gun-pits. There was only one path fit to traverse, and getting hold of an officer, I asked him if we could so arrange it that the Prince started from the further end of the path and came towards camera. He said he would try. Fixing up the camera, I got in front of the hedge facing the path, and completely hid all signs of the machine with bracken and branches of trees. Pushing the lens well through the hedge, I ripped open an old sandbag, cut a hole in it and hung it on the hedge, with my lens pointing through. By such means it was quite impossible for anyone in front to see either myself or the camera, and having completed my preparations, I settled down to patiently await the arrival of the Prince.

In about half an hour he came along with Lord Cavan, a general, and other officers of the staff. True to his promise, Captain —— got the Prince to follow the path I had indicated. When he arrived at the further end of the row of guns, I started filming. He came direct towards the camera, but when within fifteen feet of it the noise of handle turning attracted his attention. He stood fully fifteen seconds gazing in my direction, evidently wondering what it was on the other side of the hedge. Then he passed out of range. I hurried across the field with my aeroscope (an automatic camera), and stood at the end of the path waiting for him to pass.

In a few moments he came along, and I started filming. The smiles of the staff officers were pleasing to behold. One of them remarked to the Prince that it was quite impossible to escape this time. As he passed inside the farm-house, I heard him remark: "That was the man I tried to dodge on Christmas Day. How did he know I was coming here? Who told him?" The enquiry was followed by some good-natured laughter, and feeling satisfied with my work, I hurried away.

I had now to proceed to the front line trenches, taking the car, as far as possible, along the road. I had hidden it under cover of some ruined buildings, and taking the camera, and bidding my chauffeur bring the tripod, I started out. A captain conducted me. We quickly got to the communication trenches. As usual, a good deal of "strafing" was going on, and the German snipers were very busy. When we reached the first line firing trenches, I peered over the parapet through a periscope, but found I was too far south of the block-house. So I proceeded higher up, and about eight hundred yards further on came a traverse, which I had chosen, and the loophole through which I was going to film the scene. The distance to the German block-house from where I was standing was about 150 yards.

The thickness of the parapet, I should say, was roughly four feet; and through the parapet was a conical, square-shaped, wooden cylinder. In front, under cover of darkness, the night previous, I had had two sandbags placed, so that when everything was ready, and my camera fixed, a slight push from the back with a stick would shift them clear of the opening. Fixing up the camera, I very carefully pinned an empty sandbag over the back of the aperture, with the object of keeping any daylight from streaming through. I placed a long stick ready to push the sandbags down. I intended doing that after the first shell had fallen.

This particular loophole had been severely sniped all the morning, the Germans evidently thinking it was a new Maxim-gun emplacement. Time was drawing near. I thought I would try with the stick whether the sandbags would fall easily. Evidently I gave them too vigorous a push, for the next moment they came toppling down. Knowing such a movement as that was certain to attract the German snipers' attention, I quickly ducked my head down and hoped our 9.2's would soon open fire. I did not relish the idea of having a bullet through my camera.

Sure enough the Germans had seen the movement, for bullets began battering into sandbags around the loophole. At that moment the C.O. withdrew the whole of the men from that section of the trench, and I was left alone. But the prospect of getting a fine film drove all other thoughts from my mind.

A few minutes later the first shell came hurtling over and exploded within ten yards of the block-house. I started filming. Shell after shell I recorded as it exploded, first on one side then on the other, until at last the eighth shell fell directly on top of the block-house, and with a tremendous explosion the whole fabric disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flame. Debris of every description rattled in the trench all round me, and continued to fall for some moments, but luckily I was not hit. Being unable to resist the temptation of looking over the parapet, I jumped up and gazed at the remains of the building which now consisted of nothing more than a twisted, churned-up mass of concrete and iron rails. Our artillery had done its work, and done it well.



CHAPTER VI

MY FIRST VISIT TO YPRES AND ARRAS

Greeted on Arrival in the Ruined City of Ypres by a Furious Fusillade—I Film the Cloth Hall and Cathedral, and Have a Narrow Escape—A Once Beautiful Town Now Little More Than a Heap of Ruins—Arras a City of the Dead—Its Cathedral Destroyed—But Cross and Crucifixes Unharmed.

To Ypres! This was the order for the day. The news gave me a thrill of excitement. The thunder of the big guns grew louder as we approached the front line, until they seemed to merge into one continuous roar.

Stopping on the road, I asked if the Germans were "strafing" to-day.

"Yes," said one of our military police, "they were shelling us pretty heavily this morning: you will have to be very careful moving about inside. Bosche machines are always up in the air, taking bearings for the guns."

Arriving at the outskirts of the ruined town, we were pulled up by a sentry, who, finding our papers in order, allowed us to proceed. At that moment a furious fusillade of gun-fire attracted our attention, and three shrill blasts of a whistle rang out; then we heard a cry, "Everyone under cover!" Stopping the car, I immediately jumped out, and stood under cover of a broken-down wall, and looking up, could see the cause of this activity.



High in the air, about eight to ten thousand feet, was a Bosche aeroplane, and while I was watching it shrapnel shells from our anti-aircraft guns were exploding round it like rain. A great number were fired at it. The whole sky was flecked with white and black patches of smoke, but not one hit was recorded. The machine seemed to sail through that inferno as if nothing were happening, and at last it disappeared in the haze over its own lines. Only then were we allowed to proceed.

I had made a rough programme of what to film, and decided to start from the Grand Place. In a few words, I may say that I filmed the Place from the remains of the Cloth Hall, the Cathedral, and various districts of the town, but to try and describe the awful condition of what was once the most beautiful town in Belgium would be to attempt the impossible. No pen, and no imagination, could do justice to it. The wildest dreams of Dante could not conjure up such terrible, such awful scenes.

The immensity of the outrage gripped me perhaps more completely when I stood upon the heap of rubble that was once the most beautiful piece of architecture of its kind in all the world. The Cloth Hall, and the Cathedral, looked exactly as if some mighty scythe had swept across the ground, levelling everything in its path. The monster 15-inch German shells had dismembered and torn open the buildings brick by brick. Confusion and devastation reigned everywhere, no matter in what direction you looked. It was as if the very heavens and the earth had crashed together, crushing everything between them out of all semblance to what it had been.

The ground was literally pock-marked with enemy shell-holes. The stench of decaying bodies followed me everywhere. At times the horror of it all seemed to freeze the understanding, and it was difficult to realise that one was part and parcel of this world of ours. Literally, horror was piled upon horror. And this was the twentieth century of which men boasted; this was civilisation! Built by men's hands, the result of centuries of work. Now look at them; those beautiful architectural monuments, destroyed, in a few months, by the vilest spawn that ever contaminated the earth. A breed that should and would be blotted out of existence as effectively as they had blotted out the town of Ypres.

Beneath one large building lay buried a number of our gallant soldiers, who were sheltering there, wounded. The position was given away by spies, with the result that the Germans poured a concentrated fire of shells upon the helpless fellows, and the shelling was so terrific that the whole building collapsed and buried every living soul beneath the debris.

As I stood upon the heap tears came into my eyes, and the spirits of the brave lads seemed to call out for vengeance. And even as I stood and pondered, the big guns rang out, the very concussion shaking bricks and dust upon me as I stood there. While filming the scene, German shells came hurtling and shrieking overhead, exploding just behind me and scattering the debris of the ruins high above and whizzing in my direction.

To obtain a good view-point, I clambered upon a mount of bricks nearly fifty feet high, all that was left of the Cathedral Tower. From that eminence I could look right down into the interior, and I succeeded in taking an excellent film of it. While doing so, two German shells exploded a short distance away. Whether it was the concussion or pieces of shell that struck it, I do not know—probably the latter—but large pieces of stone and granite fell at my feet, and one piece hit my shoulder. So I quickly made my way to more healthy quarters, and even as I left the shells overhead began to shriek with redoubled fury, as if the very legions of hell were moaning, aghast at the terrible crime which the fiendish Huns had perpetrated.

Arras, although not by any means as badly damaged as Ypres, is one of the most historical and beautiful places systematically destroyed by the Germans. The Cathedral, the wonderful Museum, the Hotel de Ville, once the pride of this broken city, are now no more. Arras provides yet another blasting monument of the unspeakable methods of warfare as practised by the descendants of Attila, the Hun. The city was as silent as the tomb when I visited it. It was dead in every sense of the word; a place only fit for the inhabitants of the nether world. Only when the German shells came screaming overhead with unearthly noise, in an empty street, was the silence broken in this city of the dead.

I visited the ruined Cathedral, and filmed various scenes of the interior and exterior, having to climb over huge mounds of fallen masonry to obtain my best view-points. In places all that was left standing was the bare walls. The huge columns, with their beautiful sculptures, no longer able to support the roof, still stood like grim sentinels watching over their sacred charge. And yet, despite the unholy bombardment to which the building had been subjected, three things remained unharmed and untouched in the midst of this scene of awful desolation. The three crucifixes, with the figures of Christ still upon them, gazed down upon this scene of horror. And high upon the topmost joint of the south wall stood the cross, the symbol of Christianity—unharmed. The united endeavours of the Powers of Evil could not dislodge that sacred emblem from its topmost pinnacle.

I left the Cathedral and walked along the grass-covered streets, pock-marked by innumerable shell-holes, and every now and then I had to dive into some cellar for shelter from falling shells. At the Hotel de Ville the same sight presented itself. The bombardment had reduced its walls to little more than a tottering shell, which fell to pieces at the merest touch.



CHAPTER VII

THE BATTLE OF ST. ELOI

Filming Within Forty-five Yards of the German Trenches—Watching for "Minnies"—Officers' Quarters—"Something" Begins to Happen—An Early Morning Bombardment—Develops Into the Battle of St. Eloi—Which I Film from Our First-Line Trench—And Obtain a Fine Picture.

A bombardment was to take place. A rather vague statement, and a common enough occurrence; but not so this one.

I had a dim idea—not without foundation, as it turned out—that there was more in this particular bombardment than appeared on the surface. Why this thought crossed my mind I do not know. But there it was, and I also felt that it would somehow turn out seriously for me before I had finished.

I was to go to a certain spot to see a general—and obtain permission to choose a good view-point for my machine. My knowledge of the topography of this particular part of the line was none too good.

Reaching the place I met the General, who said, in a jocular way, when I had explained my mission:

"Have you come to me to-day by chance, or have you heard something?"

This remark, "Had I heard something?" confirmed my opinion that something was going to happen. Without more ado, the General told me the bombardment would take place on the morrow, somewhere about 5.30 a.m.

"In that case," I said, "it will be quite impossible to obtain any photographs. Anyway," I added, "if you will permit me, sir, I will sleep in the front line trenches to-night, and so be ready for anything that may happen. I could choose a good spot for my machine this afternoon."

"Well," he replied, "it's a hot corner," and going to the section maps he told me our front line was only forty-five yards away from the Bosche. "You will, of course, take the risk, but, honestly speaking, I don't expect to see you back again."

This was anything but cheerful, but being used to tight corners I did not mind the risk, so long as I got some good films.

The General then gave me a letter of introduction to another general, who, he said, would give me all the assistance he could. Armed with this document, I started out in company of a staff officer, who was to guide me to the Brigade headquarters. Arriving there (it was the most advanced point to which cars were allowed to go), I obtained two orderlies, gave one my aeroscope the other the tripod, and strapping another upon my back, we started off on a two-mile walk over a small hill, and through communication trenches to the section.

At a point which boasted the name of "Cooker Farm," which consisted of a few dug-outs, well below ground level, and about five by six feet high inside by seven feet square, I interviewed two officers, who 'phoned to the front line, telling them of my arrival. They wished me all good luck on my venture, and gave me an extra relay of men to get me to the front. A considerable amount of shelling was going on overhead, but none, fortunately, came in my immediate neighbourhood. The nearest was about fifty yards away.

From our front line trenches the Bosche lines were only forty-five yards away, therefore dangers were to be anticipated from German snipers. A great many of our men had actually been shot through the loophole of plates. I immediately reported myself to the officer in charge, who was resting in a dug-out, built in the parapet. He was pleased to see me, and promised me every assistance. I told him I wished to choose a point of vantage from which I could film the attack. Placing my apparatus in the comparative safety of the dug-out, I accompanied him outside. Rifle-fire was continuous; shells from our 60-pounders and 4.2's were thundering past overhead, and on either side "Minnies" (German bombs) were falling and exploding with terrific force, smashing our parapets and dug-outs as if they had been the thinnest of matchwood.

Fortunately for us these interesting novelties could be seen coming. Men are always on the look-out for "Minnies," and when one has been fired from the Bosche it rises to a height of about five hundred feet, and then with a sudden curve descends. At that point it is almost possible to calculate the exact whereabouts of its fall. Everyone watches it; the space is quickly cleared, and it falls and explodes harmlessly. Sometimes the explosion throws the earth up to a height of nearly 150 feet.

While I was deciding upon the exact point of the parapet upon which I would place the camera, a sudden cry of "Minnie" was heard. Looking up, I saw it was almost overhead, and with a quick rush and a dive I disappeared into a dug-out. I had barely got my head into it before "Minnie" fell and blew the mud in all directions, covering my back plentifully, but fortunately doing no other damage.

Eventually I decided upon the position, and looking through my periscope saw the German trenches stretching away on the right for a distance of half a mile, as the ground dipped into a miniature valley. From this point I could get an excellent film, and if the Germans returned our fire I could revolve the camera and obtain the resulting explosions in our lines.

The farm-house where I spent the night was about nine hundred yards behind the firing track. All that now remained of a once prosperous group of farm buildings were the battered walls, but with the aid of a plentiful supply of sandbags and corrugated iron the cellars were made comparatively comfortable.

By the time I reached there it was quite dark, but by carefully feeling my way with the aid of a stick I stumbled down the five steps into the cellar, and received a warm welcome from Captain ——, who introduced me to his brother officers. They all seemed astounded at my mission, never imagining that a moving picture man would come into the front battle line to take pictures.

The place was about ten feet square; the roof was a lean-to, and was supported in the centre by three tree-trunks. Four wooden frames, upon which was stretched some wire-netting, served as bedsteads; in a corner stood a bucket-fire, the fumes and smoke going up an improvised chimney of petrol tins. In the centre was a rough table. One corner of it was kept up by a couple of boxes; other boxes served as chairs.

Rough as it was, it was like heaven compared with other places at which I have stayed. By the light of two candles, placed in biscuit tins, we sat round, and chatted upon kinematograph and other topics until 11.30 p.m. The Colonel of another regiment then came in to arrange about the positions of the relieving battalions which were coming in on the following day. He also arranged for his sniping expert and men to accompany the patrolling parties, which were going out at midnight in "No Man's Land" to mend mines and spot German loop-holes.

A message came through by 'phone from Brigade headquarters that the time of attack was 5.45 a.m. I could have jumped for joy; if only the sky was clear, there would be enough light for my work. The news was received in quite a matter-of-fact way by the others present, and after sending out carrying parties for extra ammunition for bomb guns, they all turned in to snatch a few hours' sleep, with the exception of the officer on duty.

At twelve o'clock I turned in. Rolling myself in a blanket and using my trench-coat and boots as a pillow, I lay and listened to the continual crack of rifle-fire, and the thud of bullets striking and burying themselves in the sandbags of our shelter. Now and then I dozed, and presently I fell asleep. I suddenly awakened with a start. What caused it I know not; everything seemed unnaturally quiet; with the exception of an isolated sniper, the greatest war in history might have been thousands of miles away. I lit a cigarette, and was slowly puffing it (time, 4.15 a.m.), when a tremendous muffled roar rent the air; the earth seemed to quake. I expected the roof of our shelter to collapse every minute. The shock brought my other companions tumbling out. "Something" was happening.

The rumble had barely subsided, when it seemed as if all the guns in France had opened rapid battery fire at the same moment. Shells poured over our heads towards the German positions in hundreds. The shrieking and earsplitting explosives were terrific, from the sharp bark of the 4.2 to the heavy rumble and rush of the 9-inch "How." The Germans, surprised in their sleep, seemed absolutely demoralised. They were blazing away in all directions, firing in the most wild and extraordinary manner, anywhere and everywhere. Shells were crashing and smashing their way into the remains of the outbuildings, and they were literally exploding all round.

Captain —— instructed his officers to see what had happened to the ammunition party. They disappeared in the hell of shell-fire as though it were quite an every-day incident. I opened the door, climbed the steps, and stood outside. The sight which met my eyes was magnificent in its grandeur. The heavens were split by shafts of lurid fire. Masses of metal shot in all directions, leaving a trail of sparks behind them; bits of shell shrieked past my head and buried themselves in the walls and sandbags. One large missile fell in an open space about forty feet on my left, and exploded with a deafening, ear-splitting crash. At the same moment another exploded directly in front of me. Instinctively I ducked my head. The blinding flash and frightful noise for the moment stunned me, and I could taste the exploding gas surrounding me. I stumbled down the steps into the cellar, and it was some minutes before I could see clearly again. My companions were standing there, calmly awaiting events.

The frightful din continued. It was nothing but high explosives, high explosive shrapnel, ordinary shrapnel, trench bombs, and bullets from German machine-guns. One incessant hail of metal. Who on earth could live in it? What worried me most was that there was not sufficient light to film the scene; but, thank Heaven, it was gradually getting lighter.

It was now 5 a.m. The shelling continued with increasing intensity. I got my apparatus together, and with two men decided to make my way to the position in the front line.



Shouldering my camera I led the way, followed by the men at a distance of twenty yards. Several times on the journey shrapnel balls and splinters buried themselves in the mud close by. When I reached the firing trench all our men were standing to arms, with grim faces, awaiting their orders. I fixed up the tripod so that the top of it came level with our parapet, and fastened the camera upon it. It topped the parapet of our firing trench (the Germans only forty-five yards away), and to break the alignment I placed sandbags on either side of it.

In this position I stood on my camera case, and started to film the Battle of St. Eloi.

Our shells were dropping in all directions, smashing the German parapets to pulp and blowing their dug-outs sky-high. The explosions looked gorgeous against the ever-increasing light in the sky. Looking through my view-finder, I revolved first on one section then on the other; from a close view of 6-inch shells and "Minnies" bursting to the more distant view of our 9.2. Then looking right down the line, I filmed the clouds of smoke drifting from the heavy (woolly bears) or high shrapnel, then back again. Shells—shells—shells—bursting masses of molten metal, every explosion momentarily shaking the earth.

The Germans suddenly started throwing "Minnies" over, so revolving my camera, I filmed them bursting over our men. The casualties were very slight. For fully an hour I stood there filming this wonderful scene, and throughout all the inferno, neither I nor my machine was touched. A fragment of shrapnel touched my tripod, taking a small piece out of the leg. That was all!

Shortly after seven o'clock the attack subsided, and as my film had all been used up, I packed and returned to my shelter.

What a "scoop" this was. It was the first film that had actually been taken of a British attack. What a record. The thing itself had passed. It had gone; yet I had recorded it in my little 7- by 6-inch box, and when this terrible devastating war was over, and men had returned once again to their homes, business men to their offices, ploughmen to their ploughs, they would be able to congregate in a room and view all over again the fearful shells bursting, killing and maiming on that winter's morning of March 27th, 1916.



CHAPTER VIII

A NIGHT ATTACK—AND A NARROW ESCAPE

A Very Lively Experience—Choosing a Position for the Camera Under Fire—I Get a Taste of Gas—Witness a Night Attack by the Germans—Surprise an Officer by My Appearance in the Trenches—And Have One of the Narrowest Escapes—But Fortunately Get Out with Nothing Worse than a Couple of Bullets Through My Cap.

The weather was very fine when I left G.H.Q., but on reaching ——, to interview Colonel —— in reference to the mining section, rain fell heavily. I arrived soon after midday, and went to the Intelligence Department to report; the C.O. telephoned to the C. of M. for an appointment. It was made for nine o'clock that night. Having plenty of time at my disposal, I returned to ——, and passed a few hours with some friends. In the evening I returned for my appointment at the hour named. The Colonel was exceedingly interested in my project, and was willing to do anything to help me. He gave me a letter of introduction to the Corps Commander of the —— Army, Brigadier-General ——; also one to Captain ——, C.O. of the —— Mining Section. I was to proceed to General —— first, and obtain the permission.

At eight o'clock the following morning I rushed off to the Company H.Q. I met the General leaving his chateau. Having read my letter of introduction, he promptly gave his consent. I was to report to Major ——, at H.Q., saying it was quite all right. Thanking the General, I hastened to H.Q., and showing his letter and delivering his message, I was given a note to Captain ——, asking him to give me every assistance. Before leaving, the Major wished me success, and asked me whether I was prepared to wait until a "blow" came off?

"Yes, sir," I replied, "for five or six days in the trenches, if necessary."

The Colonel had made arrangements with several Companies that they were to report immediately to ——th Company when they were going to "blow," in order to give me time to go immediately to the spot and film it.

Leaving the Company H.Q., I proceeded to ——, and duly presented the Captain's letter.

"You have the Corps' permission," said the Colonel; "it will now be necessary to obtain the Divisional C.O. permit."

This I eventually obtained. Now if by any chance a "blow" took place opposite either of the other Companies, it would be necessary to obtain their permission, as they were in another Division. Therefore, calling upon a major of that Division, I secured the final permit.

Next morning I left for the front line trenches. Reaching ——, which was smashed out of all recognition, we drew up under cover of some ruined walls. Shells were falling and bursting among the ruins, but these diversions were of such ordinary, everyday occurrence that hardly any notice was taken of them. If they missed—well, they were gone. If they hit—well, it was war!

The Miners, gathering near the "Birdcage" (a spot which derives its name from a peculiar iron cage erection at the corner of the road), formed up, and proceeded for about three hundred yards to the beginning of "Quarry Ally," the ammunition trench leading to their particular part of the front line. They filed in one by one; I filmed them meanwhile.

The journey of thirteen hundred yards to the front line was quite an ordinary walk. It was interesting to note the different tones of the heavy and light shells as they flew overhead, from the dull rush of a 9.2 to the shriek of the 18-pounder. I reached a Company dug-out. It was certainly one of the best I have ever seen. Going down three steps, then turning sharply at right angles, I disappeared through a four-foot opening; down more steps to a depth of ten feet, then straight for three paces. At the end was the main gallery, about twenty-five feet long, five feet in width, and five feet six inches high. Half of it was used for the telephone operator, and sleeping accommodation for the orderlies, the other half was used as officers' quarters. Several officers were busy discussing plans when I arrived. The conversation might sound strange and callous to an ordinary listener.

"Well, what's the news? How's Brother Bosche?"

"Bosche reported quite near," was the reply. "Our shaft is practically finished, and ready for charging. This morning you could distinctly hear Bosche speaking. His gallery was getting nearer to ours. I told the Sergeant to work only when Bosche was doing so."

"When are you going to 'blow' ——?"

"I am not sure of the date, but 'Dinkie' is going to 'poop' in a few days. He's got two tons under Bosche. It will be a —— fine show; right under his trenches. Ought to snip a hundred or so."

"Well," said another, "I was down in C shaft, and could hear Bosche working very hard, as if he had got all the world to himself."

At that moment a tunnelling-sergeant came in, and reported that the Bosche was much nearer. The listener could distinctly hear talking through the 'phone.

An officer immediately got up and went out with the sergeant, one of the speakers meanwhile suggesting that Brother Bosche was certainly going to visit realms of higher kultur than he had hitherto known.

Then came a close scrutinising of maps, showing shafts in the making and mines ready for "blowing"; of sharp orders to the tunnelling-sergeants and fatigue parties to bring charges from the magazine. The whole thing was fascinating in the extreme. A new branch of His Majesty's Service, and one of the most dangerous. To be on duty in a listening-post thirty feet underground—in a narrow tunnel, scarcely daring to breathe, listening to German miners making a counter-mine, and gradually picking their way nearer and nearer, until at last you can hear their conversation—would try the nerves of the strongest of men.

I went out, and made my way towards the well-known Quarries. Noting several interesting scenes of our Scottish battalions at work, I filmed them. A most pathetic touch was added to the scene, for a neat little graveyard occupied the right-hand corner, and about one hundred small crosses were there.

I was not allowed to remain very long. The Bosche sent over several aerial torpedoes, which exploded with terrific force and split up the ground as if a 12-inch H.E. shell had been at work. Naturally every one rushed to obtain as much cover as possible. I crossed to the other side of the Quarry, and entered a small tunnel, which led into a winding maze of narrow communication trenches.



"Be careful, sir," called a sentry. "Bosche is only thirty yards away, and they are plugging this corner pretty thoroughly; they're fairly whizzing through the sandbags, as if they warn't there, sir. They caught my Captain this morning, clean through the head. I was a-talking to him, sir, at the time; the finest gentleman that ever lived; and the swine killed him. I'll get six of them for him, sir." The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice told me he was in earnest. I passed on, keeping as low as possible.

The crater, when I reached it, proved to be one of an enormous size. It must have been quite 150 feet across. The place had been converted into a miniature fort. I noticed how spongy the ground was. When walking it seemed as if one was treading upon rubber. I casually enquired of an officer the cause of it. "Dead bodies," said he; "the ground here is literally choked with them; we dare not touch it with a spade; the condition is awful. There are thousands of them for yards down, and when a shell tears away any section of our parapets the sight is too ghastly for words."

At that moment a man yelled out "cover," and, looking up, I saw several Bosche rifle grenades falling. Shouting to my orderly to take cover with the camera, he disappeared into what I thought was a dug-out but which I afterwards discovered was an incline shaft to a mine. He made a running dive, and slid down about four yards before he pulled himself up. Luckily he went first, the camera butting up against him. He told us afterwards he thought he was really going to the lower regions.

I dived under a sandbag emplacement, when the grenades went off with a splitting crash, and after allowing a few seconds for the pieces to drop, looked out. A tragic sight met my gaze. The officer with whom I had been speaking a few moments before had, unfortunately, been too late in taking cover. One of the grenades had struck him on the head, and killed him on the spot. Within a few moments some Red Cross men reverently covered the body with a mackintosh sheet and bore it away. One more cross would be added to the little graveyard in the Quarry.

Shortly after I met an officer of the Mining Section. He was just going down into the gallery to listen to Bosche working a counter-mine. Did I care to accompany him? "Don't speak above a whisper," he said.

He disappeared through a hole about three feet square. I followed, clinging to the muddy sides like a limpet, half sliding, half crawling, in the impenetrable darkness. We went on, seemingly for a great distance; in reality it was only about fifteen yards. Then we came to a level gallery, and in the distance, by the aid of a glow-lamp, I could see my companion crouching down, with a warning finger upon his lips to assure silence. The other side of him was a man of the tunnelling section, who had been at his post listening. The silence was uncanny after the din outside. In a few moments I heard a queer, muffled tap—tap—tap, coming through the earth on the left. I crept closer to my companion, and with my mouth close to his ear enquired whether that was the Bosche working.

"Yes," he said, "but listen with this," giving me an instrument very similar to a doctor's stethoscope.

I put it to my ear and rested the other end upon a ledge of mud. The effect was like some one speaking through a telephone. I could distinctly hear the impact of the pickaxe wielded by the Bosche upon the clay and chalk, and the falling of the debris.

I turned to him with a smile. "Brother Bosche will shortly have a rise in life?"

"Yes," said he, "I think we shall 'blow' first. It's going to be a race, though."

Final orders were given to the man in charge, then we crawled up again into the din of the crashing shells. I was more at home in these conditions. Down below the silence was too uncanny for me. When I reached our dug-out once more a message was waiting for me to return to H.Q., as important things were in prospect the following morning.

The message was urgent. Mines were to be blown at an early hour. I therefore decided that the best thing to do was to go into the trenches and stay the night, and so be prepared for anything that might happen. Little did I dream what the next forty-eight hours were going to bring. It's a good thing sometimes we don't know what the future has in store for us. The stoutest heart might fail under the conditions created by the abnormal atmosphere of a modern battlefield.

I prepared to depart at 8 p.m., and bidding adieu to my friends, I started off in the car. The guns were crashing out continuously. Several times I pulled the car up to shelter under some ruins. Then for a few minutes there was a lull, and directing my chauffeur to go ahead at top speed we reached our destination safely. I had barely entered this scene of desolation when Bosche shells came hurtling overhead and fell with a deafening explosion a short distance away. Here I had my first taste of gas from the German weeping shells. The air was suddenly saturated with an extraordinarily sweet smell. For the first few moments I quite enjoyed it. Then my eyes began to water freely, and pain badly. Realising at once that I was being "gassed," I bade the driver rush through the village, and as far beyond as possible.

His eyes, poor fellow, were in the same state. The car rolled and pitched its way through, smashing into shell-holes, bounding over fallen masonry, scraping by within a hair's-breadth of a recently smashed lorry. On and on, like a drunken thing. Still the air was thick with the foul gas. My eyes were burning; at last it was quite impossible to keep them open. But I had to get through, and so with a final effort looked ahead, and to my great relief found we were beyond the village, and the air smelt cleaner. I told the driver to pull up, and with a final roll the car landed its front wheels into a ditch.

For two hours afterwards I was to all intents and purposes blind. My eyes were burning, aching and weeping. The pain at last subsided, and collecting the apparatus we trudged off along the communication trench to the front line. Threading our way through seemed much more difficult than previously. The sides of the trenches had been blown in by shells a few minutes before, and this necessitated climbing over innumerable mounds of rubble; but working parties were quickly on the scene clearing a way through. At last I reached the dug-out previously referred to, and believe me, I was very thankful. The officer there seemed rather surprised to see me.

"Hullo!" he said. "What news? Anything doing?"

"Yes," I replied. "H.Q. says they are 'blowing' in the early morning, so I decided to come along to-night and fix up a good position for the camera, not desiring to attract the too earnest attentions of a Bosche sniper."

"Whose mine are they blowing?" said he. "I suppose I shall hear any moment." Just then a message came through on the 'phone. He picked up the receiver and listened intently. An earnest conversation was taking place. I could gather from the remarks that H.Q. was speaking. In a few minutes he replaced the receiver, and turning to me, said: "D shaft is going to blow; time, 7.15 a.m."

Soon after I turned in. Rolling myself in a blanket, I lay down on a trestle-bed in the corner, and in doing so disturbed a couple of rats, almost as large as rabbits, which had taken up their temporary quarters there. Apparently there were plenty of them, for several times I felt the brutes drop on my blanket from holes and crannies in the chalk. Needless to say, I could not sleep a wink, tired out as I was, and as I lay there, twenty feet underground, I could hear the rumble and roar of the shells crashing their way through our parapets, tearing, killing and maiming our brave lads, who throughout all these horrors held this section of our line like a wall of steel.

I had been lying there for about half an hour. Then I got up and climbed out of the incline into the open trench. I worked my way towards the firing trench; bullets from Bosche machine-guns and snipers were flattening themselves against the parapet. Several times I had to squeeze myself close to the muddy sides to allow stretcher-bearers to pass with their grim burdens; some for the corner of the Quarry, some for good old "Blighty."

I stayed for a while alongside a sentry.

"Any news?" I asked.

"No, sir," said he, "but I feel as if something is going to happen."

"Come," said I, with a laugh, "this is not the time for dreaming."

"No, sir, I'm not dreaming, but I feel something—something that I can't explain."

"Well, cheer up," I said. "Good night."

"Good night, sir!"

And as I wended my way along I could hear him softly whistling to himself the refrain of an old song.

At last I came upon the section opposite which our mine was going up in the morning, and cautiously looking over the parapet I surveyed the ground in front. There were several sandbags that required shifting. If they remained it would be necessary to place the camera higher above the top than was safe or wise. Carefully pulling myself up, I lay along the top of the parapet and pushed them aside. Several star-shells were fired whilst I was so engaged, and I dare not stir—I scarcely dared breathe—for fear the slightest movement would draw a stream of bullets in my direction.

Undoubtedly this was the only place from which to film the mine successfully. So marking the spot I slid down into the trench again, and retraced my steps to the dug-out. I found the officer I had previously seen enjoying a lovely, steaming tin of tea, and it wasn't many minutes before I was keeping him company. We sat chatting and smoking for a considerable time.

"Is everything ready?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "There is over three thousand pounds of it there" (mentioning an explosive). "Brother Bosche will enjoy it."

"Let me see your map," I said, "and I'll point out the spot where I'm working. It's about eighty yards away from Bosche. If we work out the exact degree by the map of the 'blow,' I can obtain the right direction by prismatic compass, and a few minutes before 'time' lift the camera up and cover the spot direct. It'll save exposing myself unnecessarily above the parapet to obtain the right point of view." The point of view was accordingly settled. It was 124 deg. from the spot chosen for the "blow."

We had been so busy over our maps that we had not noticed how quiet everything had become. Hardly a gun sounded; the silence was uncanny. Save for the scurrying of the rats and the drip—drip—drip of water, the silence was like that of the grave.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Bosche is up to no good when he drops silent so soon," he said. The words of the sentry recurred to me. "I've a feeling, sir, that I cannot describe." I was beginning to feel the same.

At length my companion broke the silence.

"As Bosche seems to be going easy, and our artillery has shut up shop, let's lie down," and with that he threw himself on the bed. I sat on the box, which served as a table, smoking.

Half an hour went by. Things were livening up a bit. We began to hum a tune or two from the latest revue. Suddenly we were brought to our feet by a crashing sound that was absolutely indescribable in its intensity. I rushed up the incline into the trench. What a sight! The whole of our front for the distance of a mile was one frightful inferno of fire. The concentration of artillery fire was terrific! Scores of star-shells shot into the air at the same moment, lighting the ground up like day, showing up the smoking, blazing mass more vividly than ever. Hundreds of shells, large and small, were bursting over our trenches simultaneously; our guns were replying on the German front with redoubled fury; the air was alive with whirling masses of metal. The noise was indescribable. The explosions seemed to petrify one.

I made my way as near the front line as possible. A number of Scots rushed by me with a load of hand grenades. The trenches were packed with men rushing up to the fight. I asked an officer who raced by, breathlessly, if Bosche was getting through.

"Yes," he yelled; "they are trying to get through in part of my section. They have smashed our communication trenches so much that I have got to take my men round on the right flank. It's hell there!"

It was impossible to get through. The place was choked with men, many of them badly wounded; some of them, I'm afraid, destined as tenants of the little cemetery near by.

The awful nightmare continued. Men were coming and going. Reserves were being rushed forward; more bombs were being sent up. The Bosche artillery quietened down a bit, but only, as I found out immediately afterwards, to allow their bombers to attack. I could see the flash of hundreds of bombs, each one possibly tearing the life out of some of our brave boys. Nothing in the world could have withstood such a concentrated artillery fire as the Germans put upon that five hundred yards of ground. It was torn and torn again, riven to shreds. It was like the vomiting of a volcano, a mass of earth soddened with the blood of the heroes who had tried to hold it.

The Germans came on, bombing their way across to what was left of our trench. They dug themselves in. Then with a whirl and a crash, our guns spoke again. Our boys, who had been waiting like dogs on a leash, sprang to the attack. Briton met Bosche. The battle swayed first this way then that. Our men drove the Germans out twice during the night, and held on to a section commanding the flank of the original position. Towards four o'clock the fighting ceased. Daylight was breaking. The wounded were still being passed to the rear.