To-day was Sunday. His Majesty attended Divine Service with some of the troops stationed near by, in a small country church perched high up on the hill-side. Quiet and contentment pervaded everything; not even the sound of a gun was heard.

A visit to His Majesty, King Albert of Belgium, was the next item on the programme.

The King and Prince of Wales and their suite entered their respective cars and, amidst the cheers of the civilian populace, we left the village on the hill. The red and gold of the little Royal Standard on the King's car glittered bright in the morning sun.

Away we went. How my old "bus" did go; every ounce was being obtained from it; she fairly rocked and roared on the tails of the high-power machines ahead. I knew the road only too well; many a time in the early part of the war had I traversed it, and passed through these self-same gates.

On we tore to where, in an unostentatious little villa, lived the King and Queen of the Belgians.

By the time I arrived King George had alighted, and the Belgian Guard of Honour was playing the national hymn. I hurried through the villa gates, ignoring the guards stationed there who tried to hinder me. I wanted to film the meeting. But I was too late, for by the time I had my machine on the stand the two Kings had passed along the line of troops, crossed the sand-dunes and entered the villa. I had unfortunately missed the meeting by a few minutes, but I vowed I wouldn't move far away from them during the afternoon. I heard that after lunch King George, assisted by Prince Alexander of Teck, was going to award decorations and medals to Belgian officers, and during the afternoon I obtained many good scenes. The Queen was there, and with her the two Princes and little Princess Josephine. They were all most interested in the proceedings.

I filmed the King visiting a 6-inch Howitzer Battery. I noticed specially how keen he was in enquiring about every little detail. Not a single thing seemed to miss his eye, from the close examination of the gun's breech, to inspecting the dug-outs of the men. He then left, and knowing he was going to inspect the Canadians I hurried off in order to get there ahead.

When I arrived the Canadian Generals and staff were there waiting. Here I met many old friends of the St. Eloi battle and, curiously enough, it was at this very spot that I filmed the scene of the Northumberland Fusiliers, or Fighting Fifth, returning from battle, fagged out, but happy.

General Burstall was there, and as soon as he saw me he came up and said:

"Hullo, Malins, you here? Why I thought you would have been killed long ago."

"No, sir," I said, "I don't think I am much of a corpse, though really Brother Fritz has tried very hard to send me West."

"You must have a charmed life," he said. "Have you come to film our show?"

"Yes," I replied. "The King will be along shortly. Ah! here he comes now."

And down the road, stretching away in the distance, a line of cars came tearing along in our direction. Everybody came to attention. I got ready my camera. The King drew up, and from that moment, until he passed through the camp, lined with thousands of cheering Canadians, I filmed his every movement.



The five days' continuous rush and tear was beginning to tell on me. I was feeling fagged out. But to-morrow His Majesty was sailing again for England. That night, through a member of the Headquarter Staff, I enquired of Colonel Wigram if it was at all possible for me to accompany the King on his boat across the Channel. It would make a most excellent finish to my film, I pleaded, and it would show the people at home and neutrals that the British Navy still held the seas secure, and that our King could go on the seas where and when he liked, and to film His Majesty on board, among his naval officers, what a splendid record to hand down to posterity.

Colonel Wigram immediately saw the possibilities of such a finish, and agreed to allow me to accompany them.

Very jubilant, I thanked him and promised to be at the boat by midday.

In my hurry and anxiety to obtain permission I had entirely forgotten to enquire at which port the boat was sailing from—Calais or Boulogne. I rushed back to find Colonel Wigram, but unluckily he had gone. I enquired of the Intelligence officers present, but they did not know.

I therefore decided that the only thing to do was to start off early in the morning and go to Boulogne, and then on to Calais, if the boat was leaving from there.

Early next morning, with my kit, I rushed away to Boulogne, but on my arrival I found out that the King was not leaving from there, but from Calais. Off to Calais I went. How the time was going. Ill luck seemed to dog me on the journey, for with a loud noise the back tyre burst. To take it off and replace it with a new one was done in record time. Then on again. How the old "bus" seemed to limp along.

"How many miles is she doing?" I asked the chauffeur.

"Nearly fifty to the hour, sir, can't get another ounce out of her. I shouldn't be surprised if the engine fell out."

"Never mind, let her have it," I yelled.

Down the hills she rocked and swayed like a drunken thing. If there had happened to be anything in the way—well, I don't know what would have happened; but there would have been "some" mess! Anyway, nothing did happen, and I arrived at the dock in due course. No, the boat had not gone, but by the appearance of every one there, it was just on the point of moving off. To get on to the quay I had to pass over a swing bridge; a barrier was across it, and soldiers on duty were posted in order to send all cars round, some distance down, over the next bridge. Knowing that if I went there I should be too late, I yelled out to the man to allow me to pass.

"No, sir," he said. "You must go the other way."

Well, what I said I don't know, but I certainly swore, and this evidently impressed the fellow so much that he removed the barrier and allowed me to pass. I literally tumbled out of the old "bus," and shouting to L—— to bring along my tripod, I rushed to where the boat was lying against the quay.

All the French, British, and Belgian officials were lined up, and the King was shaking hands as a parting adieu. Whether it was right or not I did not stop to think. I swept by and rushed up the gangway as the King turned with a final salute.

So close a shave was it that I barely had time to screw my camera on the stand ere the Prince of Wales saluted the King and went ashore. The gangway was drawn away and, amid salutes from the officers and allied representatives, the boat left the quay. I had filmed it all. Not an incident had passed me.

The King with the Admiral in charge of the ship, entered the cabin, and only then did I have a moment's respite to realise what a narrow squeak I had had.

We were just leaving the harbour. The sea looked very choppy, and just ahead were seven torpedo boats waiting to escort us across.

I went up on to the top deck, and obtained some very interesting scenes of these boats taking up their positions around. Then the King came up and mounted the bridge. How happy he looked! A King in every sense of the word. Who, if they could see him now, could ever have any doubts as to the issue of the war? I filmed him as he stood on the bridge. In mid-channel the sea was getting rather rough, and to keep my feet, and at the same time prevent the camera from being bowled overboard, was rather a task, and this compelled me at times to call in the help of some blue-jackets standing near by.

At last the white cliffs of old England hove in sight, and to make my film-story complete I filmed the cliffs, with Dover Castle perched high above like the grim watch-dog it is.

And then, as the boat drew into the harbour, I got near the gangway in order to land first and film His Majesty as he came ashore. I managed to do this, and entering the royal special (by which I was permitted to travel) I reached Victoria in due course with what, in my humble judgment, was one of the finest kinematograph records that could possibly be obtained of an altogether memorable and historic journey.



CHAPTER XXI

THE HUSH! HUSH!—A WEIRD AND FEARFUL CREATURE

Something in the Wind—An Urgent Message to Report at Headquarters—And What Came Of It—I Hear for the First Time of the "Hush! Hush!"—And Try to Discover What It Is—A Wonderful Night Scene—Dawn Breaks and Reveals a Marvellous Monster—What Is It?

I had been busy in London preparing the film of the King's visit to his troops in France, when I received an urgent message to report immediately at General Headquarters—most important. I reported to Captain ——.

"Can you get away in the morning, Malins? The boat train leaves early."

"If there is something doing I wouldn't miss it for worlds!" I replied.

"It's quite evident there is," he said, "or they wouldn't want you so urgently."

"I've only got to get my supply of film stock," I said; "I'll manage it during the night somehow, and meet you at Charing Cross in the morning."

No, I certainly was not going to miss a fight, for undoubtedly another offensive was about to take place.

That night I managed to get sufficient film stock together. In the morning we proceeded to France. The following morning at General Headquarters I got the news. Reporting to Colonel ——, he told me of the coming attack. "Do you want to get it?" he said.



"Yes, sir, I do; and from the first line if possible. I want to improve on the Battle of the Somme film. What time does it come off?"

"I don't know; but if you will call on—mentioning a captain at the Headquarters of one of the corps—he will be able to put you right on the section of the attack." With that information I left, and packing my apparatus left for Headquarters. The captain was there.

"You are the 'movie' man, eh? Come in. Now tell me what you want."

"Where is the attack taking place, and at what time?" I asked.

"Look here," he said, unfolding a map, "this is our objective," pointing to a certain place. "We are going to get up to the yellow line, and I suggest that you go to —— Brigade Headquarters. They are in a wood just below —— Redoubt. I will ring up the General and tell him you are coming. He will give you all the information and assistance you require. They know the ground more intimately than we do back here. You are prepared to stay up there, of course?"

"Of course," I said. "I always carry my blanket with me."

"Well it comes off on the fifteenth, rather early in the morning. The General will give you zero hour."

"Do you know the exact time?" I said. "Do you think it will be too early for me—so far as the light is concerned?" I added hurriedly, with a laugh.

"Well no. I think you will just manage it," he said.

Thanking him I hurried off to Brigade Headquarters. They were in an old German dug-out of huge dimensions. There were three distinct floors or rather corridors, one above the other. The galleries wound in and around the hill-side, and the bottom one must have been at the depth of eighty feet. Scottish troops were in the trenches, which were being held as support lines. I entered the dug-out, and around a long table was seated the General and his staff.

"General ——, sir?" I enquired.

"Yes," he said; "come in, will you? You are 'Movies,' aren't you? They have just rung me up. Have some lunch and tell me what you want."

During lunch I explained my mission.

"Well," he said, "I am glad you are giving us a show. There is no need to tell you what the Scottish battalion have accomplished."

Lunch finished, the General with the Brigadier-Major went into details as to the best position from which I could see the show.

"I want, if possible, to get an unobstructed view of the Brigade front."

"'—— Trench,' is the place," he said. "What do you say? you know it."

"I think, sir, that's as good as anywhere, but it's strafed rather badly."

"How far is that from the Bosche front line?"

We measured it on the map. It was eight hundred yards.

"Too far off; I must get much closer," I said. "Isn't there a place in our front trench?"

"There's a machine-gun position in a sap head," said an officer. "I am sure that would suit you, but you'll get strafed. Bosche cannot fail to see you."

"What time is zero hour?" I asked the General.

"At 6.20," he said.

Great Scott, I thought, 6.20 summer time—real time 5.20, and in September only one chance in a million that the sky would be clear enough to get an exposure. Certainly if the mornings were anything like they had been during the last week it would be an absolute impossibility.



Anyway there was just a chance, and I decided to take it.

Therefore I suggested that I should go up very early in the morning to our front line, getting there about four o'clock. There would just be sufficient light for me to have a look round, that is if Brother Fritz wasn't too inquisitive. I could then fix up the camera and wait.

"What time does the barrage start?" I asked.

"Ten minutes to zero. It's going to be very intense, I can tell you that."

"Well, sir, there is one special point I would like you to clear up for me if possible. What the deuce is the 'Hush! Hush!'?"

At that question everyone in the place laughed. "Hush! hush! not so loud," one said, with mock gravity. "You mean the Tanks."

"I am just as wise as ever. Anyway, whether they are called the 'Hush Hushers' or 'Tanks,' what the dickens are they? Everyone has been asking me if I have seen the 'Hush! hush!' until I have felt compelled to advise them to take more water with it in future. At first I thought they were suffering from a unique form of shell-shock."

"I haven't seen them," he said. "All I know is that we have two of them going over with our boys. This is their line; they will make straight for the left-hand corner of the village, and cross the trenches on your left about two hundred yards from the point suggested. They are a sort of armoured car arrangement and shells literally glance off them. They will cross trenches, no matter how wide, crawl in and out shell-holes, and through barbed wire, push down trees and...."

I turned to the General. "I certainly suggest, sir, that —— should go to hospital; the war is getting on his nerves. He will tell me next that they can fly as well."

The General laughed. But quite seriously he told me it was all true.

"Then I hope I shall be able to get a good film of them," I said, "especially as this will be the first time they have been used."

Finally it was agreed that ——, who was going up to the front line to observe for the division, should act as my guide, and take me up in the morning at three o'clock.

"We shall have to start about that time," he said; "it will be possible to go there for quite a good distance over the top of the ridge. It will save trudging through '—— Trench,' and there's sure to be a lot of troops packed in it. In any case it will take us about three-quarters of an hour."

"And I want at least an hour to look round and find a suitable spot; so three o'clock will suit me very well."

"Hullo!" I said, as I heard the crack of a 5.9 crump burst just outside the dug-out. "Can't Bosche let you alone here?"

"No," he said, "he strafes us sometimes. He put quite a lot in here the other day, and one went clean through our cook-house, but no damage was done, beyond spoiling our lunch. If he anticipates our show in the morning, he will be sure to plaster us."

At night I watched the effect of the flashes from our guns. They were rattling off at quite a good pace. What a gorgeous night! Dotted all round this skeleton of what was once a wood, but now merely a few sticks of charred tree trunks, and in and out as far as the eye could see, were scores of tiny fires. The flames danced up and down like elves, and crowded round the fires were groups of our boys, laughing and chatting as if there was no such thing as war. Now and then the flash of the big howitzers momentarily lighted up the whole landscape. What a scene!

Having seen as much of the war as I have done, and having been practically through the campaign from the very outset, it may surprise you that I had not used myself to such sights. Possibly I ought to have done, but the fact remains that I cannot. These night scenes always appeal to me. Every scene is so different, and looking at everything from the pictorial point of view I wished with all my heart I could have filmed such a wonderful scene. But even had I been able to do so I could not have reproduced the atmosphere, the sound of the guns, the burst of the shells, the glare of the star-shells, the laughter of the men—and some of them were swearing. The impenetrable blackness was accentuated by the dancing flames from the fires. It was a sight to dream about; and almost involuntarily reminded one of a scene from the Arabian Nights.

It was now midnight. My guide told me to follow him. "We'll go down below and find a place in which to snatch a little sleep." Down a long flight of stairs we went, along corridors, then down another flight and round more corridors. The passages seemed endless, until at last we came to a halt beside the bunk-like beds fastened on the wall.

"What an extraordinary place; how deep is it?"

"About sixty feet," said my companion. "The place is like a rabbit warren."

"Well, I'm glad you are with me, for I should never find my way out alone." And I rolled my blanket round me and went to sleep.

I was awakened by my guide. "Come on," he said; "time we moved off."

I quickly got out of my blanket. Jove, how cold it was! My teeth chattered like castanets.

"It's like an ice-house down here; let's go out and see if any of the men have any fire left. Might be able to have a little hot tea before we go. I have some biscuits and odds and ends in my satchel."

"Will you let me have a man to help me with my tripod?"

"Certainly, as a matter of fact I arranged for one last night."

Up we went. Along the corridors men were lying about in their blankets, fast asleep. Holding a piece of guttering candle in my hand, and shaking like a leaf with cold, I stepped between the sleeping men; but it was anything but an easy task.

During the journey I missed my companion. By a lucky accident I managed to find an exit, but it was nowhere near the one I entered last night. Ah, here's a fire, and quickly getting the water on the boil, made some tea; then shouldering the camera, and —— helping me, by taking one of the cases, we started off.

It was still very dark, but the sky was quite free from clouds. If only it would keep like that I might just get an exposure.

We proceeded as fast as the innumerable shell-holes and old barbed wire would allow, and made straight for the ruins of ——, then crossing the road we followed the communication trenches along the top.

It was still pitch dark. I looked at my watch. It was 4.30.

The trenches were full of life. Men were pouring in to take up their positions. Bosche put a few shells over near by, but fortunately nobody was touched. He was evidently nervous about something, for on several occasions he sent up star-shells, in batches of six, which lighted up the whole ridge like day, and until they were down again I stood stock still.



Day was breaking in the east. A low-lying mist hung over the village. I hoped it would not affect my taking.

We were now in the trenches, and daylight was gradually beginning to appear.

"It's got to light up a lot more if I'm going to be able to film," I said. "But thank heaven the sky is cloudless. That's the one chance."

All at once it seemed as though the sky lightened. Actinic conditions improved considerably, and I was just congratulating myself on my good fortune when——

"What's that, sir?" said the man at my side, who had been peering through a periscope.

Gingerly I raised myself above the parapet and peered in the direction in which his finger pointed.

For a moment I could discern nothing. Then, gradually out of the early morning mist a huge, dark, shapeless object evolved. It was apparently about three hundred yards away. It moved, and judging by the subdued hum and a slight smoke which it emitted—like the breath of an animal—it lived!

I had never seen anything like it before. What was it?



CHAPTER XXII

THE JUGGERNAUT CAR OF BATTLE

A Weird-looking Object Makes Its First Appearance Upon the Battlefield—And Surprises Us Almost as Much as It Surprised Fritz—A Death-dealing Monster that Did the Most Marvellous Things—And Left the Ground Strewn with Corpses—Realism of the Tank Pictures.

What in the world was it?

As we stood there peering at the thing, we forgot for the moment that our heads were well above the parapet. We were too fascinated by the movements of the weird-looking object to bother about such a trifle as that! And the Bosche trenches were only two hundred yards away! For the life of me I could not take my eyes off it. The thing—I really don't know how else to describe it—ambled forward, with slow, jerky, uncertain movements. The sight of it was weird enough in all conscience. At one moment its nose disappeared, then with a slide and an upward glide it climbed to the other side of a deep shell crater which lay in its path. I stood amazed and watched its antics. I forgot all about my camera, and my desire to obtain a picture of this weird and terrifying engine of destruction. Like everyone else, its unexpected appearance on the scene first surprised and then held me under its strange influence.

So that was the "Hush! hush!"—the Juggernaut Car of Battle. One of the Tanks, the secret of whose appearance, and indeed of whose very existence, had been guarded more carefully than all the treasures of the Indies.

Truly Bosche was in for a big surprise.



All this time I had scarce taken my eyes off the ugly-looking monster. It waddled, it ambled, it jolted, it rolled, it—well it did everything in turn and nothing long—or wrong. And most remarkable of all, this weird-looking creature with a metal hide performed tricks which almost made one doubt the evidence of one's senses. Big, and ugly, and awkward as it was, clumsy as its movements appeared to be, the thing seemed imbued with life, and possessed of the most uncanny sort of intelligence and understanding. It came to a crater. Down went its nose; a slight dip, and a clinging, crawling motion, and it came up merrily on the other side. And all the time as it slowly advanced, it breathed and belched forth tongues of flame; its nostrils seemed to breathe death and destruction, and the Huns, terrified by its appearance, were mown down like corn falling to the reaper's sickle.

Presently it stopped. The humming ceased. The spell was broken. We looked at one another, and then we laughed. How we laughed! Officers and men were doubled up with mirth as they watched the acrobatic antics of this mechanical marvel—this Wellsian wonder.

Now the metal monster was on the move again. It was advancing on the German position. The Bosche machine-guns got busy and poured a very hail of shells and bullets upon the oncoming death-dealer. It made no difference. The Tank pursued its way, unperturbed by all the racket of the exploding metal on its sides. Shells seemed to glide off it quite harmlessly. Bullets had no effect upon this extraordinary apparition.

Fritz must have thought the devil himself had broken loose from hell and was advancing to devour him. The Huns scurried to their funk-holes and craters, their hiding-places, and their trenches like so many rabbits. Still the Tank advanced, pausing now and then, astride a particularly wide crater, and sweeping the surrounding pit-scarred ground with its machine-guns. Up popped a German head. Zip went a bullet; and down went the head for the last time. How many Germans were crushed in their holes in that first advance goodness only knows.

Presently the monster stopped again. There was a pause. Nothing happened. A minute—two minutes went by. Still nothing happened. The Germans began to regain their courage. Heads popped up all over the place. Enemy troops began to edge nearer and nearer to it, in spite of the hail of bullets from our trenches. Then they began to swarm round the strange creature the like of which they had never seen before. To do them justice, these Germans showed exceptional courage in the face of unknown and altogether exceptional danger.

Mr. Tank meanwhile was not a bit disconcerted by their attentions, and continued to breathe forth flames of fire, which did great havoc in the ranks of the sightseers. But once their curiosity was satisfied the Huns did their level best to damage the brute. They fired at it; they bombarded it; they shelled it; they clambered over it. All to no purpose. Presently that ominous humming, snorting sound reached us again, and the monster began to move away. Where it had stood the ground was strewn with the dead bodies of German soldiers, and I was told afterwards that over three hundred corpses were counted to the credit of the first Tank that ever crossed "No Man's Land."

Meanwhile our boys had been busy. Following in the wake of the Tank, they had cleaned up quite a lot of ground, and all the time, with my camera on them, I had secured a series of fine pictures.

I don't think I ever laughed so heartily at anything as I did on the first day that I saw the Tanks in action, and officers and men all agree that they never saw a funnier sight in all their lives. But whilst they amused us they put the fear of the devil into Fritz, and whole parties of men ran forward, hands up, waving their handkerchiefs, and shouting "Kamerad," and gave themselves up as willing prisoners in our hands.

The Tanks have been one of the big surprises and big successes of the war.



CHAPTER XXIII

WHERE THE VILLAGE OF GUILLEMONT WAS

An Awful Specimen of War Devastation—Preparing for an Advance—Giving the Bosche "Jumps"—Breakfast Under Fire—My Camera Fails Me Just Before the Opening of the Attack—But I Manage to Set it Right and Get Some Fine Pictures—Our Guns "Talk" Like the Crack of a Thousand Thunders—A Wonderful Doctor.

After the battle of Martinpuich the nature of my work brought me in contact with many stirring incidents, which, if put on record here, would be merely repeating to a certain degree many of my previous experiences, therefore I do not intend to bore my readers by doing so.

From one section of our front to the other I was kept continually on the move. On the 25th September an attack was timed for twelve o'clock noon for Morval and Lesboeufs, and the Guards, London Scottish, Norfolks, Suffolks and many other regiments were to take part. The day before I visited our front in that section to obtain preliminary scenes. The London Scottish were preparing to leave to take up their battle positions. From one front to the other I hurried, obtaining scenes of the other regiments on the way up. I stayed during the night with an officer of an 18-pounder battling on the left of Guillemont. The Bosche was "strafing" the place pretty badly. I will not say I slept comfortably, for shells came crashing over much too closely to do so; in fact, I was up all night.



On several occasions I really thought my last minute had come. The noise was deafening, the glare and flash although beautiful was sickening. Our guns were pouring out a withering fire, and the ground quivered and shook, threatening to tumble the temporary shelter about my ears. One shell, which came very near, burst and the concussion slightly blew in the side of the shelter; it also seemed to momentarily stun me; I crouched down as close to earth as possible. I will admit that I felt a bit "windy," my body was shaking as if with ague; a horrible buzzing sensation was in my head, dizziness was coming over me. I dare not lose control of myself, I thought; with an effort I staggered up and out of the shelter, clutching my head as the pain was terrible. I dropped down into an old German trench and sat in the bottom. In a few minutes my head pains eased down slightly, but my nerves were still shaky. At that moment one of the battery officers came along.

"Hullo! you got clear then?" he said.

"Yes, only just, by the appearance of things."

"I saw it drop near by where we left you and felt quite certain it had done you in. Feel all right?"

"Yes," I said, "with the exception of a thick head. I will get my camera stuff down here. Lend me your torch, will you?"

I took it out and found my way back to the shelter.

Fritz was now jumping over shrapnel, so, believe me, I did not hang about on my journey. Our guns continued their thundering and fire was literally pouring from their mouths. I got down in the trench, as close as possible, sat on my camera-case and so passed the remainder of the night, thinking—well, many things.

Towards dawn the firing gradually died down until, comparing it with the night, it was quite peaceful. I got out of my trench and sat up on the parapet. My head was still throbbing from the concussion of the night, and having no sleep made me feel in rather a rotten state.

"How's the head, old chap?" asked an officer I knew who came up to me at that moment.

"Better," I replied, "but needs improvement."

"We are just making some tea; come and join us."

"Jove, rather! It may stop this jumping."

A slight mist was hanging over the shell-pocked ground, it was gradually rising, as I had seen it on previous occasions, and the horrible stench from the putrifying dead seemed to rise with it. As far as the eye could see in every direction the ground had been churned up by the fearful shell-fire. The shell-holes met each other like the holes in a sponge. Not a blade of grass or green stuff existed; the place which once marked a wood was now a space with a twisted, tangled mass of barbed wire and, here and there, short wooden stumps, slashed, split, and torn into shreds—the remains of once beautiful trees.

The village of Guillemont literally does not exist, in fact, it is an absolute impossibility to tell where the fields ended and the village began. It is one of the most awful specimens of the devastating track of war that exists on the Western Front. The village had been turned by the Bosche into a veritable fortress; trenches and strong points, bristling with machine-guns, commanded every point which gave vantage to the enemy. But, after much bloody fighting, our troops stormed and captured the place and the German losses must have been appalling. Many had been buried, but the work of consolidating the ground won and pressing on the attack does not permit our men thoroughly to cleanse the square miles of ground and bury the bodies and fragments that cover it.

Unknowingly, when I had hurried for cover in the trench, the night before I had been within twelve feet of a party of five dead Bosches, and the atmosphere in the early morning was more than I could tolerate, so picking up my camera, etc., I took up fresh quarters.

A snorting, crunching sound struck my ears and looking on my left I observed a Tank ambling forward to take up its position for the coming show. It was emitting clouds of bluish-grey smoke from its exhaust which gave it a rather ghostly appearance in the mist.... Now and again as it came to a very deep shell-hole it stopped to poise itself on the rim and then gently tipped its nose downwards, disappearing, to rise like a huge toad on the other side, and then continue its journey.

More troops were coming up in platoon to take up their position in supports, ammunition carriers were taking up fresh supplies of bombs, Red Cross men were making their way forward—not a sound was to be heard from them and the whole place was now a line of silent movement. All the main work and preparation was to finish before the last shadow of night had been chased away by the light of the rising sun, before the setting of which many of the boys would lay down their lives that justice and civilisation might triumph over the false doctrine of blood and iron and barbarism—German Kultur.

* * * * *

"Come along, Malins, your cup of tea is ready," shouted an officer.

I left my camera under cover of a fallen tree trunk and crossed to a covered shell-hole which answered to the name of dug-out. Anyway, apart from shrapnel or a direct hit from an H.E., we were comparatively safe, being below ground level. Along the centre was a rough plank on two boxes and grouped either side were several other officers of the battery. We all of us soon forgot about the previous night's efforts of Fritz in a gorgeous repast of bacon, fried bread, and tea.

Bosche was now fairly quiet; he was "strafing" the ridge in front with an occasional H.E.; some of our batteries on my right were still at it. It was now quite daylight; our aeroplanes were flitting across the sky, diving low to obtain better observation of the enemy, and incidentally getting "strafed" by his anti-aircraft guns which did not interest them in the least.

"What time is zero-hour?" I asked.

"Twelve-thirty," was the reply. "We start our intense at twelve o'clock, every gun we have in this section is going to fairly give Bosche jumps; in fact he will have to find a 'better 'ole.'"

This remark caused considerable laughter.

"I am going to get my scenes from 'Ginchy Telegraph'; it seems a very likely spot by the map. Shall I get there about eleven o'clock and fix up?"

"Good," said one. "I will lend you an orderly to act as guide if it's any benefit to you."

Thanking him, I gladly accepted the offer.

Breakfast over, I collected my apparatus and stood to watch the sections which Fritz "strafed" the most. By practising this method it has made it possible for me to do my work in comfort on previous occasions. I noticed there were one or two points which he "strafed" methodically, therefore I judged it safe to make direct for my point over the top, then enter a communication trench just on this side of the ridge.

By this time my guide came up, so sharing my apparatus, we started off. The distance to Ginchy Telegraph was about one kilometre. Shrapnel was playing upon both roads leading from Guillemont, H.E. was bursting on my right in Lueze Wood, or "Lousy Wood," as it is called here, also in Delville Wood on my left. After a very tiring tramp over shell-holes and rubble I eventually reached my post. From this point I could see practically the whole of our section between Lesboeufs and Morval, but I immediately found out to my annoyance that the slight breeze would bring all the smoke back towards our lines. The resulting effect would not be serious enough to in any way hinder our operations, but photographically it was disastrous, and even if photographed the effect would not be impressive in the slightest degree, merely a wall of smoke which to the public would appear unintelligible. But in that seemingly useless cloud were falling thousands of shells of all calibres, tearing the earth into dust, the German line into fragments, forming a living and death-dealing curtain of blazing steel behind which our men were advancing.

But adverse wind conditions were not all, for when I had taken the camera out of its case I found that by some means or other the lens mounts had received such a knock as to throw it out of alignment. How it happened I cannot think, for the case was intact, the only possible explanation being that I must have dropped it the night before when I took shelter in the trench and in my dazed condition did not remember doing so.

It was quite impossible to repair it even temporarily in time to obtain the opening attack, so I hurried away and took shelter behind some ruins on the south-west side of the village. It was now close on twelve; our intense bombardment would shortly begin, and I worked feverishly at the repair to the camera, perspiring at every pore.

Suddenly, like the terrific crack of a thousand thunders, our fire on the German position began. Bursting from the mouths of hundreds of British guns it came, the most astonishing, astounding, brain-splitting roar that I had ever heard. In a few moments it reached a crescendo; everyone near by was transfixed with awe. Hundreds of shells went shrieking overhead. The air was literally alive with blazing metal.

Imagine, if you can, being in the midst of five hundred drums. At a given moment every drummer beats his drum with ever-increasing force without a fraction of a moment's respite. Add to this the most soul-splitting crash you have ever heard and the sound as of a gale of wind shrieking through the telegraph wires. It will give you a little idea of what it was like under this bombardment. It seemed to numb one's very brain. What it must have been like in the German position is beyond me to conceive. We were certainly giving Fritz a jump.

At last my camera was finished. Looking in the direction of Bouleaux Wood I could see our men still pouring forward over the open. I raced towards them as hard as possible and filmed them going across first one section then the other; Bosche shells were falling near them, knocking a few out but missing most, first one line then the other.

Bosche was dropping large "coal boxes" all along our supports. Two Tanks coming up provided me with several interesting scenes as Fritz was pestering them with his attentions but without injury. I obtained a scene of two heavy "crumps" bursting just behind one of them, but the old Tank still snorted on its way, the infantry advancing close behind in extended formation.

Throughout the remainder of the day I was kept well on the move, filming the many-varying scenes of battle, either whilst they were in progress or immediately afterwards. Prisoners came pouring in from all directions, first a batch of two hundred and then odd stragglers, then further batches. The Guards seemed to have had a rather good bag, as I noticed that most of the Bosches were brought in under care of guardsmen. One Tommy came in the proud possessor of six.

From the immediate fighting ground I made my way towards Trones Wood, upon the outskirts of which the Guards had their dressing station. Many of our men were there, lying about in all directions on stretchers, waiting to be taken away to the Casualty Clearing Station. I filmed many scenes here of our wonderful men suffering their physical torments like the heroes they were. One, in particular, sitting on a box making a cigarette, had a broad smile on his face, though the whole of his elbow was shot completely away. Another came in, helped along by two other men; he was a raving lunatic, his eyes ghastly and horrible to look upon, and he was foaming at the mouth, and gibbering wildly.

"Shell-shock," said the doctor, close beside me; "bad case too, poor chap! Here, put him into this ambulance; three men had better go with him to look after him."

"Do you get many cases like that?" I asked the doctor.

"Yes," he said, "quite a few, but not all so bad as that."

Wounded were still pouring in, both ours and German. The Bosche was shelling the ground only a short distance away and I managed to film several of our wounded men being dressed whilst shells were bursting in the near background.

Another man was brought in on a stretcher. I looked closely at him when he was set on the ground. He had been knocked out by shell-fire. A piece of shrapnel was buried in his jaw, another large piece in his head, and, by the bloodstains on his tunic, about his body also.

He was groaning pitiably. The doctor bending down had a look at him, then stood up.

"It's no use," he said, "he's beyond human aid; he cannot last many minutes. Place him over there," he said to the stretcher-bearers. The men gently lifted the poor fellow up, and less than three minutes afterwards one came up to the doctor.

"He's dead, sir."

"Just tell the padre then, will you, and get his disc and name and have his belongings packed up and sent home."

And so the day drifted on. The sun was blazing hot; every man there was working like a demon. Perspiring at every pore, each doctor was doing the work of four; the padre was here, there and everywhere, giving the wounded tea and coffee, and cheering them up by word and deed.

Towards evening there came a lull in the attack. It had been a great success; all our objectives had been gained; the wounded drifted in in lessening numbers.

An elderly doctor in his shirt sleeves had just finished binding up the stump of a man's leg, the lower part of which had been torn away by a piece of shell. He stood up, mopped his forehead, and, after bidding the carriers take the man away, he lay on the ground practically exhausted, dried blood still upon his hands and arms and scissors held loosely in his fingers; he closed his eyes to try and doze.

"That doctor is a marvel," said an officer to me. "He snatches a few moments sleep between his cases. Now watch!"

Another stretcher-party was coming in, and it was set down. An orderly went up to the doctor and lightly touched him on the shoulder.

"Another case, sir," he said.

The doctor opened his eyes and quickly rose to his feet.

The wounded man's head was bound round with an old handkerchief, matted with blood which had dried hard. Warm disinfectant was quickly brought and the doctor proceeded to gently loosen the rough bandage from the head, revealing a nasty head wound, a gash about three inches long and very swollen.

"What do you think of that?" he said, holding out something in his hand to me, "that's from this lad's head."

I looked and saw that it was a piece of his shrapnel helmet about two inches square, it had been driven into the flesh on his head, fortunately without breaking the skull. The wound was quickly dressed and the doctor again lay down to snatch a few more moments' respite.

"This will go on all night," said the padre, "and all day to-morrow. Have a cup of tea at my canteen, will you?"

Having had nothing to eat or drink all day I accepted the invitation. On the opposite side of the wood was a small shack built of old lumber, and every man before he left by ambulance received a cup of tea or coffee and biscuits.

"I find the boys greatly appreciate it," he said.

I joined him in a cup of tea.

"Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"Excellent," I replied, "like heaven to a lost soul."

"Look round here," he said, pointing away in the distance. "Did you ever see such a ghastly travesty of nature, the whole country-side swept clean of every green and living thing, beautiful woods and charming villages blown to the four winds of heaven, and this might have been our own beautiful sunny downs, our own charming villages. The British public should go down on its knees every day of the week and thank God for their deliverance."

The sun was now setting, and having obtained all the scenes I required, I decided to make my way back. We were still shelling the German lines very hard, and the Bosche was putting over a few of his H.E. and high shrapnel, but fortunately none came within a hundred yards of us.

I bade adieu to the doctors and the padre.

"I hope we shall see the films in town," they said. "It's a pity you can't introduce the sounds and general atmosphere of a battle like this. Good-bye, best of luck!" they shouted.

I left them and made my way across to the battery to thank the Captain. When I arrived I met one of the subalterns.

"Where's ——?" I asked.

"I am afraid you won't see him," he replied.

"Why?" half suspecting some bad news.

"Well, he and four others were killed shortly after you left."

I turned slowly away and walked off in the direction of Guillemont.

A hundred yards further on I came upon a scene which afforded some relief to the tragedies of the day. A short bantam-like British Tommy was cursing and swearing volubly at a burly German sitting on the ground rubbing his head and groaning like a bull. Tommy, with a souvenir cigar in his mouth, was telling him in his best cockney English to get a move on.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Well, sir, it's like this. This 'ere cove is my own prisoner and 'e's been giving me no end of trouble, tried to pinch my gun, sir, 'e did, so I 'it 'im on 'is head, but 'e ain't 'urt, sir, not a bit, are yer, Fritz? Come on." And Fritz, thinking discretion the better part of valour, got up, and Tommy strutted off with his big charge as happy as a peacock.



CHAPTER XXIV

FIGHTING IN A SEA OF MUD

Inspecting a Tank that was Hors de Combat—All that was Left of Mouquet Farm—A German Underground Fortress—A Trip in the Bowels of the Earth—A Weird and Wonderful Experience.

After our successful attack and capture of Lesboeufs and Morval on September 25th, 1916, beyond consolidating our gains there was comparatively little done in the way of big offensives until the capture of Mouquet Farm and Thiepval and the capture of Beaumont Hamel—that fortress of fortresses—on November 13th, and I devoted the interval to recording the ground won.

One interesting incident occurred when I filmed Mouquet Farm situate between Pozieres and Thiepval. Looking at the Farm from the strategical point of view, I feel quite confident in saying that only British troops could have taken it. It was one of the most wonderful defensive points that could possibly be conceived, and chosen by men who made a special study of such positions. The whole place was thickly planted with machine-guns, so cunningly concealed that it was impossible to observe them until one was practically at the gun's mouth.

To get here it was necessary to go down a long steep glacis, then up another to the farm. The Germans, with their network of underground passages and dug-outs, were able to concentrate at any threatened point with their machine-guns in such a manner that they would have our troops under a continual stream of lead for quite one thousand yards without a vestige of cover. The farm had been shelled by our artillery time after time, until the whole ground for miles round was one huge mass of shell-craters, but the Germans, in their dug-outs forty and fifty feet underground, could not be reached by shell-fire. I will not go into details of how the place was eventually taken by the Midlanders—it will remain an epic of the war.

The weather was now breaking up. Cold winds and rain continually swept over the whole Somme district, invariably accompanied by thick mists. I wanted to obtain a film showing the fearful mud conditions, which we were working hard and fighting in and under. And such mud! You could not put the depth in inches. Nothing so ordinary; it was feet deep. I have known relief battalions take six hours to reach their allotted position in the front line, when, in the dry season, the same journey could be accomplished in an hour; and the energy expended in wading through such a morass can be imagined. Many times I have got stuck in the clayey slime well above my knees and have required the assistance of two, and sometimes three men to help me out. To turn oneself into a lump of mud, all one had to do was to walk down to the front line; you would undoubtedly be taken for a part of the parapet by the time you arrived. I asked a Tommy once what he thought of it.

"Sir," he replied, "there ain't no blooming word to describe it!" And I think he was right.

On one journey, when filming the carrying of munitions by mule-back—as that was the only method by which our advanced field-guns could be supplied—while they were being loaded at a dump near —— Wood, the mud was well above the mules' knees, and, in another instance, it was actually touching their bellies. In such conditions our men were fighting and winning battles, and not once did I hear of a single instance where it affected the morale of the men. We cursed and swore about it; who wouldn't? It retarded our progress; we wallowed in it, we had to struggle through miles of it nearly up to our knees; we slept in it or tried to; we ate in it, it even got unavoidably mixed up with our food; and sometimes we drank it. And we tolerated it all, month after month. If it was bad for us, we knew it was far worse for the Bosche, for not only had he to live under these conditions, but he was subjected to our hellish bombardment continually without rest or respite.

Thus it was I filmed Mouquet Farm and other scenes in the neighbourhood. I went to Pozieres and then struck across country. On my way I passed a Tank which, for the time being, was hors de combat. It naturally aroused my interest. I closely inspected it, both inside and out, and, while I stood regarding it, two whizz-bangs came over in quick succession, bursting about thirty feet away. The fact immediately occurred to me that the Tank was under observation by the Bosche and he, knowing the attraction it would have for enquiring natures, kept a gun continually trained upon it. I had just got behind the body of the thing when another shell dropped close by. I did not stop to judge the exact distance. I cursed the mud because it did not allow me to run fast enough, but really I ought to have blessed it. The fact that it was so muddy caused the shell to sink more deeply into the ground before exploding, its effective radius being also more confined.

When I got clear of the Tank, the firing ceased. I mentally vowed that, for the future, temporarily disabled Tanks near the firing-line would not interest me, unless I was sure they were under good cover.

I continued my journey to the farm, but kept well below the top of the ridge. At one section, to save my dying a sailor's death, duck-boards had been placed over the mud to facilitate easier travelling. It made me feel like going on for ever, after ploughing for hours through mud the consistency of treacle.

Eventually I arrived on the high ground near Mouquet. Many of our field-gun batteries had taken up their position near by: they had turned old shell-holes into gun-pits—occasionally a burst of firing rang out, and Bosche was doing his level best to find them with his 5.9 crump. Here I managed to obtain several very interesting scenes.

The farm, as a farm, did not exist; a mass of jumbled-up brickwork here and there suggested that once upon a time, say 100 B.C., it might have been. In due time I reached the place. A machine-gun company were in possession, and I found an officer, who offered to show me over the Bosche's underground fortress. I entered a dug-out entrance, the usual type, and switching on my electric torch, proceeded with uncertain steps down into the bowels of the earth. The steps were thick with mud and water; water also was dripping through all the crevices in the roof, and the offensive smell of dead bodies reached me.

"Have you cleaned this place out?" I called to my friend in front.

"Yes," he said. His voice sounded very hollow in this noisome, cavernous shaft. And it was cold—heavens how cold! Ugh!

"There was one gallery section; where it leads to we cannot find out, but it was blown in by us and evidently quite a few Bosches with it; anyway, we are not going to disturb it. There is a possibility of the whole gallery collapsing about our ears."

"We are at the bottom now; be careful, turn sharp to the left."

"Why this place must be at least forty feet deep."

"Yes, about that. This gallery runs along to more exits and a veritable rabbit warren of living compartments. See these bullet-holes in the side here," pointing to the wooden planks lining the gallery. "When our men entered the other end the Bosche here had a machine-gun fixed up and so they played it upon anybody who came near; lit up only by the gun flashes it must have been a ghastly sight. It must have been the scene of devilish fighting judging by the number of bullet-holes all over the place. There are plenty of bloodstains about, somebody caught it pretty badly."

I followed my guide until eventually we came to a recessed compartment; it was illuminated by two German candles stuck in bottles, and a rough wooden table with two chairs, evidently looted from the farm when the Bosche arrived.

We made our exit from another shaft and came out at a spot about one hundred yards from the place we had entered.

This will give you some idea of the way the ground was interlaced with subterranean passages, and this, mind you, was only one tunnel of many.

It was quite pleasant to breathe comparatively fresh air again after the foul atmosphere down below.

Bosche was more lively with his shell-fire and they were coming much too near to be pleasant. I fixed up my machine and filmed several very good bursts near some guns. He was evidently shooting blind, or by the map, for they dropped anywhere but near their objectives. Anyway it was his shoot and it was not up to us to correct him.



CHAPTER XXV

THE EVE OF GREAT EVENTS

A Choppy Cross-Channel Trip—I Indulge in a Reverie—And Try to Peer Into the Future—At Headquarters Again—Trying to Cross the River Somme on an Improvised Raft—In Peronne After the German Evacuation—A Specimen of Hunnish "Kultur."

Since I left France in December many changes had taken place; tremendous preparations for the next great offensive were in progress. We shall now see the results of all our hard and bloody work, which began on the Somme on July 1st, 1916. I think I can safely say that we have never relaxed our offensive for a single day. Granted the great pressure has not been kept up, but in proportion to the weather conditions the push has been driven home relentlessly and ground won foot by foot, yard by yard, until, in February, 1917, the Germans retired behind their Bapaume defences.

Just how far they are going back one cannot decide. The fact remains that the enemy is falling back, not for strategical reasons, as he is so anxious for his people and neutrals to believe, but because he is forced to by the superiority of our troops and our dominating gun-power. The beginning of the end is at hand, the eve of great events is here; the results of this year's fighting will decide the future peace of the world, the triumph of Christianity over barbarity, of God over the devil.

I received instructions to proceed again to France. "The capture of Bapaume is imminent, you must certainly obtain that," I was told, "and add another to your list of successes." So I left by the midday boat-train; the usual crowds were there to see their friends off. A descriptive writer could fill a volume with impressions gathered on the station platform an hour before the train starts. Scenes of pathos and assumed joy; of strong men and women stifling their emotions with a stubbornness that would do justice to the martyrdom of the Early Christians in the arenas of Rome.

I arrived at Folkestone; the weather was very cold and a mist hung over the sea, blotting everything out of view beyond the end of the breakwater. The train drew up alongside and it emptied itself of its human khaki freight, who, with one accord, made their way to the waiting steamboats, painted a dull green-grey. All aboard: quickly and methodically we passed up the gangway, giving up our embarkation tickets at the end and receiving another card to fill up, with personal particulars, as we stepped on board. This card was to be given up upon one's arrival at Boulogne.

Gradually the boat filled with officers and men; kits and cars were hoisted aboard, life-belts were served out; everybody was compelled to put them on in case of an accident.

Everything was aboard; the three boats were ready to leave; the two in front, one an old cross-Channel paddle boat, the other one of the later turbine class—but still no sign of leaving.

"What are we waiting for?" I asked a seaman near by.

"We must wait until we get permission; the mist is very thick, sir—going to be a cold journey." With that he left. I buttoned my warm great-coat well round my throat, pulled my cap firmly down over my ears and went to the upper deck and peered out into the thickening sea-mist towards the harbour entrance.

I went to the deck-rail and leaned over. Crowds of sea-gulls cawed and wheeled round, seemingly hung suspended in the air by an invisible wire. The gulls fascinated me; one second they were in the air motionless on their huge outstretched wings, then suddenly, seeing either the shape of a fish coming to the surface, or a crumb of bread floating, one of the birds would dart down, make a grab with its beak at the object, skim the surface of the water, then gracefully wing its way upwards and join its fellows.

I turned my gaze again seawards: the mist was drawing nearer, threatening to envelop our boats in its embrace. How cold it was! The upper deck was now full of officers, busily putting on their life-belts—I had secured mine to my kit-bag, ready to put it on when required. At that moment an officer came up to me.

"Have you a life-belt?" he said, "if so would you mind putting it on? I have to go all round the boat and see that everybody has one."

"Right," I said, and so I donned my life-belt, and passing along the deck stood underneath the Captain's bridge and gazed around. The men in the two boats ahead of us were singing lustily, singing because they were going back to the land of bursting shells and flying death, laughing and singing because they were going again out to fight for the Empire.

As I stood there, gazing into the mist and hearing the continuous roar of the sea beating upon the rocks behind me, a review of the events passed through my mind which have happened to me, and the countless scenes of tragedy and bloodshed, of defeat and victory that I had witnessed since I first crossed over to France in October, 1914. I recalled my arrival in Belgium; the wonderful rearguard actions of the Belgian troops; the holding up of the then most perfect (and devilish) fighting machine the world had ever known, by a handful of volunteers. The frightful scenes in the great retreat through Belgium lived again; the final stand along the banks of the Ypres canal; the opening of the dykes, which saved the northern corner of France; the countless incidents of fighting I had filmed. Then my three months with the French in the Vosges mountains, the great strain and hardships encountered to obtain the films, and now, after eighteen months with the British army on the Western Front, I was again going back—to what?

How many had asked themselves that question! How many had tried as I was doing to peer into the future. They had laid down their lives fighting for the cause of freedom. "But, although buried on an alien soil, that spot shall be for ever called England."

I was quickly recalled to the present by the flashing of a light on the end of the harbour jetty. It was answered by a dull glare seawards; everybody was looking in that direction; and then....

A sudden clanging of bells, a slipping of ropes from the first boat, a final cheer from the men on the crowded decks, and, with its bow turned outwards from the quay, it nosed its way into the open sea beyond. The second boat quickly followed, and then, with more clanging of bells and curt orders to the helmsman, she slid through the water like a greyhound, and, with shouts of "good luck!" from the people on the quay, we were quickly swallowed up in the mist ahead.

The boats kept abreast for a considerable time and then, our vessel taking the lead, with a torpedo boat on either side and one ahead, the convoy headed for France.

The journey across was uneventful. It was quite dark when we backed into harbour at Boulogne; flares were lit and, as the boat drew alongside the quay, the old familiar A.M.O. with his huge megaphone shouted in stentorian tones that all officers and men returning on duty must report to him at his offices, fifty yards down the quay, etc., etc., etc. His oration finished, the gangway was pushed aboard and everybody landed as quickly as possible. I had wired from the War Office earlier in the day to G.H.Q., asking them to send a car to meet the boat. Whether they had received my message in time I did not know—anyway I could not find it, so, that night, I stayed at Boulogne, and the following evening proceeded to G.H.Q. to receive instructions.

Here I collected my apparatus and stood by for instructions. News of our continued pressure on the German line of retreat was penetrating through. First one village, then another fell into our hands. The fall of Peronne was imminent. My instructions were to proceed to Peronne, or rather the nearest point that it was possible to operate from.

I journeyed that night as far as Amiens, and arriving there about midnight, dog tired, went to my previous billet in the Rue l'Amiral Cambet, and turned in. Early next morning I reported to a major of the Intelligence Department, who told me our troops had entered Peronne the previous night. Rather disappointed that I had not been there to obtain the entry, I made tracks for that town.

I took by-roads, thinking that they would be more negotiable than the main ones, and, reaching the outskirts of the village of Biaches, I left the car there and prepared to walk into Peronne. I could see in the distance that the place was still burning; columns of smoke were pouring upwards and splashing the sky with patches of villainous-looking black clouds.

Strapping my camera upon my back, and bidding my man follow with my tripod, I started off down the hill into Biaches. Then the signs of the German retreat began to fully reveal themselves. The ground was absolutely littered with the horrible wastage of war; roads were torn open, leaving great yawning gaps that looked for all the world like huge jagged wounds. On my right lay the Chateau of La Maisonnette. The ground there was a shambles, for numerous bodies in various stages of putrefaction lay about as they had fallen.

I left this section of blood-soaked earth, and, turning to my left, entered the village, or rather the site of what had once been Biaches. I will not attempt to describe it; my pen is not equal to the task of conveying even the merest idea of the state of the place. It was as if a human skeleton had been torn asunder, bone by bone, and then flung in all directions. Then, look around and say—this was once a man. You could say the same thing of Biaches—this was once a village. I stayed awhile and filmed various scenes, including the huge engineers' dump left by the Germans, but, as the light was getting rather bad, I hurried as fast as possible in the direction of Peronne.

I wandered down the path of duck-boards, over the swamp of the Somme, filthy in appearance, reeking in its stench, and littered with thousands of empty bottles, that showed the character of the drunken orgies to which the Huns had devoted themselves.

I reached the canal bank. Lying alongside was the blackened ribs of a barge. Only the stern was above water and it was still smouldering; even the ladders and foot-bridges were all destroyed; not a single thing that could be of any use whatsoever had been left. I trudged along the canal bank; bridge after bridge I tried, but it was no use, for each one in the centre for about ten or twelve feet was destroyed—and, stretched between the gap, I found a length of wire netting covered over with straw—a cunning trap set for the first one across. Not a bridge was passable—they were all down!

Peronne lay on the other side and there I must get before the light failed and while the place was still burning; if I had to make a raft of old timber I made up my mind to get there.

Returning to the bank I placed my camera upon the ground and with the help of three men gathered up some rusty tin cylinders, which, earlier in the campaign, had been utilised as floats for rafts.

I had fished out of the river three planks, and laying them at equal distance upon the cylinders, I lashed them together and so made a raft of sorts. With care I might be able to balance myself upon it and so reach the other section of the bridge and then a rope at either end would enable my man and tripod to be pulled across.

The idea was excellent, but I found that my amateur lashing together with the strong current that was running made the whole plan quite impossible, so, after being nearly thrown into the river several times, and one of the floats coming adrift and washing away, and then doing a flying leap to save myself being hurled into the water upon a trestle which collapsed with my weight, I decided to give up the experiment and explore the river bank further down in the hope of getting across. Eventually, after going for about two kilometres, I reached the ruins of the main bridge leading into the town. This, also, was blown up by the retreating Huns, but, by using the blocks of stone and twisted iron girders as "stepping-stones," I reached the other side.

The old gateway and drawbridge across the moat were destroyed; the huge blocks of masonry were tossed about, were playthings in the hands of the mighty force of high explosives which flung them there. These scenes I carefully filmed, together with several others in the vicinity of the ramparts.



The town was the same as every other I had filmed—burnt and shell-riven. The place as a habitable town simply did not exist. German names were everywhere; the names of the streets were altered, even a French washerwoman had put up a notice that "washing was done here," in German.

Street after street I passed through and filmed. Many of the buildings were still burning and at one corner of the Grande Place flames were shooting out of the windows of the three remaining houses in Peronne. I hastily fitted up my camera and filmed the scene. When I had finished it was necessary to run the gauntlet, and pass directly under the burning buildings to get into the square.

Showers of sparks were flying about, pieces of the burning building were being blown in all directions by the strong wind. But I had to get by, so, buttoning up my collar tightly, fastening my steel shrapnel helmet on my head, and tucking the camera under my arm, I made a rush, yelling out to my man to follow with the tripod. As I passed I felt several heavy pieces of something hit my helmet and another blazing piece hit my shoulder and stuck there, making me set up an unearthly yell as the flames caught my ear and singed my hair. But, quickly shooting past, I reached a place of safety, and setting up the camera I obtained some excellent views of the burning buildings.

Standing upon a heap of rubble, which once formed a branch of one of the largest banking concerns in France, I took a panoramic scene of the great square. The smoke clouds curling in and around the skeleton walls appeared for all the world like some loathsome reptile seeming to gloat upon its prey, loath to leave it, until it had made absolutely certain that not a single thing was left to be devoured.

With the exception of the crackling flames and the distant boom of the guns, it was like a city of the dead. The once beautiful church was totally destroyed. In the square was the base of a monument upon which, before the war, stood a memorial to France's glorious dead in the war of 1870. The "kultured" Germans had destroyed the figure and, in its place, had stuck up a dummy stuffed with straw in the uniform of a French Zouave. Could ever a greater insult be shown to France!

Not content with burning the whole town, the Huns had gone to the trouble of displaying a huge signboard on the side of a building in the square on which were these words: "Don't be vexed—just admire!"

Think of it! The devils!



CHAPTER XXVI

AN UNCANNY ADVENTURE

Exploring the Unknown—A Silence That Could be Felt—In the Village of Villers-Carbonel—A Cat and Its Kittens in an Odd Retreat—Brooks' Penchant for "Souvenirs"—The First Troops to Cross the Somme.

Lieutenant B——, the official "still" photographer, and I have been companions in a few strange enterprises in the war, but I doubt whether any have equalled in strangeness, and I might say almost uncanny, adventure that which I am about to record. In cold type it would be pardonable for anyone to disbelieve some of the facts set forth, but, as I have proved for myself the perfect application of the well-known saying that "truth is stranger than fiction," I merely relate the facts in simple language exactly as they happened, and leave them to speak for themselves.

It was early morning on March 17th, 1917, when the Germans began their headlong flight towards their Cambrai, St. Quentin, or "Hindenburg" Line. When B—— and I hastened along the main St. Quentin Road, troops and transports were as usual everywhere. We passed through the ruined villages of Foscaucourt and Estrees and brought our car to a standstill about two kilometres from the village of Villers-Carbonel, it being impossible owing to the fearful road conditions to proceed further.

We left the car and started off to explore the unknown. On either side of the road I noticed many troops in their trenches; they were looking down at us as if we were something out of the ordinary, until I turned to him and said:

"Is there anything funny about us? These chaps seem to be highly interested in our appearance, or something. What is it?"

"I don't know," he said, "let's enquire."

So, going up to an R.A.M.C. officer, who was standing outside his dug-out, I asked him if there was any news—in fact I enquired whether there was a war on up there, everything seemed to be so absolutely quiet.

"Well," he said, "there was up to about three hours ago; Bosche has fairly plastered us with 5.9 and whizz-bangs. These suddenly ceased, and, as a matter of fact, I began to wonder whether peace had been declared when your car came bounding up the road. How the devil did you manage it? Yesterday evening the act of putting one's head over the parapet was enough to draw a few shells; but you come sailing up here in a car."

"This is about the most charming joy-ride I have had for many a day," I replied, "but let me introduce myself. I am Malins, the Official Kinematographer, and my friend here is the Official 'still' picture man. We are here to get scenes of the German retreat, but it seems to me that one cannot see Bosche for dust. That is Villers-Carbonel, is it not?" I said, pointing up the road in the distance.

"Yes," he replied.

"Right," I said, "we are going there and on our way back we'll tell you all the news."

With a cheery wave of the hand he bade us adieu, and we started on our journey.

The once beautiful trees which lined the sides of the road were torn to shreds and, in some instances, were completely cut in half by shell-fire and the trunks were strewn across the road. These and the enormous shell-holes made it difficult to proceed at all, but, by clambering over the huge tree trunks, in and out of filthy slime-filled shell-holes, and nearly tearing oneself to pieces on the barbed wire intermingled with the broken branches, we managed at last to reach the village. Not a sound was to be heard. I turned to my companion.

"This is an extraordinary state of affairs, isn't it? In case there are any Bosche rearguard patrols, we'll keep this side of the ruins as much as possible."

The village was practically on the top of a ridge of hills. I stood under the shadow of some tree-stumps and gazed around. What a scene of desolation it was. I got my camera into action and took some excellent scenes, showing what was once a beautiful main road: broken trees flung over it in all directions like so many wisps of straw, and an unimaginable mass of barbed wire entanglements. Then, swinging my camera round, I obtained a panoramic view of the destroyed village. Dotted here and there were the dead bodies of horses and men: how long they had lain there Heaven knows!

While examining the ruins of a building which used to be a bakehouse I received a startling surprise. I was bending down and looking into an empty oven when, with a rush and a clatter, a fine black cat sprang at my legs with a frightened, piteous look in its eyes, and mewed in a strange manner. For a moment I was startled, for the animal clung to my breeches. The poor creature looked half-starved. In its frenzy, it might bite or scratch my leg or hand. Blood-poisoning would be likely to follow. I gently lowered my gloved hand and caressed its head. With a soft purr it relaxed its hold of my leg and dropped to the ground. Feeling more comfortable I unfastened my satchel and, taking out some biscuits, gave them to the poor brute. It ravenously ate them up. My second surprise was to come. A faint scratching and mewing sound came from behind some bread bins in a corner and, as I looked, the black cat sprang forward with a biscuit in its mouth in the direction of the sound. I followed and gently moved the bin aside. The sight there almost brought tears into my eyes. Lying upon some old rags and straw were three tiny kittens. Two were struggling around the mother cat, mewing piteously and trying to nibble at the biscuit she had brought. The other was dead.

The mother cat looked up at me with eyes which were almost human in their expression of thanks. I took out some more biscuits, and breaking them up in an empty tin I picked up from the floor, I poured some water from my bottle on to them, placed it beside the starving group and, leaving a handful near the mother cat, I made their retreat as snug as possible.

Making our way again to the main road I stood by some ruins and looked away in the distance where the Germans had disappeared. What a difference. Here were green fields, gorgeous woods, hills, and dales with winding roads sweeping away out of sight. It reminded me of the feeling Moses must have experienced when he looked upon the Promised Land. Here were no shell-torn fields, no woods beaten out of all semblance to anything, no earth upon which thousands of men had poured out their blood; but, here in front of us, a veritable heaven.

"Come along," I said, "let's explore. If there are any Bosches about they'll soon let us know of their presence. Let's get on to that other ridge; the Somme river should be there somewhere."

We left the village and cautiously followed the road down one hill and up the next. The Germans had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed them up. Not a soul was to be seen; we might have been strolling on the Surrey hills!

I gradually reached the brow of the next ridge. The sight which met my eyes was the most stimulating one I had ever seen from a picture point of view. There, in front of us, at a distance of six hundred yards, was the river Somme—the name which will go down to history as the most momentous in this the bloodiest war the world has ever known.

There it glistened, winding its way north and south like a silver snake.

"Come along," I said, "I shall get the first picture of the Somme," and we raced away down the road.

In calmer moments at home I have admitted that we were mad. Nobody in their right senses would have done such a thing as to rush headlong into country which might have been thick with enemy snipers and machine-guns. But the quietness of the grave reigned—not a rifle-shot disturbed the silence.

Evidence of the German retreat met our gaze as we ran down the road. On either side were discarded material and, in a quarry on the left, a German Red Cross sign was stuck up on a post, and several dug-outs were burning—smoke was pouring up from below, showing that the Hun was destroying everything.

I was brought to a standstill at the sight of a mass of wreckage near the river. Smoke was issuing from it. I looked on my map and saw that it was the village of Brie; a small section was this side of the river, but the main part was on the other side. The whole place had been completely destroyed, partly, I ultimately found out, by our gun-fire, and the remainder burnt or blown up by the Germans.

The river had developed into a swampy marsh; in fact it was very difficult to say precisely where the river and canal finished and the marshes began.

I again got my camera into action and filmed, for the first time, the Somme river which was directly in our line of advance.

The bridges were blown up; huge masses of stone and iron, twisted and torn and flung into the morass of weeds and mud and water, forming small dams, thus diverting the river in all directions. Several scenes on this historic spot I filmed, then, wishing to push forward, I attempted to cross the broken bridges. By careful manoeuvring I managed to cross the first, then the second, but a large gap blown in the roadway about forty feet across, through which the water rushed in a torrent, brought me to a standstill, so reluctantly I had to retrace my steps.

Except for the sound of rushing water the quietness was almost uncanny—the excitement of the chase was over. Then I began to realise our position.

We were in a section of ground which the enemy had occupied only a few hours before and had apparently abandoned—vanished into thin air! We were at least two kilometres in front of our infantry, in fact we had, of our own accord—keen on obtaining live scenes for the people at home—constituted ourselves an advance patrol, armed, not with machine-guns, swords, or lances, but with cameras. There was every possibility of our being taken for Germans ourselves by our men from a distance; the real advance guard coming up would undoubtedly open fire and enquire into credentials afterwards. The ruins across the bridge might hide enemy rifles; they might open fire any moment. I explained the situation to my companion, who had also presumably reached a decision very similar to my own, which was to return to the village of Villers-Carbonel as quickly and as carefully as possible.

Keeping to the side of the road we trudged back, and half-way up the hill we ran into one of the things I expected—an advance party. An officer came forward and said in astonished tones:

"Where the devil have you fellows come from?"

"We've been getting photographs of the German retreat," I replied. "We're the official photographers and have been half-way across the Somme, but owing to the bridge being blown up we have come back. The Germans seem to have vanished entirely, not a sign of one about anywhere."

"Well, I'm ——," he said, "this is the funniest thing I've ever known. Will our advance patrols constitute the official photographers for the future? If so, it will save us any amount of trouble."

"Well?" I said, "you can go on—devil a Bosche is over there anyway."

"Well," he said, "these troops I am taking down will be the first across the Somme."

"Right," I said, seeing immediately the scoop it would be for my film. "I will come back and film your men going over; it will make a unique picture."

With that we retraced our steps, and laughing and chatting about our adventure, we once again reached the Somme river.

I fixed up my camera, and, when all was ready, a rough bridge was hastily made of several planks lashed together to bridge gaps in the fallen stonework, and I filmed the first troops to cross the Somme during the great German retreat.

The light was now failing, so, packing up my apparatus, and waving farewells to the C.O., I turned back again. B—— joined me; the day had been a great one for us, and we mutually agreed that it was a fitting sequel to the first British battle that had ever been filmed which I took at Beaumont Hamel on July 1st, 1916.

Weary in body, but very much alive mentally, we returned via Villers-Carbonel to our car.

On my way back I wondered how the cat and her kittens were getting on.

The black cat had certainly brought me luck.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE GERMANS IN RETREAT

The Enemy Destroy Everything as They Go—Clearing Away the Debris of the Battlefield—And Repairing the Damage Done by the Huns—An Enormous Mine Crater—A Reception by French Peasants—"Les Anglais! Les Anglais!" Stuck on the Road to Bovincourt.

To keep in touch with all the happenings on that section of the front for which I was responsible, and to obtain a comprehensive record of events, it was necessary to keep very wide awake. Movements, definite and indefinite, were taking place in scores of different places at the same moment. To keep in touch with the enemy, to work with our forward patrols, to enter upon the heels of our advance guard into the evacuated villages—and, if possible, to get there first and film their triumphal entry, film our advance infantry and guns taking up new positions, the engineers at work remaking the roads, building new bridges over the Somme, laying down new railways and repairing old ones—the hundred and one different organisations that were working and straining every muscle and nerve for the common cause. Only the favoured few have the remotest idea of the enormous amount of work to be done under such conditions.

The road (which was No Man's Land yesterday morning) to the village of Villers-Carbonel was now swarming with men clearing away the accumulated debris of the battlefield. Tree trunks were moved off the road, shell-holes were being filled up with bricks and branches, trenches, which crossed the road, were being filled in, a Tank trap at the entrance to the village, the shape of a broad, deep ditch, about thirty by twenty feet wide by fifteen feet deep, was being loaded with tree trunks and earth. I filmed these scenes; then hurried as fast as possible in the direction of Brie to cover the advanced work on the Somme, and then to cross to the other side and get in touch with our cavalry patrols.

What an extraordinary change in the place! Yesterday a ghostly silence reigned; now men and material and transport were swarming everywhere. I reached the river. The engineers had thrown up light, temporary bridges—six in all. Huge iron girders had arrived from back behind; they had been made in readiness for "The Day." Our H.Q. had known that the Germans in their inevitable retreat would destroy the bridges, so, to save time, duplicates were built in sections, ready to throw across the gap.

I managed to arrive in time to film several squadrons of the Duke of Lancaster's cavalry hurrying forward to harass the enemy. Cyclist patrols were making their way over. I hurried as fast as possible through the ruins of Brie and on to the ridge beyond. In the distance I watched our cavalry deploying in extended order and advance towards a wood to clear it of the enemy rearguards. Motor-cyclists, with their machine-guns, were dashing up the hill anxious to get into contact with the flying enemy. I filmed many scenes in this section.

I looked along the road which was the main one into St. Quentin; it stretched away as far as the eye could see. The condition is certainly excellent, I thought. There would be a greater possibility of obtaining exciting scenes if it were possible to proceed in my car; the only question was whether the temporary bridges across the Somme were capable of sustaining the weight. The possibility of getting into villages just evacuated by the Germans spurred me on, so retracing my steps, I reached the river again.

"Do you think the bridge will take the weight of my car?" I asked an officer in charge of engineers.

"What is it?"

"Daimler," I replied.

"Well," he said, "there is a risk, of course, but our G.S. wagons have been across and also the artillery, so they may take your bus—if you don't bounce her in crossing."

"Right-o!" I said. "I will get it down." Hurrying across I had just reached the last bridge when, with a sudden snap, one of the main beams gave way. All traffic was, of course, stopped, and engineers quickly got to work replacing the broken girder.

"It will be at least another hour, sir," said a sergeant in answer to my enquiry. So there was nothing for it but to curb my impatience and wait, and I stood my apparatus down and watched the proceedings.

At that moment a car came to a standstill alongside me.

"What's wrong?" called out one of the occupants.

"Broken bridge," I said. "I'm waiting to cross with my car to get films of the villages and the occupants."

"That's good," said the speaker, a captain. "I am going up to them as well. Intelligence I heard from our airmen this morning that they saw civilians in one or two villages a few miles out—so I'm off to investigate. Would you care to come? We shall be the first there."

"Yes, rather," I replied. "It will be a fine scoop for me to film the first meeting of British troops in the liberated villages. I will follow in my car."



The bridge was again complete, so, dumping my camera aboard, I followed in the wake of the captain. Up the hill we dashed and spun along the road at the top, passing beyond the outskirts of Brie. We were now beyond the extreme limit of the shelling which we had subjected the Germans to during their months of occupation.

I was now beginning to see the sights and view the atrocious system and regularity of wilful destruction which had obviously been planned months before by the Huns to carry out Hindenburg's orders and make the whole land a desert. Not a tree was standing; whole orchards were hewn down; every fruit tree and bush was destroyed; hedges were cut at the base as if with a razor; even those surrounding cemeteries were treated in the same way. Agricultural implements were smashed. Mons en Chaussee was the first village we entered; every house was a blackened smoking ruin, and where the fiends had not done their work with fire they had brought dynamite to their aid; whole blocks of buildings had been blown into the air; there was not sufficient cover for a dog.

The car suddenly came to a standstill; my driver jammed on his brake and I hurried forward. There, at the middle of the village cross-roads was another enormous mine-crater—one hundred feet across by about sixty feet deep. It was quite impassable, but the sight which astounded me was to see about twenty old women and children running up the road the other side of the crater shouting and waving their arms with joy. "Les Anglais! Les Anglais!" they yelled. I got my camera into position and filmed the captain and his companions as they clambered round the jagged lip of the crater and were embraced by the excited people. For the first time since their captivity by the Germans they had seen "les Anglais." Liberators and captives met!

Several scenes I filmed of the enormous crater and of the cut-down fruit trees. Not a single tree, old or young, was left standing. To blow up roads, and hew down telegraph poles was war, and such measures are justified; but to destroy every tree or bush that could possibly bear fruit, wilfully to smash up agricultural implements; to shoot a dog and tie a label to its poor body written in English: