I Start for the Vosges—Am Arrested on the Swiss Frontier—And Released—But Arrested Again—And then Allowed to Go My Way—Filming in the Firing Zone—A Wonderful French Charge Over the Snow-clad Hills—I Take Big Risks—And Get a Magnificent Picture.
The man who wants to film a fight, unlike the man who wants to describe it, must be really on the spot. A comfortable corner in the Hôtel des Quoi, at Boulogne, is no use to the camera man.
"Is it possible to film actual events with the French troops in the Vosges and Alsace?" I was asked when I got back after my last adventure.
"If the public wants those films," I replied, "the public must have them." And without any previous knowledge of the district, or its natural difficulties, apart from the normal military troubles to which by that time I was hardened, I set out for Paris, determined to plan my route according to what I learned there. And for the rest I knew it would be luck that would determine the result, because other camera men had attempted to cover the same district, men who knew everything there was to be known in the way of getting on the spot, and all had been turned back with trifling success.
For various reasons, among them the claims of picturesqueness, St. Dié struck me as the best field, and to get there it is necessary to make a detour into Switzerland. From Geneva, where I arranged for transport of my films in case of urgent need, much as an Arctic explorer would leave supplies of food behind him on his way to the Pole, I arranged in certain places that if I was not heard from at certain dates and certain times, enquiries were to be made, diplomatically, for me.
From Basle I went to the Swiss frontier, and had a splendid view of the Alsace country, which was in German possession. German and Swiss guards stood on either side of the boundary, and they made such a picturesque scene that I filmed them, which was nearly disastrous. A gendarme pounced on me at once, took me to general headquarters and then back to Perrontruy, where I was escorted through the streets by an armed guard.
At the military barracks I was thoroughly examined by the chief of the staff, who drew my attention to a military notice, prohibiting any photographing of Swiss soldiery. He decided that my offence was so rank that it must go before another tribunal, and off I was marched to Delemont, where a sort of court-martial was held on me. My film, of course, was confiscated; that was the least I could expect, but they also extracted a promise in writing that I would not take any more photographs in Switzerland, and they gave me a few hours to leave the country, by way of Berne.
That didn't suit me at all. Berne was too far away from my intended destination, and, after a hurried study of the map, I decided to chance it, and go to Biel. I did. So did the man told off to watch me. And when I left the train at Biel he arrested me. I am afraid I sang "Rule Britannia" very loudly to those good gentlemen before whom he took me, claiming the right of a British citizen to do as he liked, within reason, in a neutral country.
In the result they told me to get out of the country any way I liked, if only I would get out, and, as my opinion was much the same, we parted good friends.
I had lost a week, and many feet of good film, which showed me that the difficulties I should have to face in my chosen field of operations were by far the greatest I had up to then encountered in any of my trips to the firing line. I pushed on through Besançon on the way to Belfort.
Now Belfort, being a fortified town, was an obviously impossible place for me to get into, because I shouldn't get out again in a hurry. So I took a slow train, descended at a small station on the outskirts, prepared to make my way across country to Remiremont. This I achieved, very slowly, and with many difficulties, by means of peasants' carts and an occasional ride on horseback.
This brought me into the firing zone, and the region of snow. My danger was increased, and my mode of progress more difficult, because for the first time in my life I had to take to skis. So many people have told the story of their first attempts with these that I will content myself with saying that, after many tumbles, I became roughly accustomed to them, and that when sledge transport was not available, I was able to make my way on ski. I don't suppose anyone else has ever learned to ski under such queer conditions, with the roar of big guns rumbling round all the time, with my whole expedition trembling every moment in the balance.
The end of my journey to St. Dié was the most dramatic part of the whole business. Tired out, I saw a café on the outskirts of the village, which I thought would serve me as a reconnoitring post, so I went in and ordered some coffee. I had not been there five minutes when some officers walked in, and drew themselves up sharply when they saw a stranger there, in a mud-stained costume that might have been a British army uniform. I decided to take the bold course. I rose, saluted them, and in my Anglo-French wished them good evening. They returned my greeting and sat down, conversing in an undertone, with an occasional side-flung glance at me. I saw that my attack would have to be pushed home, especially as I caught the word "espion," or my fevered imagination made me think I did.
I rose and crossed to their table, all smiles, and in my best French heartily agreed with them that one has to be very careful in war time about spies. In fact, I added, I had no doubt they took me for one.
This counter-attack—and possibly the very noticeable Britishness of my accent—rather confused them. Happily one of them spoke a little English, and, with that and my little French, satisfactory explanations were made.
I affected no secrecy about my object, and asked them frankly if it would be possible for pictures of their regiment to be taken. One of them promised to speak to the Commandant about it. I begged them not to trouble about it, however, as really all I wanted was a hint as to when and where an engagement was probable, and then I would manage to be there.
They shrugged their shoulders in a most grimly expressive way.
"If you do that it will be at your own risk," they said.
I gladly accepted the risk, and they then told me of one or two vantage points in the district from which I might manage to see something of the operations, taking my chance, of course, of anything happening near enough to be photographed, as they could not, and quite rightly would not, say anything as to the plans for the future.
It was not quite midday. I had at least four hours of daylight, and I determined not to lose them. It was obvious that my stay in St. Dié would be very brief at the best. I hired a sledge and persuaded the driver to take me part of the way at least to the nearest point which the officers had mentioned.
But neither he nor his horse liked the way the shells were coming around, and at last even his avarice refused to be stimulated further at the expense of his courage. So I strapped on my skis, thankful for my earlier experience with them, and sped towards a wood which French soldiers were clearing of German snipers. I managed to get one or two good incidents there, though occasional uncertainty about my skis spoiled other fine scenes, and in my haste to move from one spot to another, I once went head over heels into a snowdrift many feet deep.
The ludicrous spectacle that I must have cut only occurred to me afterwards, and the utterly inappropriate nature of such an incident within sight of men who were battling in life and death grip was a reflection for calmer moments. I do not mind confessing that my sole thought during the whole of that afternoon was my camera and my films. The lust of battle was in me too. I had overcome great difficulties to obtain not merely kinema-pictures, but actual vivid records of the Great War, scenes that posterity might look upon as true representations of the struggle their forefathers waged. Military experts may argue as to whether this move or that was really made in a battle: the tales of soldiers returned from the wars become, in passing from mouth to mouth, fables of the most wondrous deeds of prowess. But the kinema film never alters. It does not argue. It depicts.
The terrific cannonade that was proceeding told me that beyond the crest of the hill an infantry attack was preparing. It was for me a question of finding both a vantage point and good cover, for shells had already whizzed screaming overhead and exploded not many yards behind me. There were the remains of a wall ahead, and I discarded my skis in order to crawl flat on my stomach to one of the larger remaining fragments, and when I got behind it I found a most convenient hole, which would allow me to work my camera without being exposed myself.
In the distance a few scouts, black against the snow, crawled crouching up the hill.
The attack was beginning.
The snow-covered hill-side became suddenly black with moving figures sweeping in irregular formation up towards the crest. Big gun and rifle fire mingled like strophe and antistrophe of an anthem of death. There was a certain massiveness about the noise that was awful. Yet there was none of the traditional air of battle about the engagement. There was no hand to hand fighting, for the opponents were several hundred yards apart. It was just now and then when one saw a little distant figure pitch forward and lie still on the snow that one realised there was real fighting going on, and that it was not man[oe]uvres.
The gallant French troops swept on up the hill, and I think I was the only man in all that district who noted the black trail of spent human life they left behind them.
I raised myself ever so little to glance over the top of my scrap of sheltering wall, and away across the valley, on the crest of the other hill, I could see specks which were the Germans. They appeared to be massing ready for a charge, but the scene was too far away for the camera to record it with any distinctness.
I therefore swept round again to the French lines, to meet the splendid sight of the French reserves dashing up over the hill behind me to the support. Every man seemed animated by the one idea—to take the hill. There was a swing, an air of irresistibility about them that was magnificent. But even in the midst of enthusiasm my trained sense told me that my position must have been visible to some of them, and that it was time for me to move.
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. Dié 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 Besançon, 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, Armentières and Plœgsteert, 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 Plœgsteert 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 Plœgsteert 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 château, 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 château. 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 débris 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 Bassée Road—the most fiercely contested stretch in that part of the country. It was literally lined with shell-destroyed houses, large and small; châteaux 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."