"Right-o!" said the Captain. "Who are you taking?"
"—— for one, and a few men—the same lot that have been across with me before. H.Q. specially want to know the actual results of the heavy 'strafe.' They are going to cease fire to-night, between twelve and one. I want to find out where their machine guns are fixed up——" And so the conversation went on.
At that moment another officer came in, and I got him to show me round "Jacob's Ladder." We went through "King Street" again, and followed the trench until we arrived at the place. The formation of this point was extraordinary.
A stranger coming upon it for the first time would undoubtedly get a slight shock for, upon turning into a traverse, you come abruptly upon an open space, as if the trench had been sliced off, leaving an opening from which you could look down upon our front line trenches, not only upon them but well in front of them.
I was on the bank of a small valley; leading down from this position were about twenty-five steps, hence the name "Jacob's Ladder." Our parapet still followed down, like the handrail of a staircase, only of course much higher.
The position from a photographic point of view was admirable, and I doubt whether on any other part of our front such a suitable point could be found. "Jove!" I said, "this is the ideal place. I will definitely decide upon it."
"If you look carefully over here you will see the Bosche line quite plainly. They are about seventy yards away, and at that point we are going to put a barrage of fire on their second line with our Stokes guns. We are going to do that from 'Sunken Road,' midway in 'No Man's Land.' Can you see it there?"
"Yes," I replied; "splendid. As soon as I have got the mine exploding, and our men going over the parapet and across 'No Man's Land,' I can immediately—if all's well—swing my camera on to the barrage and film that. This is a wonderful position."
"It rests entirely with Fritz now. If he does not crump this place you will be all right, but they are sure to plaster our front trench as soon as they see us go over."
"Well, I must risk that," I said.
And we turned and retraced our steps to the "White City," where I bade my companion good night, and returned to film the scene of the General's speech to his men the following morning.
CHAPTER XII
filming under fire
The General's Speech to the Fusiliers Before Going Into Action—Filming the 15-inch Howitzers—A Miniature Earthquake—"The Day" is Postponed—Keeping Within "The Limits"—A Surprise Meeting in the Trenches—A Reminder of Other Days—I Get Into a Tight Corner—And Have An Unpleasantly Hot Experience—I Interview a Trench Mortar—Have a Lively Quarter of an Hour—And Then Get Off.
Rain, rain, rain. It was like a dull, dismal December night. Owing to the tramping of hundreds of feet up and down the trenches, they became like a quagmire. We slipped and slid, clutching to the sticky, clay walls, and floundering up to our knees in holes, and, to make matters worse, Bosche, who knew that this was the time we brought up fresh munitions, crumped the Fifth Avenue as hard as he could. One or two shells crashed into the trench on the way up, and I had to pass over two working parties (by the aid of a candle-light, screened) searching for, and placing the remains of their comrades in sacks.
Good God! it's a hellish game; and the terror of war gripped one's heartstrings that night. The momentary flash of the exploding shells lighted up the faces of the men with ghastly vividness, some grinding out curses then groping blindly on. I was glad when the journey was ended, and I turned into a dug-out in the village to rest for the night.
Next morning a misty, drizzly pall still hung over everything. I wondered how in the world our men were going to attack under such conditions, and to-morrow was "The Day." I pitied them with all my heart and soul. And then I thought of myself, and my own particular job. I couldn't possibly "take" in such disgusting weather. The result would be an absolute failure. I controlled my feelings, and hoped for the best.
The time arrived for the General's speech. Reaching the field, I found all the men mustered up. The General had just arrived. I started to film the scenes as they presented themselves to me. Jove! The speech was the most impressive that I had ever heard. I will give it as it was spoken, as near as I can. I do not think that it has been published before:
"Officers and men of the West Riding Field Company, R.E., and — Battalion, Royal Fusiliers:
"I hoped yesterday to be able to come and wish you good luck, on the first anniversary of the engagement in Gully Ravine, there the Royal Fusiliers took the Turkish fifth line of trenches. Owing to the rain, however, and to the discomfort to which you would have been placed, I postponed my visit until to-day.
"I want to tell you something of the situation as it now stands. You are probably aware that we are now taking part in the greatest battle ever fought by British troops. Not only is it of far more importance than any fight since Waterloo, but the numbers engaged far exceed any assembly of troops in former days. The strength of this army,—the Fourth Army—under General Sir H. S. Rawlinson, is —— times as large as the force of British troops at Mons, when we first came out a year and a half ago.
"The importance of winning a great victory is so great that nothing has been left undone to ensure success. But the higher Commanders know—and I know—that all the best arrangements in the world cannot win battles. Battles are won by infantry, and it is to the battalions like yourself that we look to gain a great victory, equal to the great victory which the Russians have obtained this month.
"The Germans are shut in all round. On their northern flank they are shut in by the British Navy, on the eastern flank pressed back by the Russians, on the southern flank the Italians are advancing, and this week, on the western flank, certain Divisions of the French and many Divisions of the British are determined to break their line and drive them back to their own country.
"Officers and men of the — Battalion, the Royal Fusiliers: You are very fortunate in having this opportunity to add to the high honours already gained by your distinguished regiment. Not only, however, are you fighting for your battalion and your regiment, you are fighting to maintain against the Germans the same high reputation which you have won for the —— Division on the Gallipoli Peninsula. More than that, you are fighting for your country, and also you are fighting for Christianity and Humanity. You are fighting for truth and justice against oppression. We are fighting for our liberty against slavery.
"It is now thirty-three years since I was first associated with the Royal Fusiliers, the regiment I have looked up to during all my service as a pattern of smartness and efficiency. I have served with you in Gibraltar, Egypt, and many stations in India; also at Aldershot, and on the Gallipoli Peninsula during the past year. There is no regiment in the service in which I have had a higher confidence, and I hope next week to be able to assemble you again and to congratulate you on the great victory that you are going to win for me, as commanding this Division, and for your country."
The faces of the men shone with a new light. It seemed as if they had seen a sight which other mortals were not allowed to look upon. As upright as poplars, chests well forward and heads thrown back, their souls seemed to speak out of their inflexible determination to win. They marched away, going to that stretch of land from which many have never returned—giving their lives for freedom and the honour of England.
I turned and gave a parting wave of the hand to a group of officers standing by.
"See you to-night," I said, "at the 'White City.' We will drink to the health of 'The Day,'" and with a parting laugh I moved a way.
I found out through H.Q. that some of our 15-inch howitzers were in the vicinity, so I decided to film them without delay, to work them into the story of the battle. I discovered their position on my map. I reached the battery. The state of the ground was indescribable. It was more like a "sea of mud," and standing in the middle of this morass was the giant gun, for all the world like a horrible frog squatting on its haunches. Each time it breathed it belched out flame and smoke with the most unearthly crash that could possibly be produced, and with each breath there flew with it a mass of metal and high explosive weighing fourteen hundred pounds, scattering death and destruction for hundreds of yards round the point of impact in the German defences, so that our boys might find it easier to force their way through.
I filmed the firing several times, from various points of view, and when standing only about fifteen yards away the concussion shook the ground like a miniature earthquake. On one occasion, indeed, it lifted my camera and tripod in the air, driving it crashing into my chest. I had unknowingly placed myself in the danger zone which forms a semi-circle on either side of the muzzle when fired, the force being at times so great as to tear trees up by the roots and send them crashing to the ground.
The prospects for "The Day" were certainly bad. As one burly Lancashire lad said to me: "the Devil was looking after his own; but we are going to beat them, sir." That was the spirit of all the men I met there.
I went direct to B.H.Q. to get a full supply of film stock before going to the front line. I wished to get there early, to have a final look round and a discussion with the officers.
A man I knew was there, looking for all the world like a man down and out. He had a face as long as a fiddle, and several other officers were looking just as glum. "You're a cheerful lot," I said. "What's up? Anything wrong?"
"Yes, rather," they replied, "the —— day is postponed for forty-eight hours."
"Great Scott! Why?" I asked.
"The weather," he answered laconically. "It's quite impossible for our chaps to go over the top in such sticky stuff. They wouldn't stand an earthly. As I said before, it's doing its best to upset the whole affair. I know the men will be awfully disappointed. We can hardly hold them back now—but there, I suppose the Commander-in-Chief knows best. Undoubtedly it's a wise decision. The weather may break—God knows it couldn't be worse!"
At that moment the Brigade-General came in. He was looking quite bright.
"I hear 'The Day' has been postponed, sir," I said. "Is that official?"
"Yes," he said. "If the weather improves ever such a little it will pay us for waiting, and of course it will suit you much better?"
"Rather," I replied. "It also gives me more time to film the preliminary scenes. I shall, however, keep to my programme, and go to the trenches this afternoon."
I packed all my apparatus together, put some bully and biscuits in my bag, and started off once more for the trenches. I admit that on the journey thoughts crept into my mind, and I wondered whether I should return. Outwardly I was merry and bright, but inwardly—well, I admit I felt a bit nervous. And yet, I had an instinctive feeling that all would be well, that I need not worry. Such is the complex mystery of the human mind, battling within itself against its own knowledge, its own decisions, its own instincts. And yet there is a predominating force which seems to shuffle itself out of the midst of that chaotic state of mind, and holds itself up as a beacon-light, saying "Follow me, believe in me, let me guide you, all will be well." And it is the man who allows himself to be guided by that mysterious something, which for the want of a better name we may call "instinct," who benefits, both spiritually and materially, by it.
The usual big gun duel was proceeding with its usual intensity, but we were putting over about fifty shells to the Huns' one. "Crump" fell both ahead and behind me, compelling me, as before, to fall flat upon the ground. I reached the "Fifth Avenue." The trench was full of men taking down munitions. The news of the postponement had by some means reached them; they also were looking rather glum.
Ye Gods, I thought, it's very nearly worth while to risk walking along the top. In places there was quite two feet of mud and water to wallow through.
"Fritz is crumping down the bottom of the Avenue, sir," said a Tommy to me; "just caught several of our lads—dirty blighters: right in the trench, sir."
"Thanks," I replied.
Thinking there might be an opportunity of getting some scenes of shell-bursts, I hurried on as fast as conditions would permit. With men coming up, and myself and others going down, with full packs on, it was most difficult to squeeze past each other. At times it was impossible, so climbing up on to the parapet, I crawled into another traverse further along.
Just then another shell burst lower down, but well away from the trench, hurting no one. I eventually reached the "White City" without mishap, and was greeted enthusiastically by the officers present.
"What's the programme now?"
"I am waiting for the final kick-off," I said. "Are you going to give me a good show? And don't forget," I said, "hold back some of your bayonet-work on Fritz until I get there with my machine."
"But you're not coming after us with that affair, are you?"
"Yes, certainly; bet your life I shan't be far behind. As soon as you get into Bosche trenches I shall be there; so don't forget—get there."
From the corner some one shouted: "Tell brother Fritz if he gets out of 'the limits,' won't you?" This remark caused much laughter.
"Where have you heard that term used?" I enquired. "'Limits' is a technical term."
"Yes, I heard it used once, a year or two ago. I was staying at a small place called Steyning, near Brighton. A Film Company was taking scenes in the village and on the downs. They had about two hundred horsemen and an immense crowd, and were rehearsing a scene for what I was told was a representation of the Battle of Worcester. It was some fight. The camera man was continually shouting out to them to keep in 'the limits' (I assumed he meant the angle of view). As I say, it was some fight. Everything went well until a section of the men, who were supposed to run away, got a few genuine knocks on the head and, wishing to get their own back, they continued fighting. It was the funniest thing in the world. Of course the camera was stopped, and the scene retaken."
"That's extraordinary," I replied. "Do you know that I was the chap who filmed that scene? it was for a film play called 'King Charles.' It's very peculiar how one meets. I remember that incident quite well."
I again filmed various scenes of the Germans "strafing" our lines. Our guns, as usual, were crashing out. They were pouring concentrated fire on the Hawthorn Redoubt, a stronghold of the Germans, and thinking it would yield an excellent picture, I made my way to a point of vantage, whence I could get an unobstructed field of view. There was only one place, and that was a point directly opposite. To get there it was necessary to cross a sunken road about twenty-five feet wide. But it was under continual fire from German machine guns, and being broad daylight it was absolutely asking for trouble, thick and unadulterated, to attempt to cross it. I was advised not to do so, and I admit I ought to have taken the advice. Anyway, the opportunity of getting such a fine scene of a barrage of fire was too strong, and for once my cautionary instincts were at fault.
To reach the sunken road was comparatively easy. You had only to walk along our front line trench, and fall down flat on the ground when a German shell burst near you, then proceed. I reached the junction where the road ran across at right angles, and from the shelter of our parapet the road looked the quietest place on earth. It appeared easy enough to me to jump up quickly, run across and drop on the further side in our trench.
"Ridiculously easy! I'm going across," I said to my man. "When I'm over I'll throw a cord across for you to tie my tripod on to; then I'll pull it across. It will save you attempting it."
I tied the camera on my shoulders, so as to have my arms quite free. I was now ready. The firing was renewed with redoubled vigour. Shells I could see were falling on the Hun lines like hailstones. "Jove!" I said to myself, "I shall miss it. Here goes."
Clambering up to the road level, I sprawled out flat and lay perfectly still for a few seconds, with my heart jumping like a steam engine. Nothing happened. I gradually drew up my leg, dug the toe of my boot in the ground, and pushed myself forward bit by bit. So far, so good: I was half-way across. I was congratulating myself on my easy task. "What in the world am I lying here for?" I asked myself; "why shouldn't I run the remaining distance?" And suiting the action to the word, I got up—and found trouble! I had barely raised myself to my hands and knees when, with a rattle and a rush, a stream of bullets came swishing by, some striking the ground on my left, about nine feet away.
I took the whole situation in in a flash. To lie there was almost certain death; to stand up was worse; to go back was as bad as going forward. What happened afterwards I don't know. I could hear the bullets whizzing by my head with an ugly hiss. The next moment, with a jump and a spring, I landed head first in the trench on the opposite side. For the moment I did not know whether I was hit or not. I unstrapped my camera, to see if it had caught any bullets, but, thank Heaven, they had cleared it. Some of our men were standing looking aghast at me, and wondering what the devil it was that had made such a sudden dive into their midst. The look on their faces was just too funny for words; I had to roar with laughter, and, realising that I was safe, they also joined in.
But I was not out of the wood yet, for brother Fritz immediately turned "whizz-bangs" on to us. "Phut-bang," "phut-bang," they came. Every one scampered for cover. Needless to say, I did so too. Five minutes went by. All the time these souvenirs dropped around us, but luckily none of them got any direct hits on our trench.
I thought I would wait another five minutes, to see if Bosche would cease fire. But not he. He was rather cross about my crossing the road safely.
Time went by. Still the firing continued. I decided to risk throwing the cord and pulling over my tripod. Keeping low, I yelled to my man: he, like a sage, had also taken cover, but hearing my shouts came out.
"The rope is coming," I yelled. "Tug it as a signal, when you have it."
Three times I threw it before I received the welcome tug at the other end. Then a voice shouted: "Pull away, sir."
I pulled. I had to do it gently, otherwise the broken nature of the ground might damage the head. At last it was safely over, but Bosche had seen something moving across; then he turned his typewriter on again. More bullets flew by, but with the exception of one which struck the metal revolving top and sliced out a piece as evenly as if it had been done by machine, no harm was caused.
I bade one of the men shoulder my tripod. We rushed up the trench as fast as possible, and I thanked Heaven for my escape. When I reached the section where I judged it best to fit up my camera, I gently peeped over the parapet. What a sight. Never in my life had I seen such a hurricane of fire. It was inconceivable that any living thing could exist anywhere near it. The shells were coming over so fast and furious that it seemed as if they must be touching each other on their journey through the air.
To get my camera up was the work of a few seconds. I had no time to put any covering material over it. The risk had to be run, the picture was worth it. Up went my camera well above the parapet and, quickly sighting my object, I started to expose. Swinging the machine first one way then the other, I turned the handle continuously. Pieces of shell were flying and ripping past close overhead. They seemed to get nearer every time. Whether they were splinters from the bursting shells or bullets from machine guns I could not tell, but it got so hot at last that I judged it wise to take cover. I had exposed sufficient film for my purpose, so quickly unscrewing the camera, my man taking the tripod, I hurried into a dug-out for cover. "Jove!" I thought, mopping the perspiration from my head, "quite near enough to be healthy!"
Although the men were all taking cover, they were as happy as crickets over this "strafe." There is nothing a Tommy likes more than to see our artillery plastering Bosche trenches into "Potsdam."
"Well, what's the next move?" I was asked.
"Trench Mortars," I said. "Both 'Flying Pigs' and 'Plum Puddings' ought to make topping scenes."
"Yes," the Captain said. "They are in action this afternoon, and I am in charge of H.T.M. I'll give you a good show. I have only one pit available, as Fritz dropped a 'crump' in the other yesterday, and blew the whole show to smithereens. My sergeant was sitting smoking at the time, and when she blew up it lifted him clean out of the trench, without even so much as scratching him. He turned round to me, and cursed Bosche for spoiling his smoke. He's promised to get his own back on 'Brother Fritz.' Bet your life he will too."
He had hardly ceased speaking, when our dug-out shook as if a mine had gone up close by. I tumbled out, followed by the others. Lumps of earth fell on our heads; I certainly thought the roof was coming in on us. Getting into the trench, the bombardment was still going strong, and looking on my left I saw a dense cloud of smoke in our own firing trench.
"What in the world's up?" I enquired of a man close by.
"Dunno, sir," he said. "I believe it's a Bosche mine. It made enough fuss to be one, yet it seems in such an extraordinary position."
"How about getting round to have a look at it?" I said to ——.
"Right-o," he said; "but you know we can't cross the road there. I think if we back well down, about one hundred yards, we may nip across into No. 2 Avenue. That'll bring us out near 'Jacob's Ladder.'"
"Lead on," I said. "I wish I had known. I came in across the road there," pointing down our firing trench.
"You've got more pluck than I have," he said. "You can congratulate yourself that you are alive. Anyway, come on."
Eventually I reached "Jacob's Ladder," and asked an officer what had happened.
"I don't know," he said; "but whatever it was, it's smashed our front trench for about eighty yards: it's absolutely impassable."
Another officer came running up at that moment. "I say," he said, "there's a scene up there for you. A trench mortar gun had a premature burst, and exploded all the munition in the pit; blew the whole lot—men and all—to pieces. It's made a crater thirty yards across. It's a beastly wreck. Can't use that section of the front line. And to make matters worse, Fritz is pumping over tear-shells. Everybody is tickled to death with the fumes."
"Don't cheer me up, will you?" I remarked. "I'm going to film the trench mortar this afternoon, both the H.T.M. and the 2-inch Gee. I can thank my lucky stars I didn't decide to do them earlier. Anyway, here goes; the light is getting rather poor."
The officer with whom I was talking kindly offered to guide me to the spot. Crumps were still falling, and so was the rain. "We'll go through 'Lanwick Street,' then bear to the left, and don't forget to keep your head down."
There are two things I detest more than anything else in the trenches: they are "whizz-bangs" and rats. The latter got mixed up in my feet as I was walking through the trench, and one, more impudent than the rest, when I crouched down to avoid a burst, jumped on to my back and sprang away into the mud.
"We will turn back and go by way of 'White City,' then up King Street. It may be cooler there." It certainly was not healthy in this neighbourhood.
Turning back, I bade my man follow close behind. Entering the main trench, I hurried along, and was quite near the King Street turning when a Hun "crump" came tearing overhead. I yelled out to my man to take cover, and crushed into the entrance of a dug-out myself. In doing so, I upset a canteen of tea over a bucket-fire which one of our lads was preparing to drink. His remarks were drowned in the explosion of the shell, which landed barely twenty-five feet away.
"Now then," I called to my man, "run for it into King Street," and I got there just in time to crouch down and escape another "crump" which came hurtling over. In a flash I knew it was coming very near: I crouched lower. It burst with a sickening sound. It seemed just overhead. Dirt and rubble poured over me as I lay there. I rushed to the corner to see where it had struck. It had landed only twelve feet from the dug-out entrance which I had left only a few seconds before, and it had killed the two men whom I had crushed against, and for the loss of whose tea I was responsible.
It was not the time or place to hang about, so I hurried to the trench-mortar pit to finish my scenes whilst daylight lasted.
I met the officer in charge of the T.M.
"Keep your head down," he shouted, as I turned round a traverse. "Our parapet has been practically wiped out, and there is a sniper in the far corner of the village. He has been dropping his pellets into my show all day, and Fritz has been splashing me with his 'Minnies' to try and find my gun, but he will never get it. Just look at the mess around."
I was looking. It would have beaten the finest Indian scout to try and distinguish the trench from the débris and honeycomb of shell-holes.
"Where the deuce is your outfit?" I said, looking round.
"You follow me, but don't show an inch of head above. Look out." Phut-bang came a pip-squeak. It struck and burst about five yards in front of us. "Brother Fritz is confoundedly inconsiderate," he said. "He seems to want all the earth to himself. Come on; we'll get there this time, and run for it."
After clambering, crawling, running and jumping, we reached a hole in the ground, into which the head and shoulders of a man were just disappearing.
"This is my abode of love," said my guide. "How do you like it?"
I looked down, and at the depth of about twelve feet was a trench mortar. The hole itself was, of course, boarded round with timber, and was about seven feet square. There was a gallery leading back under our parapet for the distance of about eighty feet, and in this were stored the bombs. The men also sheltered there.
I let myself down with my camera and threaded by the numerous "plum puddings" lying there: I fixed my camera up and awaited the order for the men to commence firing.
"Are you ready?" came a voice from above.
"Right, sir," replied the sergeant. I began exposing my film.
"Fire!" the T.M. officer shouted down.
Fire they did, and the concussion nearly knocked me head over heels. I was quite unprepared for such a backblast. Before they fired again, I got a man to hold down the front leg of my tripod. The gun was recharged; the order to fire was given, the lanyard was pulled, but no explosion.
"Hullo, another——"
"Misfire," was the polite remark of the sergeant. "Those fuses are giving us more trouble than enough."
Another detonator was put on, everything was ready again. Another tug was given. Again no explosion.
Remembering the happenings of the morning in another pit, when a premature burst occurred, I felt anything but comfortable. Sitting in the middle of about one hundred trench mortar bombs, visions of the whole show going up came to me.
Another detonator was put in. "Fire," came the order. Again it failed.
"Look here, sergeant," I said, "if that bally thing happens again I'm off."
"The blessed thing has never been so bad before, sir. Let's have one more try."
Still another detonator was put in. I began turning the handle of my camera. This time it was successful.
"That's all I want," I said. "I'm off. Hand me up my camera. And with due respect to your gun," I said to the T.M. officer, "you might cease fire until I am about fifty yards away. I don't mind risking Brother Fritz's 'strafe,' but I do object to the possibility of being scattered to the four winds of heaven by our own shells." And with a laugh and good wishes, I left him.
"I say," he called out, "come into my dug-out to-night, will you? It's just in front of Fifth Avenue. I shall be there in about half an hour; I have got to give Fritz a few more souvenirs to go on with. There is a little more wire left over there, and the C.O. wants it all 'strafed' away. Do come, won't you? So long. See you later. Keep your head down."
"Right-o!" I said, with a laugh. "Physician, heal thyself. A little higher, and you might as well be sitting on the parapet." He turned round sharply, then dropped on his knees.
"Strafe that bally parapet. I forgot all about it. Fire!" he yelled, and I laughed at the pleasure he was getting out of blowing up Fritz.
I scrambled and slithered back into the recognised trench again, and on my way back filmed the H.T.M., or "Flying Pig," in action. By this time it was getting rather dull, so going to a dug-out, I dropped my apparatus, and had another final look at the position from which I was going to film the great attack in the morning.
CHAPTER XIII
the dawn of july first
A Firework Display Heralds the Arrival of "The Day"—How the Boys Spent Their Last Few Hours in the Trenches—Rats as Bedfellows—I Make an Early Start—And Get Through a Mine-shaft into "No Man's Land"—The Great Event Draws Near—Anxious Moments—The Men Fix Bayonets—And Wait the Word of Command to "Go Over the Top."
Darkness came, and with it a host of star-shells, or Verey lights, which were shot up high in the air from both the German and our own trenches. They looked for all the world like a huge firework display at the Crystal Palace.
Rain had ceased. The heavens were studded with countless millions of stars. "Great prospects for to-morrow," said one. "I hope it's fine, for the sake of the boys. They are as keen as mustard to go over the top."
As we talked, batch after batch of men came gliding by in their full kit, smoking and chatting. While I was standing there hundreds must have passed me in that narrow trench, quietly going to their allotted positions. Now and again sharp orders were given by their officers.
"How's your section, sergeant? Are you fitted up?"
"Yes, sir," came a voice from the blackness.
"Now, lads, come along: get through as quickly as possible. Post your sentries at once, and be sharp."
It was not long before little red fires were gleaming out of the dug-out entrances, and crowds of men were crouching round, heating their canteens of water, some frying pieces of meat, others heating soup, and all the time laughing and carrying on a most animated conversation. From other groups came the subdued humming of favourite songs. Some were cursing and swearing, but with such a bluntness that, if I may say so, it seemed to take all the profanity from the words.
And these men knew they were going "over the top" in the morning. The day which they had dreamed of was about to materialise. They knew that many would not be alive to-morrow night, yet I never saw a sad face nor heard a word of complaint. My feeling whilst watching these men in the glow of the firelight was almost indescribable. I was filled with awe at their behaviour. I reverenced them more than I had ever done before; and I felt like going down on my knees and thanking God I was an Englishman. No words of mine can fitly describe this wonderful scene. And all the time more men, and still more men, were pouring into the trenches, and munitions of all descriptions were being served out.
The bursting German shells, and the shrieks overhead of the missiles from our own guns, were for the moment forgotten in the immensity of the sights around me. I turned and groped the way back to my shelter and, as I did so, our fire increased in intensity. This was the prelude to the greatest attack ever made in the history of the world, and ere the sun set on the morrow many of these heroes—the Lancashire Fusiliers, Royal Fusiliers, Middlesex, etc.—would be lying dead on the field of battle, their lives sacrificed that civilisation might live.
At last I found a friend, and sitting down to our box-table we had a meal together. Afterwards I wandered out, and entered several other dug-outs, where friends were resting. They all seemed anxious for the morning to come. I met the mining officer.
"I say; let me check my watch by yours," I said. "As the mine is going up at 7.20 I shall want to start my machine about half a minute beforehand."
"Right-o!" he said. We then checked watches.
I bade him good night, and also the others, and the best of luck.
"Same to you," they cried in general chorus. "I hope to heavens you get through with it, and show them all at home in England how the boys fight. They will then realise what war really means. Good night, old man."
"Good night," I replied, and then found my way back to the shelter. I rolled myself in a blanket, and tried to sleep.
The night was very cold. I lay shivering in my blanket and could not get warm. The guns were continually crashing out. Shells were bursting just outside with appalling regularity. Suddenly they seemed to quieten down, as if by some means the Germans had got to know of our great plans and were preparing for the blow. Presently everything was comparatively quiet, except for the scurrying of countless rats, running and jumping over my body, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I expect I must have dozed off to sleep, for when I awoke day was breaking, and the din of the gun-fire was terrific. Innumerable worlds seemed to be crashing together, and it sounded as if thousands of peals of thunder had concentrated themselves into one soul-terrifying roar.
An officer looked in at the entrance at that moment.
"Hullo!" he said. "Are you the 'movie-man'?"
"Yes," I said, sitting up. "What's up?"
"Well, I'm hanged; I'm glad I've found you. Do you know, I asked several Johnnies down the line if you were in the trenches and they laughed at me; asked me if I had been drinking; they thought I was pulling their leg. 'A movie man in the trenches,' they said, in tones of amazement; 'not likely!' I told them that you were here last night, and that you are here to film the attack. Well, anyway, this is what I have come for. The Colonel sent me—you know him—to see if you would film a company of our men in occupation of Sunken Road. They occupied it during the night without a single casualty, by tunnelling for about fifty yards through the parapet, under 'No Man's Land'; then sapped up and into the road. It's a fine piece of work," he said, "and would make a good picture."
"Rather," I said; "I'll come. It will be splendid from the historical point of view. Can you let me have a guide, to show me the quickest and best way?"
"Yes, I will send one of our pioneers; he will guide you," he said. "Let me know how you get on, won't you? And, if possible, when you return call in and see the Colonel. He will be frightfully bucked."
"Right-o!" I said. "By Gad! it's bally cold. My teeth won't hold still. Push that man along, and I'll get off."
"Au revoir," he called out as he left. "See you later."
The guide turned up a few minutes afterwards; he took the tripod, I the camera. I started off and entered King Street, making my way towards the firing trench. I have described in previous chapters what it was like to be under an intense bombardment. I have attempted to analyse my feelings when lying in the trenches with shells bursting directly overhead. I have been in all sorts of places, under heavy shell-fire, but for intensity and nearness—nothing—absolutely nothing—compared with the frightful and demoralising nature of the shell-fire which I experienced during that journey.
I had only just reached King Street, when it started on that section. Bosche was fairly plastering the whole trench, and smashing down our parapets in the most methodical manner. Four men passed me, with horrible wounds; another was being carried on the shoulders of his comrades, one arm being blown clean off, leaving flesh and remnants of cloth hanging down in a horrible manner. The shells fell in front, overhead and behind us.
I bent low and rushed through traverse after traverse, halting when a shell burst in the trench itself round the next bend, sending a ghastly blast of flame and choking fumes full in my face. At one point I halted, hardly knowing which way to go; my guide was crouching as low as possible on the ground. The further I went, the worse it got; shrieking, splitting shells seemed to envelop us. I looked back. The same. In front, another burst; the flames swept right into my face. If I had been standing up it would have killed me without a doubt. To go back was as dangerous as to advance, and to stay where I was—well, it was worse, if anything. Truth to tell, I had gone so far now that I did not like turning back; the picture of our men in Sunken Road attracted me like a magnet.
"Go on," I shouted to the guide. "We'll get through somehow. Are you game?"
"Yes, sir," said he.
We ran round the next traverse, and had to scramble over a heap of débris caused by a shell a few moments before.
"Look out, sir! There are some dead men here, and the parapet has practically disappeared. Get down on your stomach and crawl along."
Phut-bang! The shells crashed on the parapet with the rapidity of machine-gun fire.
I went down, and crawled along over the dead bodies of some of our lads killed only a few minutes before. It couldn't be helped. Purgatory, in all its hideous shapes and forms, could not possibly be worse than this journey. It seemed years getting through that hellish fire.
"How much more?" I yelled out.
"We are quite near now, sir; about twenty yards."
"Rush for it, then—rush."
I did, and my guide pulled up quickly at the entrance of what seemed like a mine.
"Incline in here, sir," he said, and disappeared. I followed. Never in all my experience had I welcomed cover as I did at that moment.
"Hold on a bit," I said, "for five minutes' breathing space."
The tunnel was no more than two feet six inches wide and five feet high. Men inside were passing ammunition from one to the other in an endless chain and disappearing into the bowels of the earth.
The shaft took a downward trend. It was only by squeezing past the munition bearers that we were able to proceed at all, and in some places it was impossible for more than one to crush through at a time. By the light of an electric torch, stuck in the mud, I was able to see the men. They were wet with perspiration, steaming, in fact; stripped to the waist; working like Trojans, each doing the work of six men.
The journey seemed endless. I could tell by the position that I was climbing. My guide was still in front, and letting me know of his whereabouts by shouting: "Straight ahead, sir! Mind this hole!"
The latter part of the shaft seemed practically upright. I dragged my camera along by the strap attached to the case. It was impossible to carry it.
We were nearing daylight. I could see a gleam only a few feet away. At last we came to the exit. My guide was there.
"Keep down low, sir. This sap is only four feet deep. It's been done during the night, about fifty yards of it. We are in 'No Man's Land' now, and if the Germans had any idea we were here, the place would soon be an inferno."
"Go ahead," I said. It was difficult to imagine we were midway between the Hun lines and our own. It was practically inconceivable. The shell-fire seemed just as bad as ever behind in the trenches, but here it was simply heavenly. The only thing one had to do was to keep as low as possible and wriggle along. The ground sloped downwards. The end of the sap came in sight. My guide was crouching there, and in front of him, about thirty feet away, running at right angles on both sides, was a roadway, overgrown with grass and pitted with shell-holes. The bank immediately in front was lined with the stumps of trees and a rough hedge, and there lined up, crouching as close to the bank as possible, were some of our men. They were the Lancashire Fusiliers, with bayonets fixed, and ready to spring forward.
"Keep low as you run across the road, sir. The Bosche can see right along it; make straight for the other side." With that he ran across, and I followed. Then I set my camera up and filmed the scene. I had to take every precaution in getting my machine in position, keeping it close to the bank, as a false step would have exposed the position to the Bosche, who would have immediately turned on H.E. shrapnel, and might have enfiladed the whole road from either flank.
I filmed the waiting Fusiliers. Some of them looked happy and gay, others sat with stern, set faces, realising the great task in front of them.
I had finished taking my scenes, and asked an officer if the Colonel was there.
"No, but you may find him in 'White City.' He was there about an hour ago. Great heavens," he said, "who would have believed that a 'movie-man' would be here, the nearest point to Bosche lines on the whole front. You must like your job. Hanged if I envy you. Anyway, hope to see you after the show, if I haven't 'gone West.' Cheero," and with that he left me.
Packing up my camera, I prepared to return. Time was getting on. It was now 6.30 a.m. The attack was timed for 7.20. As I wanted to obtain some scenes of our men taking up their final positions, I told my guide to start.
"Duck as low as possible," I said, "when you cross the road."
"We can't go yet, sir; munitions are being brought through, and, as you know, there isn't room to pass one another."
I waited until the last man had come in from the sap, then, practically on hands and knees, made for the sap mouth.
"Cheer up, boys," I shouted to the men as I parted from them, "best of luck; hope to see you in the village."
"Hope so, sir," came a general chorus in reply. Again I struggled through the narrow slit, then down the shaft and finally into the tunnel. We groped our way along as best we could. The place was full of men. It was only possible to get my tripod and camera along by passing it from one to another. Then as the men stooped low I stepped over them, eventually reaching the other end—and daylight.
The "strafe" was still on, but not quite so violent. Our parapets were in a sorry condition, battered out of all shape.
Returning through King Street, I was just in time to film some of the men fixing bayonets before being sent to their respective stations in the firing trench. The great moment was drawing near. I admit I was feeling a wee bit nervous. The mental and nervous excitement under such conditions was very great. Every one was in a state of suppressed excitement. On the way I passed an officer I knew.
"Are you going over?" I said.
"Rather," he replied, "the whole lot of us. Some stunt, eh!"
"Don't forget," I said, "the camera will be on you; good luck!"
Bidding my man collect the tripod and camera, I made for the position on Jacob's Ladder. But I was to receive a rude shock. The shelling of the morning had practically blown it all down. But there was sufficient for a clearance all around for my purpose, and sufficient shelter against stray bits of shrapnel. I prepared to put up my camera. Not quite satisfied, I left it about thirty yards away, to view the situation quickly, as there were only twenty minutes to go. Hardly had I left the machine than a "whizz-bang" fell and struck the parapet immediately above the ladder, tumbling the whole lot of sandbags down like a pack of cards.
It was a lucky escape for me. The position was absolutely no use now, and I had to choose another. Time was short. I hastily fixed my camera on the side of the small bank, this side of our firing trench, with my lens pointing towards the Hawthorn Redoubt, where the mine—the largest "blown" on the British Front—was going up. It was loaded with twenty tons of a new explosive of tremendous destructive power, and it had taken seven months to build.
Gee, what an awakening for Bosche!
My camera was now set ready to start exposing. I looked along the trench. The men were ready and waiting the great moment.
One little group was discussing the prospects of a race across "No Man's Land."
"Bet you, Jim, I'll get there first."
"Right-o! How much?"
"A day's pay," was the reply.
"Take me on, too, will you?" said another hero.
"Yes. Same terms, eh? Good enough."
"Say Bill," he called to his pal, "pay up from my cash if I 'go West.'"
"Shut up, fathead; we have to kill Huns, 'strafe' them."
I turned away to speak to an officer as to the prospects.
"Very good," he said. "I hope they don't plaster our trenches before all the men get out. They are as keen as mustard. Never known them so bright. Look at them now; all smoking."
Our guns were still pounding heavily, and the din and concussion was awful. To hear oneself speak it was absolutely necessary to shout.
"You are in a pretty rocky position," some one said to me. "Fritz will be sure to plaster this front pretty well as soon as our men 'get over.'"
"Can't help it," I said; "my machine must have a clear view. I must take the risk. How's the time going?"
"It's 'seven-ten' now," he said.
"I am going to stand by. Cheero; best of luck!" I left him, and stood by my machine. The minutes dragged on. Still the guns crashed out. The German fire had died down a bit during the last half-hour. I glanced down our trenches. The officers were giving final instructions. Every man was in his place. The first to go over would be the engineers, to wire the crater. They were all ready, crouching down, with their implements in their hands.
Time: 7.15 a.m.!
Heavens! how the minutes dragged. It seemed like a lifetime waiting there. My nerves were strung up to a high pitch; my heart was thumping like a steam-hammer. I gave a quick glance at an officer close by. He was mopping the perspiration from his brow, and clutching his stick, first in one hand then in the other—quite unconsciously, I am sure. He looked at his watch. Another three minutes went by.
Would nothing ever happen?