A Mighty Convulsion Signalises the Commencement of Operations—Then Our Boys "Go Over the Top"—A Fine Film Obtained whilst Shells Rained Around Me—My Apparatus is Struck—But, Thank Goodness, the Camera is Safe—Arrival of the Wounded—"Am I in the Picture?" they ask.
Time: 7.19 a.m. My hand grasped the handle of the camera. I set my teeth. My whole mind was concentrated upon my work. Another thirty seconds passed. I started turning the handle, two revolutions per second, no more, no less. I noticed how regular I was turning. (My object in exposing half a minute beforehand was to get the mine from the moment it broke ground.) I fixed my eyes on the Redoubt. Any second now. Surely it was time. It seemed to me as if I had been turning for hours. Great heavens! Surely it had not misfired.
Why doesn't it go up?
I looked at my exposure dial. I had used over a thousand feet. The horrible thought flashed through my mind, that my film might run out before the mine blew. Would it go up before I had time to reload? The thought brought beads of perspiration to my forehead. The agony was awful; indescribable. My hand began to shake. Another 250 feet exposed. I had to keep on.
Then it happened.
The ground where I stood gave a mighty convulsion. It rocked and swayed. I gripped hold of my tripod to steady myself. Then, for all the world like a gigantic sponge, the earth rose in the air to the height of hundreds of feet. Higher and higher it rose, and with a horrible, grinding roar the earth fell back upon itself, leaving in its place a mountain of smoke. From the moment the mine went up my feelings changed. The crisis was over, and from that second I was cold, cool, and calculating. I looked upon all that followed from the purely pictorial point of view, and even felt annoyed if a shell burst outside the range of my camera. Why couldn't Bosche put that shell a little nearer? It would make a better picture. And so my thoughts ran on.
The earth was down. I swung my camera round on to our own parapets. The engineers were swarming over the top, and streaming along the sky-line. Our guns redoubled their fire. The Germans then started H.E. Shrapnel began falling in the midst of our advancing men. I continued to turn the handle of my camera, viewing the whole attack through my view-finder, first swinging one way and then the other.
Then another signal rang out, and from the trenches immediately in front of me, our wonderful troops went over the top. What a picture it was! They went over as one man. I could see while I was exposing, that numbers were shot down before they reached the top of the parapet; others just the other side. They went across the ground in swarms, and marvel upon marvels, still smoking cigarettes. One man actually stopped in the middle of "No Man's Land" to light up again.
The Germans had by now realised that the great attack had come. Shrapnel poured into our trenches with the object of keeping our supports from coming up. They had even got their "crumps" and high-explosive shrapnel into the middle of our boys before they were half-way across "No Man's Land." But still they kept on. At that moment my spool ran out. I hurriedly loaded up again, and putting the first priceless spool in my case, I gave it to my man in a dug-out to take care of, impressing upon him that he must not leave it under any circumstances. If anything unforeseen happened he was to take it back to Headquarters.
I rushed back to my machine again. Shells were exploding quite close to me. At least I was told so afterwards by an officer. But I was so occupied with my work that I was quite unconscious of their proximity. I began filming once more. The first lot of men, or rather the remainder of them, had disappeared in the haze and smoke, punctured by bursting shells. What was happening in the German lines I did not know. Other men were coming up and going over the top. The German machine-gun fire was not quite so deadly now, but our men suffered badly from shell-fire. On several occasions I noticed men run and take temporary cover in the shell-holes, but their ranks were being terribly thinned.
Still more went over, and still a stream of men were making for the mine crater; they then disappeared in the smoke. The noise was terrific. It was as if the earth were lifting bodily, and crashing against some immovable object. The very heavens seemed to be falling. Thousands of things were happening at the same moment. The mind could not begin to grasp the barest margin of it.
The German shells were crashing all round me. Dirt was being flung in my face, cutting it like whipcord. My only thought was whether any of it had struck my lens and made it dirty, for this would have spoiled my film. I gave a quick glance at it. It was quite all right.
Fearful fighting was taking place in the German trenches. The heavy rattle of machine-guns, the terrible din of exploding bombs, could be heard above the pandemonium. Our men had ceased to flow from our trenches. I crept to the top of the parapet, and looked towards the left of the village of Beaumont Hamel. Our guns were bursting on the other side of the village, but I could distinguish nothing else as to how things were going.
I asked an officer who was standing close by.
"God knows," he replied. "Everything over there is so mixed up. The General said this was the hardest part of the line to get through, and my word it seems like it, to look at our poor lads."
I could see them strewn all over the ground, swept down by the accursed machine-gun fire.
A quick succession of shell-bursts attracted my attention. Back to my camera position. Another lot of our men were going over the top. I began exposing, keeping them in my camera view all the time, as they were crossing, by revolving my tripod head.
Shell after shell crashed in the middle of them, leaving ghastly gaps, but other men quickly filled them up, passing through the smoke, and over the bodies of their comrades, as if there were no such thing as a shell in all the world. Another spool ran out, making the fourth since the attack started. I gave it in charge of my man, with the same instructions as before. I loaded again, and had just started exposing. Something attracted my attention on the extreme left. What it was I don't know. I ceased turning, but still holding the handle, I veered round the front of my camera. The next moment, with a shriek and a flash, a shell fell and exploded before I had time to take shelter. It was only a few feet away. What happened after I hardly know. There was the grinding crash of a bursting shell; something struck my tripod, the whole thing, camera and all, was flung against me. I clutched it and staggered back, holding it in my arms. I dragged it into a shrapnel-proof shelter, sat down and looked for the damage. A piece of the shell had struck the tripod and cut the legs clean in half, on one side, carrying about six inches of it away. The camera, thank heaven, was untouched.
Calling my man, we hastily found some pieces of wood, old telephone wire and string, and within an hour had improvised legs, rigid enough to continue taking scenes.
I again set up my camera. Our gun-fire was still terrible, but the Germans had shortened their range and were evidently putting a barrage on our men, who had presumably reached the enemy's front trenches. Nobody knew anything definitely. Wounded men began to arrive. There was a rush for news.
"How are things going?" we asked.
"We have taken their first and second line," said one.
An officer passed on a stretcher.
"How are things going?"
"God knows," he said. "I believe we have got through their first line and part of the village, but don't know whether we shall be able to hold out; we have been thinned shockingly."
"Have you been successful?" he asked me.
"Yes, I've got the whole of the attack."
"Good man," he said.
First one rumour then another came through. There was nothing definite. The fighting over there was furious. I filmed various scenes of our wounded coming in over the parapet; then through the trenches. Lines of them were awaiting attention.
Scenes crowded upon me. Wounded and more wounded; men who a few hours before had leaped over the parapet full of life and vigour were now dribbling back. Some of them shattered and broken for life. But it was one of the most glorious charges ever made in the history of the world. These men had done their bit.
"Hullo," I said to one passing through on a stretcher, "got a 'blighty'?"
"Yes, sir," he said; "rather sure Blighty for me."
"And for me too," said another lad lying with him waiting attention, "I shan't be able to play footer any more. Look!" I followed the direction of his finger, and could see through the rough bandages that his foot had been taken completely off. Yet he was still cheerful, and smoking.
A great many asked me as they came through: "Was I in the picture, sir?" I had to say "yes" to them all, which pleased them immensely.
Still no definite news. The heavy firing continued. I noticed several of our wounded men lying in shell-holes in "No Man's Land." They were calling for assistance. Every time a Red Cross man attempted to get near them, a hidden German machine-gun fired. Several were killed whilst trying to bring in the wounded. The cries of one poor fellow attracted the attention of a trench-mortar man. He asked for a volunteer to go with him, and bring the poor fellow in. A man stepped forward, and together they climbed the parapet, and threaded their way through the barbed wire very slowly. Nearer and nearer they crept. We stood watching with bated breath. Would they reach him? Yes. At last! Then hastily binding up the injured man's wounds they picked him up between them, and with a run made for our parapet. The swine of a German blazed away at them with his machine-gun. But marvellous to relate neither of them were touched.
I filmed the rescue from the start to the finish, until they passed me in the trench, a mass of perspiration. Upon the back of one was the unconscious man he had rescued, but twenty minutes after these two had gone through hell to rescue him, the poor fellow died.
During the day those two men rescued twenty men in this fashion under heavy fire.
CHAPTER XV
roll-call after the fight
A Glorious Band of Wounded Heroes Stagger Into Line and Answer the Call—I Visit a Stricken Friend in a Dug-out—On the Way to La Boisselle I Get Lost in the Trenches—And Whilst Filming Unexpectedly Come Upon the German Line—I Have a Narrow Squeak of Being Crumped—But Get Away Safely—And later Commandeer a Couple of German Prisoners to Act as Porters.
The day wore on. The success of the fighting swayed first this way, then that. The casualties mounted higher and higher. Men were coming back into our trenches maimed and broken; they all had different tales to tell. I passed along talking to and cheering our wonderful men as much as I could. And the Germans, to add to this ghastly whirlpool of horror, threw shell after shell into the dressing station, killing and wounding afresh the gallant lads who had gone "over the top" that morning. They seemed to know of this place and played upon it with a gloating, fiendish glee worthy only of unspeakable savages.
As I was passing one group of wounded, I ran against my doctor friend of the night before.
"Busy day for you?" I said.
"My word, yes," he replied. "They are coming faster than I can attend to them. I am just off to see P——. He's caught it badly."
"Serious?" I asked.
"Yes, rather; in the back. He's in the dug-out."
And the doctor rushed away. I followed him. P—— was lying there on a stretcher looking ghastly. The doctor was bending over him. Poor old chap. Only that morning he had hooked me out to film the sunken road scenes as full of life and hope as anyone could conceive. Now he was on his back, a broken wreck. In the trenches there were hundreds of cases as bad, or even worse, but they did not affect me. There were far too many for the mind to fully grasp their meaning. But down here in this dark dug-out, twenty feet below the earth, the sombre surroundings only illuminated by a guttering candle in a bottle, I was far more affected. It was natural though, for one always feels things more when some one one knows is concerned.
P—— was the first to speak.
"Hullo, old man," he said in a husky, low voice. "You've pulled through?"
"Yes," I replied. "But 'touchwood'! I'm so sorry. Anyway, you're all right for 'Blighty,'" and to cheer him up I continued in a bantering strain: "You knew how to manage it, eh? Jolly artful, you know." His face lighted up with a wan smile.
"Yes, Malins, rather a long 'Blighty,' I'm afraid."
Two stretcher-bearers came in at that moment to take him away. With difficulty they got him out of the trench, and grasping his hand I bade him good-bye.
"I'm glad you got our boys, Malins. I do so want to see that film," were his last words.
"I'll show it to you when I get back to England," I called after him, and then he disappeared.
The fighting was now beginning to die down. The remnants of four regiments were coming in. Each section was accumulating in spaces on their own. I realised that the roll-call was about to take place. I filmed them as they staggered forward and dropped down utterly worn out, body and soul. By an almost superhuman effort many of them staggered to their feet again, and formed themselves into an irregular line.
In one little space there were just two thin lines—all that was left of a glorious regiment (barely one hundred men). I filmed the scene as it unfolded itself. The sergeant stood there with note-book resting on the end of his rifle, repeatedly putting his pencil through names that were missing. This picture was one of the most wonderful, the most impressive that can be conceived. It ought to be painted and hung in all the picture galleries of the world, in all the schools and public buildings, and our children should be taught to regard it as the standard of man's self-sacrifice.
I stayed in the trenches until the following day, filming scene after scene of our wounded. I learned that nothing more was to be attempted until later, when fresh divisions were to be brought up. Knowing this I decided to leave this section of the trenches. But the ghastly scenes of which I was witness will always remain a hideous nightmare in my memory, though I thank God I had been spared to film such tremendous scenes of supreme heroism and sacrifice in the cause of freedom.
I got safely back through the trenches to ——, where Brigade H.Q. told me of an urgent message from G.H.Q. I was to report as soon as possible. On my way I called on General ——, who was delighted to hear I had successfully filmed the attack, the record of which would show the world how gloriously our men had fought.
Reaching advanced G.H.Q. I reported myself. All were pleased to see me safe and sound, and to hear of my success. I was told that lively things were happening at La Boisselle. I heard also how successful our troops had been in other parts of the line. Fricourt and Mametz and a dozen other villages had fallen to our victorious troops. This news put new life into me. At La Boisselle they said we had pushed through, and fighting was still going on. I decided to leave for that district right away.
Passing through Albert, I halted the car at the top of Becourt Wood. From this point I had to walk. In the distance I could see hundreds of shells bursting, and guns were thundering out. I gave one camera to my orderly and another had the tripod. Taking the second camera myself, I started off. We threaded our way through the wood and out into the trenches. Shells were falling close by, but by hugging the parapet we got along fairly well.
The communication trench seemed interminable.
"Where the deuce am I?" I asked an officer in passing. "I want to get to our front trenches."
"You want to go the other way. This trench leads back to ——."
This was anything but cheering news. I had been walking for about an hour, always seeming to just miss the right turning. Truth to tell I had failed to provide myself with a trench map, and it was my first time in this section. The bursting shells were filling up the trenches, and I was becoming absolutely fogged. So, in sheer desperation—for the bombardment was getting more intense and I was afraid of losing pictures—I climbed on to the parapet to look round. What a scene of desolation. The first thing I saw was a dead German. That didn't help to cheer me up overmuch. Making a slight detour I stopped to fix the Hun front line if possible. Our own I could see. But no matter where I looked the Bosche line was apparently non-existent. Yet our shells were smashing into the ground, which seemed to be absolutely empty.
I set up my camera and started to expose. While doing so I happened to glance down, for I must explain that I was on a slight mound. Which was the most surprised—the Bosche or myself—I do not know, for less than a hundred yards away was the German line. I stopped turning. Immediately I did so bullets came singing unpleasantly past my head. I dropped flat on the ground, which luckily for me was slightly protected by a ridge of earth. I dragged the camera down on top of me and, lying flat, the bullets whizzed by overhead. The Bosche must have thought he had got me, for in a few moments fire ceased. I wriggled towards the trench and dropped like a log into the bottom, dragging my camera after me. One of my men had followed, and seeing me drop, did the same. He came tumbling head first into the trench.
"That was a near squeak, sir," he said. "Yes, come on, they will probably start shelling us. Cut through here. I noticed some German prisoners coming this way. I must get them. Where's the other man? Keep him close up."
Reaching a trench through which the German prisoners were being led, I hurriedly fixed my camera and filmed them shambling in, holding their hands up, their nerves completely shattered by the intensity of our terrific bombardment. Some were covered with wounds, others were carrying our wounded Tommies in on stretchers. It was an extraordinary sight. Ten minutes before these men were doing their utmost to kill each other. Now, friend and foe were doing their best to help each other. Shells were dropping close by. One fell in the midst of a group of prisoners and, bursting, killed fourteen and wounded eleven. The others were marched on.
Whether I had been spotted or not, I do not know, but German shells were crumping unpleasantly near. I was just thinking of moving when another burst so close that it made me quickly decide. I looked round for my men. One was there; the other was missing.
"Get into a dug-out," I yelled. "Where is L——?"
"Don't know, sir," he said.
He dived into a dug-out at the first shell which burst near. At that moment another "crump" crashed down and exploded with a crunching roar, throwing a large quantity of earth all around me. One after another came over in quick succession.
"Where the devil is that fellow?" I said to ——. "He's got my aeroscope. When brother Fritz has smoothed down this little 'strafe' I will try and find him."
"He was in that section, sir, where Bosche crossed."
For over half an hour the crumping continued, then it practically ceased. The Bosche evidently thought he had distributed us to the four winds of heaven. I emerged from my shelter and hurriedly ran along the trench to find my man. He was nowhere to be found. Several dug-outs had been smashed in, and in one place the water in the trench was deep red with blood, and wading through this was anything but pleasant. At that moment a telephone man came up.
"Can you tell me, sir, if there is a machine-gun position hereabouts? I have been sent to run a wire." I was just replying when a crump came hurtling over.
"Duck," I yelled, and duck we did. I tried to cover the whole of my body under my steel helmet, and crouching low on the ground, the crump burst just on the parapet above, showering huge lumps of dirt which clattered upon us.
"You had better get out of this," I said, and suiting the action to the word I attempted to run, when another crump burst, this time in the traverse close behind. Well, which of us ran the fastest for cover I don't know, but I was a good second!
The non-appearance of my other man worried me. He was nowhere to be found. It occurred to me that as he did not find me on emerging from his dug-out, and as it was coming on to rain, he had returned to the car thinking he might find me there. Packing up my camera, therefore, I started off, passing more prisoners on the way. I promptly collared two of them to carry my tripod and camera, and as we proceeded I could not restrain a smile at the sight of two German prisoners hurrying along with my outfit, and a grinning Tommy with his inevitable cigarette between his lips, and a bayonet at the ready, coming up behind. It was too funny for words.
When I reached the car my lost man was not there. I enquired of several battle-police and stretcher-bearers if they had seen a man of his description wandering about, and carrying a leather case, but nobody had seen him. After having a sandwich, I decided to go again to the front line to find him. I could not leave him there. I must find out something definite. On my way down I made further enquiries, but without result. I searched around those trenches until I was soaked to the skin and fagged out, but not a trace of him could I discover; not even my camera or pieces of it. The only thing that could have happened, I thought, was that he had got into a dug-out, and the entrance had been blown in by heavy shell-fire.
Retracing my steps I examined several smashed dug-outs. It was impossible to even attempt to lift the rubble. With gloomy thoughts I returned again to the car, and on my journey back left instructions with various men to report anything found to the town major at ——. I stayed the night in the vicinity in the hope of receiving news; but not a scrap came through. Again next day, and the next, I hunted the trenches, unsuccessfully, and finally I came to the conclusion that he had been killed and decided to post him as missing. I had arrived at this decision whilst resting on the grass at the top of Becourt Wood and was making a meal of bully and biscuits when, looking up, I saw what I took to be an apparition of my missing man walking along the road and carrying a black case. I could scarcely believe my eyes.
"Where the devil have you been?" I asked. "I was just on my way back to post you as missing. What has happened?"
"Well, sir, it was like this. When that shell burst I dived into a dug-out, and was quite all right. Then another shell burst and struck the entrance, smashing it in. I have been all this time trying to get out. Then I lost my way and—well, sir, here I am. But your camera case is spoilt." So ended his adventure.
Thinking that the films I had obtained of the Somme fighting should be given to the public as quickly as possible, I suggested to G.H.Q.—and they fully agreed—that I should return to England without delay. So packing up my belongings I returned to London next day.
Little time was lost in developing and printing the pictures, and the Military authorities, recognising what a splendid record they presented of "The Great Push," had copies prepared without delay for exhibition throughout the length and breadth of the land; in our Dependencies over seas, and in neutral countries. They were handled with wonderful celerity by Mr. Will Jury, a member of the War Office Committee, and put out through the business organisation over which he so ably presides. It is sufficient here to record the deep and abiding impression created by the appearance of the films on the screen. People crowded the theatres to see the pictures; thousands were turned away; and it has been estimated that the number of those who have seen these Official War Films must run into many millions.
The Somme Film has proved a mighty instrument in the service of recruiting; the newspapers still talk of its astounding realism, and it is generally admitted that the great kinematograph picture has done much to help the people of the British Empire to realise the wonderful spirit of our men in the face of almost insuperable difficulties; the splendid way in which our great citizen army has been organised; the vastness of the military machine we have created during the last two and a half years; and the immensity of the task which still faces us.
His Majesty the King has declared that "the public should see these pictures"; and Mr. Lloyd George, after witnessing a display of the film, sent forth the following thrilling message to the nation: "Be up and doing! See that this picture, which is in itself an epic of self-sacrifice and gallantry, reaches every one. Herald the deeds of our brave men to the ends of the earth. This is your duty."
A thrilling message truly, and I am proud indeed to think that I have been permitted to play my part in the taking and making of this wonderful film.
CHAPTER XVI
editing a battle film
The Process Described in Detail—Developing the Negative—Its Projection on the Screen—Cutting—Titling—Joining—Printing the Positive—Building Up the Story—It is Submitted to the Military Censors at General Headquarters—And After Being Cut and Approved by Them—Is Ready for Public Exhibition.
In view of the immense and widespread interest aroused by the appearance of the Somme Film, it may perhaps be permissible to depart for a spell from the narration of my story, in order to explain briefly, for the benefit of those interested, how such a picture is prepared, and the various processes through which it must necessarily pass before it is ready for public exhibition.
The process is technically known as "editing," and it must be admitted that this part of the work more nearly approaches the art of the newspaper editor than any other I know. Indeed, I am not sure that the functions of the film editor—at least in the case of a picture such as the Somme Film—do not call for a greater exercise of discretion, diplomacy and tact; for so many interests have to be taken into account; so much has to be left out, for so much is at stake.
Time and thought is doubly intensified in editing or cutting up the film in all its various scenes and assembling them in their right order with suitable sub-titles. Immediately films arrive in London they are sent by the War Office to the works, and there in a long dark-room, with many compartments, the film is wound upon wooden frames, about three feet by four feet. Each section as it is unwound from the roll is numbered by a perforated machine, to save the unnecessary handling that would otherwise be caused if one had to wade through all the small sections to join in the original lengths in which they are received.
The frames are then taken into the developing-room, where they are placed in tanks of developing mixture, warmed to a temperature of about sixty-five degrees. It is there that the technique of a developing expert asserts itself; he can either make or mar a film. During development the picture is carefully rinsed, and eventually it is ready for fixing. It is taken out, washed in a bath of pure water, and then dropped into an acid fixing bath and there allowed to remain until fixation is complete, usually a matter of about fifteen minutes.
The films are then taken to the washing-room, where they are placed in huge tanks, taking from fifty to one hundred frames, and each one holding one hundred and twenty feet of films. Jets of water run continually over them, and in an hour they are taken out and sent to the drying-room, where the film is rewound whilst wet upon very large drums, about thirty feet long and seven feet in diameter. An electric motor is then started, and the drum revolves at an ever-increasing speed. Drum after drum is loaded in the same way, until the whole of the film is in position and the whirling continues until the negative is perfectly dry.
Cleanliness in every possible respect is absolutely essential during the process of development, until the film is dry once more. The most minute speck of dust or foreign matter might adhere to the wet emulsion permanently disfiguring it. Therefore to avoid this the utmost care must be maintained throughout, and the negative is now ready to be projected on the screen for the first time in order to see that it is technically perfect in quality, and to decide upon the possibilities of a big feature film, or a series of short ones.
For simplicity's sake we will assume that we are dealing with a subject such as the Battle of the Somme, approximately five thousand feet in length. As the film is projected, notes are taken of each scene in strict rotation. The negative, as in the ordinary process of photography, is quite the reverse to the film shown in the picture theatre. The black portions of the picture as we see it on the screen are white, and all whites are black. It therefore calls for a highly trained eye to be able to follow the film.
Only now do I find out whether the scenes I have taken live up to my expectations. Sometimes yes—sometimes no. One great drawback is that the sounds are not there! When the projection is finished the whole of the negative is taken to the cutting and joining-room. I take every reel, and each scene is cut out separately and titled by means of a label fastened to the section by an elastic band.
So the process goes on until I have the whole of the film cut up and registered. I often go through each scene again separately and closely scrutinise it, cutting out all blemishes, black stops, uninteresting sections of the scene, and many other faults which unavoidably present themselves. Before going further I should say that the film is "taken" in lengths of four hundred feet, and they are always kept at that length and in a separate tin box. Even when they are cut up the sections go back into the same tin. Each box is taken in turn and numbered one, two, three, four, five, six, and so on. Number one contains ten sections, representing ten scenes. Each is labelled and every title is copied on a sheet of foolscap, and each section numbered and credited to box one. The process continues in this way until the whole negative is registered.
Meantime I am mentally building up my film story. In story form it must grip the interest of the general public, and yet I have to keep to strict military correctness. I think of my main title. That in itself is a great thing. It has to epitomise the story of the whole film. It has to be short and it must "hold." The title once decided upon, the first reel must deal with preparatory action. I then take the lists prepared as described and call for my sections. For instance, number twenty section, box fourteen; number twelve section, box six; and so on, gradually building up the first reel. The sub-titles must be appealing and concise, and in phraseology that can be easily understood by all.
Eventually reel number one is finished. All the sections are joined together, with spaces marked for the titles. The same process continues with the other reels. Number two must finish their story so far as preparatory action goes. You are then ready for the thrill, and the harder you can hit that thrill into reels three and four the greater the ultimate success of the film. Reel five finishes the story. But after seeing a battle film through full of suffering and agony, as it unavoidably must be to be genuine, you must not leave the public with a bitter taste in their mouth at the end. The film takes you to the grave, but it must not leave you there; it shows you death in all its grim nakedness; but after that it is essential that you should be restored to a sense of cheerfulness and joy. That joy comes of the knowledge that in all this whirlpool of horrors our lads continue to smile the smile of victory. Therefore the film must finish with a touch of happiness to send you home from the picture theatre with a light heart—or at least as light a heart as circumstances permit.
The film is now edited, and it goes into the printer's hands. A positive print is made from it on film stock, and after the printing the copies are returned to the dark-room and the process of developing is gone through again, as in the case of a negative.
The print is then dried and joined up in its right order, and so divided that it makes five reels. The titles by this time have been corrected from the military point of view by the War Office, and are printed for insertion in their appropriate position. The length of reading matter controls the length of the title to be printed. In some instances it will take ten seconds to read a title. Ten feet of film is therefore necessary for insertion between the scenes to explain them. In other cases three feet of titling suffices.
The film is then shown to the War Office officials, and once they have approved it, it is packed in a safe and sent to General Headquarters in France. Here it is again projected in a specially constructed theatre, before the chief censor and his staff, and it may happen that certain incidents or sections are deleted in view of their possible value to the enemy. These excisions are carefully marked and upon the return of the film to London those sections are taken out and kept for future reference. The film is now ready for public exhibition.
CHAPTER XVII
the horrors of trones wood
Three Times I Try and Fail to Reach this Stronghold of the Dead—Which Has Been Described as "Hell on Earth"—At a Dressing Station Under Fire—Smoking Two Cigarettes at a Time to Keep Off the Flies—Some Amusing Trench Conversations by Men who had Lost Their Way—I Turn in for the Night—And Have a Dead Bosche for Company.
I have just come from England after seeing the Somme Film well on its way to the public. It has caused a great sensation. I really thought that some of the dead scenes would offend the British public. And yet why should they? It is only a very mild touch of what is happening day after day, week after week, on the bloody plains of France and Belgium. Bloody? Yes, inevitably so. There never was such dearly bought land since creation. The earth in the Somme district has been soaked with the blood of men. Sit out on a field a mile or two from our front line any morning early, when the mist is just rising. Sit out there on the ground which our boys have fought for and won. The place reeks with the horrible stench of countless decaying bodies, and every minute adds to their number.
But the British public did not object to these realistic scenes in the film. They realised that it was their duty to see for themselves. They had been told by the press; they had been told by Parliament; they had been told by lecturers what was happening, but to no purpose. They must be shown; they must see with their own eyes. And the kinematograph camera performed this service. Has it justified itself? I put that question to all who have seen the film. What effect did it have upon you? Did you realise till you saw it what this vast battle-front was like? Did you realise what our Army was doing; how our wonderful soldiers—your husbands, your sons, your brothers—were driving the Huns back; how they were going to their death with a laugh upon their faces and a cigarette between their lips, fighting and dying like true Britons? That those who came back wounded and broken still had that smile?
Yes: the truth has at last dawned upon you. With that knowledge new resolutions were born within you; resolutions that bade you never to slack for an instant in your endeavour to bring success to our arms.
Trones Wood! That name had been drummed into my ears for days. It seemed to have a fascination for me. I asked several men to describe the place.
"Quite impossible, sir; there baint anything like it on earth, and if hell is at all like it then I have been there. It's dead; just dead—dead—dead! And the smell—awful."
"Is Fritz strafing there much?"
"Yes, sir, he's at it all day: there's not room for a cat to hide in, so why Fritz is dropping his souvenirs there heaven knows; I don't."
From the description the place seemed rather satisfactory from a scenic point of view, so I made up my mind to try and film it, as I wanted scenes of heavy bombardment which I could get if Fritz was concentrating upon the wood, for the Hun is a tolerably safe person to deal with if he has a target to fire at; he is so methodical.
Going up by my car as far as the top of Camoy Valley, I left it there near a dressing station.
"Strafing!" I was out for "strafing," and by all appearances I was likely to get it hot and strong before long. I had only just stopped when a shell came hurtling overhead, falling about one hundred and fifty yards behind the dressing station. I went over to a doctor who was tending some wounded men—our own and Germans.
"Has Fritz been sending you these souvenirs very often?" I enquired.
The doctor rose, and mopping his forehead, grinned and replied: "Yes; the blighter won't let us alone. Why doesn't he play cricket? He must know this is Red Cross. That sign there," pointing to a large Red Cross lying on the ground, "is large enough to be seen by the men in Mars. Only this morning he put one bang through the roof of our dug-out, rewounding a lot of our chaps lying there. By the way, are you leaving your car there?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, you had better say good-bye to it; several of our ambulances have been strafed there."
"Well," I said, "can't be helped; it must take its chance. I'm going to take a few scenes of you at work. Where did these Bosches come from?"
"This morning, from Guillemont; our boys had a bit of a stunt on and landed a few of the beggars."
I filmed various incidents showing the treatment of wounded prisoners. They received the same careful attention as our own men; whatever they asked for they had. Several padres were kneeling down beside our boys, taking down messages to be sent to their relatives.
Stretcher after stretcher with its human freight of Briton and Hun was deposited on the ground. Immediately doctors and orderlies were upon their knees tending to their wants with a gentleness that was wonderful. While I was there several shells fell and exploded only a short distance away.
I left the dressing station and paused upon a mound near a tree stump, the top of which had been carefully split off by shell-fire. I stood looking in the direction of Trones. The Bosches were "strafing" it pretty thoroughly. Away across at Montaubon village the same thing was happening. They were fairly watering the place with H.E. and shrapnel. Our guns were rattling out as well, and I am glad to say that it sounded to me as though ours were at least ten to their one.
Well, the scenes had to be obtained. I admit the job looked anything but pleasant. "Well, here goes!" I said, and putting on a cigarette, I trudged off with my apparatus across the open, making a bee-line midway between Montaubon and Bernafay Wood. I gave both places a wide berth, thereby steering clear of possible Bosche shells. How hot it was. Perspiration was literally pouring from me. I kept on over the ground captured from the Germans. The smell in places was almost unbearable. I puffed away at my cigarette, thereby reducing the stench to a minimum.
Several shells came whizzing overhead in the direction of the dressing station I had just left. With a grinding crash they exploded. "Shrapnel, woolly bears," I said under my breath. They seemed to burst right on top of them too. I thought of all those poor wounded Tommies lying helpless on their stretchers. Another—then another—came hurtling over. The splitting crash of the burst can only be appreciated by those who have been in close proximity to a German H.E. Woolly Bear exploding. It gives one rather a sickening sensation. Another came over. This time it burst nearer. "Gee! they're dropping the range." I hastily grabbed my tripod and hurried off at a tangent. Proceeding for a distance of about five hundred yards I turned off again and made tracks for my original point.
In front, at a distance of about seven hundred yards, one of our forward field batteries of 18-pounders opened fire. I at first thought they were French 75 mm. owing to the extreme rapidity of fire. From my position I could not see the guns, but stretching across the country a rough line of brown earth was thrown up, which I afterwards found out was one of the old German lines. The guns were cunningly concealed in the trench. Thinking that it would make rather a good scene I decided to film it in action.
I may add that I have previously been rather wary about having much to do with forward artillery positions. On three previous occasions I have been badly "strafed" by brother Fritz. He has the uncommonly irritating habit of putting his whizz-bangs much too near to be pleasant, with the result that I have more than once been compelled to take my camera and self off to the more congenial quarters of a dug-out, from which place, you will agree, one cannot obtain very interesting pictures.
Reaching the batteries I unlimbered myself of my gear and approaching the C.O. in charge told him who I was and what I wanted. He was quite pleased to see me and said that he was just about to give Fritz a good dose of "iron rations," firing in salvos. Quickly fixing up my camera I filmed the scenes from various points of view. The men were stripped to the waist, jumping out the shells as fast as they could be handled. While I was filming the scene brother Fritz replied with whizz-bangs thick and fast. They are perfect devils, and it is practically impossible to hear them coming until they burst. I turned my machine round upon the spot near which they were dropping. Several times they got within the range of my camera, and I continued to turn upon them until two came much too close, so thinking discretion the better part of valour, I hastily disappeared into the doubtful shelter of a broken-down Hun trench. Then they came over, several smothering me in dust as they exploded close by. Having obtained all the pictures I required I thanked the C.O. and went on my way.
My clothes were absolutely saturated with perspiration as I shambled away towards the top end of Bernafay Wood. I looked back at the battery. Bosche was still "strafing." I vowed I would never go near any forward guns again; but good resolutions are made to be broken, and my lust for pictures is too strong within me.
Moving was now difficult. The weight of my camera outfit seemed to be getting heavier. I could only get along at a very slow pace. The strap around my chest seemed to squeeze the very breath out of my lungs. But worse was to come. The Huns began shelling the section with shrapnel in a searching manner, and several times I collapsed into a shell-hole, in the hope of obtaining a little cover. But there is very little shelter from shrapnel. On several occasions I felt like throwing away my steel helmet; the weight seemed abnormal; but prudence warned me and I clung to it.
The fire was now too bad to proceed in the open. If there were any trenches or ditches I availed myself of their protection. The heat in the trenches was terrific, and to add to the horrors of the stench and heat there were millions of flies. Filthy brutes! They seemed to cling to one like leeches, and, my arms being full, I could not keep them off my face. Several times I almost decided to turn back, asking myself if it was worth while. But when I looked at Trones Wood in the distance, and the heavy shells bursting all round, I gritted my teeth and decided to push on.
Thinking that more smoke might help to keep off the flies I lighted two cigarettes and puffed away at them, one in each corner of my mouth. I'm sure I must have looked a most extraordinary specimen of humanity at this moment. Loaded with kit, perspiring like a bull; my steel helmet cocked on one side of my head; puffing away like a chimney at two cigarettes, and millions of flies buzzing all around me. Picture me if you can.
I was proceeding like an automaton along the trench when suddenly I came upon an officer who, I afterwards found out, was going up to fix his next gun positions. He was sitting on a sandbag swearing like Hades, and trying to disperse the clouds of flies which were settling upon him. He looked up as I approached, then suddenly burst into a peal of laughter. I stood still and grinned, not daring to open my mouth to laugh for fear of losing my cigarettes. Then I dropped my tripod and leaned against the trench side to rest. His laughter suddenly developed into a coughing and spluttering, spitting and swearing, which in itself was strong enough to drive all the flies in existence away.
"Bust the things!" he spluttered. "I got a mouthful of them! They might have just come off some dirty Bosche. Got a drink on you?"
"Yes," I said, and handed him my water-bottle.
He rinsed out his mouth.
"I do believe it's worth risking shrapnel rather than tolerate these vile things!" he remarked. "But excuse my laughter; you did look funny coming along there."
"Yes, I expect I did," I said, still puffing away at my cigarettes. "I'd smoke a dozen at once if I could. Anything to keep the flies away."
"Well," he said, "I'm stumped. Have you one to spare?"
I handed him my case. He lighted up and both of us, puffing as hard as we could, made quite a healthy volume of smoke. From above it must have looked as if a small fire was raging.
We had sat there alternately puffing and chatting and killing flies by the hundreds for about ten minutes. I told him I wanted to get some scenes of Trones. He politely told me I ought to have brought my keeper out with me, but as he was going in that direction he would help me on the way to being killed by carrying my tripod.
We started off. The shelling was getting unpleasantly near. Phoot-bang! We both ducked, my head getting a nasty knock against the tripod top. For the moment I thought I had been struck by the whizz-bang. Presently we reached a junction in the trench, and as my friend's road lay in an opposite direction we parted, and I trudged on alone.
I was brought to a standstill by a mound of earth which completely blocked the way. By all appearances the shell that had caused it could have only come over a few minutes before, for a thin wisp of smoke was still curling up from the débris. "Well," I thought, placing my kit on the ground, "it's got to be done; so over I go." Here the air was completely free from flies. Evidently the gas from the bursting shell had choked them off for a time. Jove! I was glad. It was like heaven; and my tongue was beginning to burn rather badly through fiercely smoking two cigarettes at once.
Cautiously I crept up to the top of the parapet! What a sight! Shells were falling thick and fast over Trones and towards Baentin-le-Grand. I must film this, Bosche or no Bosche! So hastily fixing up my tripod, I fastened on the camera and began exposing. "Excellent," I thought; "I've got it." Another shell came along. This time it was evidently a 5·9, and was right in the centre of my view, about one hundred and fifty yards away! Another one. Rotten! Just out of my limits. Phut-bang! Phut-bang! I grabbed my camera and fell with it on the opposite side of the mound. I let it lie there, and dashing back into the other section of trench grabbed my bags and returned. Whizz-bangs followed; whizz-bangs in front and behind! I crouched as low as possible and replacing the camera in its case hung it over my back and, still bending low, hurried away dragging my tripod behind me.
The trench was blocked by a batch of men returning. They were crouching down for cover. The officer in charge asked me what in the world I was doing.
"Thunder," he said, "if I knew the 'movie' man had been here I would have gone the other way. You've evidently drawn fire by that contraption of yours. Where are you going?"
"To Trones Wood," I said.
The look of blank amazement on his face was amusing.
"My dear chap," he said, "are you serious?"
"Well," I replied, "I had intended going there till a moment ago, but the strafing seems to get worse."
Shrapnel was now bursting overhead, a piece hitting one of the men close by.
"Where's he hit?" enquired the officer. The poor fellow was lying down.
"In the shoulder, sir," one of the others shouted back. "Seems rather bad."
"Two of you bring him through and get ahead to the dressing station as quickly as possible. Keep your heads down." Then turning to me the officer said: "Look here, I've just come from the Wood, and, by gad, it's fair hell there! The place is a charnel-house. It's literally choked with corpses; heaps of them; and we dare not bring them in. We've tried even at night, but the shelling prevents us. The place reeks. And the flies! They're awful. It's more than flesh and blood can stand! To put your head up means certain death and—well, you see what your camera did here. You can imagine what it would be like over there, can't you?"
"Yes, I see, but of course if I had known any men were about I wouldn't have put my machine up. I know there is always the possibility of drawing fire. It has happened quite a number of times to me!"
"If you respect your life don't go any further. The shell-fire is impossible, and the sight over there is too ghastly for words."
So I decided to relinquish my visit for the time being.
A call was made to proceed. "Half a minute," I said, "the trench had been blown in about fifty yards down, wouldn't it be better to clear it away rather than take these men over the top?"
The officer decided that it was. The men worked away with a will, and quickly replaced the earth in the hollow of the trench wall from which it had been blown.
Again we trudged on. The flies were beginning to annoy us once more. I put on a couple of cigarettes. All the men had ransacked odds and ends from their pockets, and the result was a line of men smoking as hard as they could, and enveloped in a haze of bluish white smoke. But the flies refused to budge. Smoke had no effect on them, and I'm inclined to think that nothing short of a 5·9 would do the trick. Not until we were out in the open were we free from them.
On two further occasions I tried to enter Trones Wood, and both times the conditions were if anything worse. The merest sign of a camera put up over a parapet would have instantly brought a host of shells clattering round; therefore, on the third try, I decided to abandon the trip until a later date. But those attempts will always remain in my memory as a ghastly nightmare. The essence of death and destruction, and all that it means, was horribly visible everywhere.
I have been there since. I reached the place just before the final cleansing, and brother Fritz, just to let us know that he existed, and that he had a spite against us, persisted in flinging his shrapnel around, thereby keeping me well on the run. He did not give me the slightest chance to get pictures, nor to meditate on the surroundings; in fact the only meditation I indulged in was to wonder whether the next shrapnel bullet would strike my helmet plumb on the top or glance off the rim. Then thinking of George Grave's remark, I called Fritz a "nasty person," with a few extra additions culled from the "trench dictionary."
Being a fine night I decided to stay in the vicinity. An officer of a pioneer battalion kindly offered me a share of his dug-out—one of Fritz's cast-offs. I gladly accepted, and over a cup—or rather a tin—of tea, we exchanged views on various subjects. About ten o'clock I went above to terra firma and watched the shells bursting over the German lines. Myriads of star-shells or Verey lights shot high in the sky, lighting up the whole country-side like day. The sight was wonderful, and silhouetted against the flashes I could see countless bodies of men tramping on their way like silent phantoms.
Here and there I watched a shell burst. I could see and hear that it had dropped into a section of those men, adding to the number of that great army of heroes who had already "gone West." But into those gaps, through which the blasting shells had torn their way, stepped other men. A sharp word of command was rapped out, then on again to take up their battle position, leaving the dead behind to be reverently buried on the morrow. The wounded were brought away by the stretcher-bearers, and as one lot passed me I heard a voice from the darkness murmur, "Bill, it's a blighty."
I wandered on in the direction of our line. Near a junction of by-roads I heard some funny remarks passed by ration parties trying to find the way to their sections. To pick one's way in the dark over strange ground littered with débris is not an easy task. The exact language I heard would hardly bear repeating.
One party had evidently bumped into another. "D—— and —— who are you? Cawn't yer see, mate, I'm taking up company rations? Blimy, but 'ow the 'ell I am going to find the way—blowed if I know. Do you know where —— Company is? I'm taking up sandbags. Lost me —— way. 'Ave yer passed a dead 'orse? I knowed I passed it coming up. Good night, mate."
Both men went off into the darkness, swearing like troopers. Another man came up. He was whistling a homely song, but it came to an abrupt conclusion, for he evidently stumbled over some obstacle. Compliments began to fly, and he told the Bosche in plain language what he thought of him for leaving it there. His remarks were too pointed for expression in cold print.
The next to come along was an engineering officer. He could faintly discern me in the darkness.
"Hullo," he said. "Are you the ——?"
"No," I replied. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I haven't the least idea where they are. What's wrong?"
"I have to run out some wires to-night, but bothered if I know where they are. Missed my way near the wood. Some silly ass sent me wrong."
"Well," I said, "most of the troops I have seen have gone in that direction," pointing the way. He disappeared.
Apparently he was held up a minute or two later by some one else, for in the distance I heard a voice, "Do you know where —— Company is, sir?"
"No, I don't," in a rather irritated tone. "I can't find my own blooming way."
This sort of thing went on for over an hour; first one then another. Whether all of them eventually found their various points Heaven only knows!
I had wandered so far, owing to my interest in other people, that I had some difficulty in retracing my steps to the dug-out. Eventually I arrive there about one o'clock. I had been given up for lost.
I told —— of my experiences.
"That kind of thing happens practically every night. They manage to find their way somehow. Come along; let's turn in. Look out for your head as you crawl through. Don't mind the rats. Cover your head well up. They won't touch your face then."
I crawled in on to my bed. Then I noticed a peculiar and decidedly unpleasant smell.
"Have you got any corpses here?" I asked him.
"Yes, I believe so," he said. "You see the other entrance has been blown in. It's the other end of your bed, and I believe some Bosches were buried in the débris. Never mind, stick it; they won't bite."
"Pleasant dreams," I mumbled as I drew my blanket well around my face; in a few minutes the presence of dead Bosche ceased to trouble me. I slept.