Something in the Wind—An Urgent Message to Report at Headquarters—And What Came Of It—I Hear for the First Time of the "Hush! Hush!"—And Try to Discover What It Is—A Wonderful Night Scene—Dawn Breaks and Reveals a Marvellous Monster—What Is It?
I had been busy in London preparing the film of the King's visit to his troops in France, when I received an urgent message to report immediately at General Headquarters—most important. I reported to Captain ——.
"Can you get away in the morning, Malins? The boat train leaves early."
"If there is something doing I wouldn't miss it for worlds!" I replied.
"It's quite evident there is," he said, "or they wouldn't want you so urgently."
"I've only got to get my supply of film stock," I said; "I'll manage it during the night somehow, and meet you at Charing Cross in the morning."
No, I certainly was not going to miss a fight, for undoubtedly another offensive was about to take place.
That night I managed to get sufficient film stock together. In the morning we proceeded to France. The following morning at General Headquarters I got the news. Reporting to Colonel ——, he told me of the coming attack. "Do you want to get it?" he said.
"Yes, sir, I do; and from the first line if possible. I want to improve on the Battle of the Somme film. What time does it come off?"
"I don't know; but if you will call on—mentioning a captain at the Headquarters of one of the corps—he will be able to put you right on the section of the attack." With that information I left, and packing my apparatus left for Headquarters. The captain was there.
"You are the 'movie' man, eh? Come in. Now tell me what you want."
"Where is the attack taking place, and at what time?" I asked.
"Look here," he said, unfolding a map, "this is our objective," pointing to a certain place. "We are going to get up to the yellow line, and I suggest that you go to —— Brigade Headquarters. They are in a wood just below —— Redoubt. I will ring up the General and tell him you are coming. He will give you all the information and assistance you require. They know the ground more intimately than we do back here. You are prepared to stay up there, of course?"
"Of course," I said. "I always carry my blanket with me."
"Well it comes off on the fifteenth, rather early in the morning. The General will give you zero hour."
"Do you know the exact time?" I said. "Do you think it will be too early for me—so far as the light is concerned?" I added hurriedly, with a laugh.
"Well no. I think you will just manage it," he said.
Thanking him I hurried off to Brigade Headquarters. They were in an old German dug-out of huge dimensions. There were three distinct floors or rather corridors, one above the other. The galleries wound in and around the hill-side, and the bottom one must have been at the depth of eighty feet. Scottish troops were in the trenches, which were being held as support lines. I entered the dug-out, and around a long table was seated the General and his staff.
"General ——, sir?" I enquired.
"Yes," he said; "come in, will you? You are 'Movies,' aren't you? They have just rung me up. Have some lunch and tell me what you want."
During lunch I explained my mission.
"Well," he said, "I am glad you are giving us a show. There is no need to tell you what the Scottish battalion have accomplished."
Lunch finished, the General with the Brigadier-Major went into details as to the best position from which I could see the show.
"I want, if possible, to get an unobstructed view of the Brigade front."
"'—— Trench,' is the place," he said. "What do you say? you know it."
"I think, sir, that's as good as anywhere, but it's strafed rather badly."
"How far is that from the Bosche front line?"
We measured it on the map. It was eight hundred yards.
"Too far off; I must get much closer," I said. "Isn't there a place in our front trench?"
"There's a machine-gun position in a sap head," said an officer. "I am sure that would suit you, but you'll get strafed. Bosche cannot fail to see you."
"What time is zero hour?" I asked the General.
"At 6.20," he said.
Great Scott, I thought, 6.20 summer time—real time 5.20, and in September only one chance in a million that the sky would be clear enough to get an exposure. Certainly if the mornings were anything like they had been during the last week it would be an absolute impossibility.
Anyway there was just a chance, and I decided to take it.
Therefore I suggested that I should go up very early in the morning to our front line, getting there about four o'clock. There would just be sufficient light for me to have a look round, that is if Brother Fritz wasn't too inquisitive. I could then fix up the camera and wait.
"What time does the barrage start?" I asked.
"Ten minutes to zero. It's going to be very intense, I can tell you that."
"Well, sir, there is one special point I would like you to clear up for me if possible. What the deuce is the 'Hush! Hush!'?"
At that question everyone in the place laughed. "Hush! hush! not so loud," one said, with mock gravity. "You mean the Tanks."
"I am just as wise as ever. Anyway, whether they are called the 'Hush Hushers' or 'Tanks,' what the dickens are they? Everyone has been asking me if I have seen the 'Hush! hush!' until I have felt compelled to advise them to take more water with it in future. At first I thought they were suffering from a unique form of shell-shock."
"I haven't seen them," he said. "All I know is that we have two of them going over with our boys. This is their line; they will make straight for the left-hand corner of the village, and cross the trenches on your left about two hundred yards from the point suggested. They are a sort of armoured car arrangement and shells literally glance off them. They will cross trenches, no matter how wide, crawl in and out shell-holes, and through barbed wire, push down trees and...."
I turned to the General. "I certainly suggest, sir, that —— should go to hospital; the war is getting on his nerves. He will tell me next that they can fly as well."
The General laughed. But quite seriously he told me it was all true.
"Then I hope I shall be able to get a good film of them," I said, "especially as this will be the first time they have been used."
Finally it was agreed that ——, who was going up to the front line to observe for the division, should act as my guide, and take me up in the morning at three o'clock.
"We shall have to start about that time," he said; "it will be possible to go there for quite a good distance over the top of the ridge. It will save trudging through '—— Trench,' and there's sure to be a lot of troops packed in it. In any case it will take us about three-quarters of an hour."
"And I want at least an hour to look round and find a suitable spot; so three o'clock will suit me very well."
"Hullo!" I said, as I heard the crack of a 5·9 crump burst just outside the dug-out. "Can't Bosche let you alone here?"
"No," he said, "he strafes us sometimes. He put quite a lot in here the other day, and one went clean through our cook-house, but no damage was done, beyond spoiling our lunch. If he anticipates our show in the morning, he will be sure to plaster us."
At night I watched the effect of the flashes from our guns. They were rattling off at quite a good pace. What a gorgeous night! Dotted all round this skeleton of what was once a wood, but now merely a few sticks of charred tree trunks, and in and out as far as the eye could see, were scores of tiny fires. The flames danced up and down like elves, and crowded round the fires were groups of our boys, laughing and chatting as if there was no such thing as war. Now and then the flash of the big howitzers momentarily lighted up the whole landscape. What a scene!
Having seen as much of the war as I have done, and having been practically through the campaign from the very outset, it may surprise you that I had not used myself to such sights. Possibly I ought to have done, but the fact remains that I cannot. These night scenes always appeal to me. Every scene is so different, and looking at everything from the pictorial point of view I wished with all my heart I could have filmed such a wonderful scene. But even had I been able to do so I could not have reproduced the atmosphere, the sound of the guns, the burst of the shells, the glare of the star-shells, the laughter of the men—and some of them were swearing. The impenetrable blackness was accentuated by the dancing flames from the fires. It was a sight to dream about; and almost involuntarily reminded one of a scene from the Arabian Nights.
It was now midnight. My guide told me to follow him. "We'll go down below and find a place in which to snatch a little sleep." Down a long flight of stairs we went, along corridors, then down another flight and round more corridors. The passages seemed endless, until at last we came to a halt beside the bunk-like beds fastened on the wall.
"What an extraordinary place; how deep is it?"
"About sixty feet," said my companion. "The place is like a rabbit warren."
"Well, I'm glad you are with me, for I should never find my way out alone." And I rolled my blanket round me and went to sleep.
I was awakened by my guide. "Come on," he said; "time we moved off."
I quickly got out of my blanket. Jove, how cold it was! My teeth chattered like castanets.
"It's like an ice-house down here; let's go out and see if any of the men have any fire left. Might be able to have a little hot tea before we go. I have some biscuits and odds and ends in my satchel."
"Will you let me have a man to help me with my tripod?"
"Certainly, as a matter of fact I arranged for one last night."
Up we went. Along the corridors men were lying about in their blankets, fast asleep. Holding a piece of guttering candle in my hand, and shaking like a leaf with cold, I stepped between the sleeping men; but it was anything but an easy task.
During the journey I missed my companion. By a lucky accident I managed to find an exit, but it was nowhere near the one I entered last night. Ah, here's a fire, and quickly getting the water on the boil, made some tea; then shouldering the camera, and —— helping me, by taking one of the cases, we started off.
It was still very dark, but the sky was quite free from clouds. If only it would keep like that I might just get an exposure.
We proceeded as fast as the innumerable shell-holes and old barbed wire would allow, and made straight for the ruins of ——, then crossing the road we followed the communication trenches along the top.
It was still pitch dark. I looked at my watch. It was 4.30.
The trenches were full of life. Men were pouring in to take up their positions. Bosche put a few shells over near by, but fortunately nobody was touched. He was evidently nervous about something, for on several occasions he sent up star-shells, in batches of six, which lighted up the whole ridge like day, and until they were down again I stood stock still.
Day was breaking in the east. A low-lying mist hung over the village. I hoped it would not affect my taking.
We were now in the trenches, and daylight was gradually beginning to appear.
"It's got to light up a lot more if I'm going to be able to film," I said. "But thank heaven the sky is cloudless. That's the one chance."
All at once it seemed as though the sky lightened. Actinic conditions improved considerably, and I was just congratulating myself on my good fortune when——
"What's that, sir?" said the man at my side, who had been peering through a periscope.
Gingerly I raised myself above the parapet and peered in the direction in which his finger pointed.
For a moment I could discern nothing. Then, gradually out of the early morning mist a huge, dark, shapeless object evolved. It was apparently about three hundred yards away. It moved, and judging by the subdued hum and a slight smoke which it emitted—like the breath of an animal—it lived!
I had never seen anything like it before. What was it?
CHAPTER XXII
the juggernaut car of battle
A Weird-looking Object Makes Its First Appearance Upon the Battlefield—And Surprises Us Almost as Much as It Surprised Fritz—A Death-dealing Monster that Did the Most Marvellous Things—And Left the Ground Strewn with Corpses—Realism of the Tank Pictures.
What in the world was it?
As we stood there peering at the thing, we forgot for the moment that our heads were well above the parapet. We were too fascinated by the movements of the weird-looking object to bother about such a trifle as that! And the Bosche trenches were only two hundred yards away! For the life of me I could not take my eyes off it. The thing—I really don't know how else to describe it—ambled forward, with slow, jerky, uncertain movements. The sight of it was weird enough in all conscience. At one moment its nose disappeared, then with a slide and an upward glide it climbed to the other side of a deep shell crater which lay in its path. I stood amazed and watched its antics. I forgot all about my camera, and my desire to obtain a picture of this weird and terrifying engine of destruction. Like everyone else, its unexpected appearance on the scene first surprised and then held me under its strange influence.
So that was the "Hush! hush!"—the Juggernaut Car of Battle. One of the Tanks, the secret of whose appearance, and indeed of whose very existence, had been guarded more carefully than all the treasures of the Indies.
Truly Bosche was in for a big surprise.
All this time I had scarce taken my eyes off the ugly-looking monster. It waddled, it ambled, it jolted, it rolled, it—well it did everything in turn and nothing long—or wrong. And most remarkable of all, this weird-looking creature with a metal hide performed tricks which almost made one doubt the evidence of one's senses. Big, and ugly, and awkward as it was, clumsy as its movements appeared to be, the thing seemed imbued with life, and possessed of the most uncanny sort of intelligence and understanding. It came to a crater. Down went its nose; a slight dip, and a clinging, crawling motion, and it came up merrily on the other side. And all the time as it slowly advanced, it breathed and belched forth tongues of flame; its nostrils seemed to breathe death and destruction, and the Huns, terrified by its appearance, were mown down like corn falling to the reaper's sickle.
Presently it stopped. The humming ceased. The spell was broken. We looked at one another, and then we laughed. How we laughed! Officers and men were doubled up with mirth as they watched the acrobatic antics of this mechanical marvel—this Wellsian wonder.
Now the metal monster was on the move again. It was advancing on the German position. The Bosche machine-guns got busy and poured a very hail of shells and bullets upon the oncoming death-dealer. It made no difference. The Tank pursued its way, unperturbed by all the racket of the exploding metal on its sides. Shells seemed to glide off it quite harmlessly. Bullets had no effect upon this extraordinary apparition.
Fritz must have thought the devil himself had broken loose from hell and was advancing to devour him. The Huns scurried to their funk-holes and craters, their hiding-places, and their trenches like so many rabbits. Still the Tank advanced, pausing now and then, astride a particularly wide crater, and sweeping the surrounding pit-scarred ground with its machine-guns. Up popped a German head. Zip went a bullet; and down went the head for the last time. How many Germans were crushed in their holes in that first advance goodness only knows.
Presently the monster stopped again. There was a pause. Nothing happened. A minute—two minutes went by. Still nothing happened. The Germans began to regain their courage. Heads popped up all over the place. Enemy troops began to edge nearer and nearer to it, in spite of the hail of bullets from our trenches. Then they began to swarm round the strange creature the like of which they had never seen before. To do them justice, these Germans showed exceptional courage in the face of unknown and altogether exceptional danger.
Mr. Tank meanwhile was not a bit disconcerted by their attentions, and continued to breathe forth flames of fire, which did great havoc in the ranks of the sightseers. But once their curiosity was satisfied the Huns did their level best to damage the brute. They fired at it; they bombarded it; they shelled it; they clambered over it. All to no purpose. Presently that ominous humming, snorting sound reached us again, and the monster began to move away. Where it had stood the ground was strewn with the dead bodies of German soldiers, and I was told afterwards that over three hundred corpses were counted to the credit of the first Tank that ever crossed "No Man's Land."
Meanwhile our boys had been busy. Following in the wake of the Tank, they had cleaned up quite a lot of ground, and all the time, with my camera on them, I had secured a series of fine pictures.
I don't think I ever laughed so heartily at anything as I did on the first day that I saw the Tanks in action, and officers and men all agree that they never saw a funnier sight in all their lives. But whilst they amused us they put the fear of the devil into Fritz, and whole parties of men ran forward, hands up, waving their handkerchiefs, and shouting "Kamerad," and gave themselves up as willing prisoners in our hands.
The Tanks have been one of the big surprises and big successes of the war.
CHAPTER XXIII
where the village of guillemont was
An Awful Specimen of War Devastation—Preparing for an Advance—Giving the Bosche "Jumps"—Breakfast Under Fire—My Camera Fails Me Just Before the Opening of the Attack—But I Manage to Set it Right and Get Some Fine Pictures—Our Guns "Talk" Like the Crack of a Thousand Thunders—A Wonderful Doctor.
After the battle of Martinpuich the nature of my work brought me in contact with many stirring incidents, which, if put on record here, would be merely repeating to a certain degree many of my previous experiences, therefore I do not intend to bore my readers by doing so.
From one section of our front to the other I was kept continually on the move. On the 25th September an attack was timed for twelve o'clock noon for Morval and Lesboeufs, and the Guards, London Scottish, Norfolks, Suffolks and many other regiments were to take part. The day before I visited our front in that section to obtain preliminary scenes. The London Scottish were preparing to leave to take up their battle positions. From one front to the other I hurried, obtaining scenes of the other regiments on the way up. I stayed during the night with an officer of an 18-pounder battling on the left of Guillemont. The Bosche was "strafing" the place pretty badly. I will not say I slept comfortably, for shells came crashing over much too closely to do so; in fact, I was up all night.
On several occasions I really thought my last minute had come. The noise was deafening, the glare and flash although beautiful was sickening. Our guns were pouring out a withering fire, and the ground quivered and shook, threatening to tumble the temporary shelter about my ears. One shell, which came very near, burst and the concussion slightly blew in the side of the shelter; it also seemed to momentarily stun me; I crouched down as close to earth as possible. I will admit that I felt a bit "windy," my body was shaking as if with ague; a horrible buzzing sensation was in my head, dizziness was coming over me. I dare not lose control of myself, I thought; with an effort I staggered up and out of the shelter, clutching my head as the pain was terrible. I dropped down into an old German trench and sat in the bottom. In a few minutes my head pains eased down slightly, but my nerves were still shaky. At that moment one of the battery officers came along.
"Hullo! you got clear then?" he said.
"Yes, only just, by the appearance of things."
"I saw it drop near by where we left you and felt quite certain it had done you in. Feel all right?"
"Yes," I said, "with the exception of a thick head. I will get my camera stuff down here. Lend me your torch, will you?"
I took it out and found my way back to the shelter.
Fritz was now jumping over shrapnel, so, believe me, I did not hang about on my journey. Our guns continued their thundering and fire was literally pouring from their mouths. I got down in the trench, as close as possible, sat on my camera-case and so passed the remainder of the night, thinking—well, many things.
Towards dawn the firing gradually died down until, comparing it with the night, it was quite peaceful. I got out of my trench and sat up on the parapet. My head was still throbbing from the concussion of the night, and having no sleep made me feel in rather a rotten state.
"How's the head, old chap?" asked an officer I knew who came up to me at that moment.
"Better," I replied, "but needs improvement."
"We are just making some tea; come and join us."
"Jove, rather! It may stop this jumping."
A slight mist was hanging over the shell-pocked ground, it was gradually rising, as I had seen it on previous occasions, and the horrible stench from the putrifying dead seemed to rise with it. As far as the eye could see in every direction the ground had been churned up by the fearful shell-fire. The shell-holes met each other like the holes in a sponge. Not a blade of grass or green stuff existed; the place which once marked a wood was now a space with a twisted, tangled mass of barbed wire and, here and there, short wooden stumps, slashed, split, and torn into shreds—the remains of once beautiful trees.
The village of Guillemont literally does not exist, in fact, it is an absolute impossibility to tell where the fields ended and the village began. It is one of the most awful specimens of the devastating track of war that exists on the Western Front. The village had been turned by the Bosche into a veritable fortress; trenches and strong points, bristling with machine-guns, commanded every point which gave vantage to the enemy. But, after much bloody fighting, our troops stormed and captured the place and the German losses must have been appalling. Many had been buried, but the work of consolidating the ground won and pressing on the attack does not permit our men thoroughly to cleanse the square miles of ground and bury the bodies and fragments that cover it.
Unknowingly, when I had hurried for cover in the trench, the night before I had been within twelve feet of a party of five dead Bosches, and the atmosphere in the early morning was more than I could tolerate, so picking up my camera, etc., I took up fresh quarters.
A snorting, crunching sound struck my ears and looking on my left I observed a Tank ambling forward to take up its position for the coming show. It was emitting clouds of bluish-grey smoke from its exhaust which gave it a rather ghostly appearance in the mist.... Now and again as it came to a very deep shell-hole it stopped to poise itself on the rim and then gently tipped its nose downwards, disappearing, to rise like a huge toad on the other side, and then continue its journey.
More troops were coming up in platoon to take up their position in supports, ammunition carriers were taking up fresh supplies of bombs, Red Cross men were making their way forward—not a sound was to be heard from them and the whole place was now a line of silent movement. All the main work and preparation was to finish before the last shadow of night had been chased away by the light of the rising sun, before the setting of which many of the boys would lay down their lives that justice and civilisation might triumph over the false doctrine of blood and iron and barbarism—German Kultur.
"Come along, Malins, your cup of tea is ready," shouted an officer.
I left my camera under cover of a fallen tree trunk and crossed to a covered shell-hole which answered to the name of dug-out. Anyway, apart from shrapnel or a direct hit from an H.E., we were comparatively safe, being below ground level. Along the centre was a rough plank on two boxes and grouped either side were several other officers of the battery. We all of us soon forgot about the previous night's efforts of Fritz in a gorgeous repast of bacon, fried bread, and tea.
Bosche was now fairly quiet; he was "strafing" the ridge in front with an occasional H.E.; some of our batteries on my right were still at it. It was now quite daylight; our aeroplanes were flitting across the sky, diving low to obtain better observation of the enemy, and incidentally getting "strafed" by his anti-aircraft guns which did not interest them in the least.
"What time is zero-hour?" I asked.
"Twelve-thirty," was the reply. "We start our intense at twelve o'clock, every gun we have in this section is going to fairly give Bosche jumps; in fact he will have to find a 'better 'ole.'"
This remark caused considerable laughter.
"I am going to get my scenes from 'Ginchy Telegraph'; it seems a very likely spot by the map. Shall I get there about eleven o'clock and fix up?"
"Good," said one. "I will lend you an orderly to act as guide if it's any benefit to you."
Thanking him, I gladly accepted the offer.
Breakfast over, I collected my apparatus and stood to watch the sections which Fritz "strafed" the most. By practising this method it has made it possible for me to do my work in comfort on previous occasions. I noticed there were one or two points which he "strafed" methodically, therefore I judged it safe to make direct for my point over the top, then enter a communication trench just on this side of the ridge.
By this time my guide came up, so sharing my apparatus, we started off. The distance to Ginchy Telegraph was about one kilometre. Shrapnel was playing upon both roads leading from Guillemont, H.E. was bursting on my right in Lueze Wood, or "Lousy Wood," as it is called here, also in Delville Wood on my left. After a very tiring tramp over shell-holes and rubble I eventually reached my post. From this point I could see practically the whole of our section between Lesboeufs and Morval, but I immediately found out to my annoyance that the slight breeze would bring all the smoke back towards our lines. The resulting effect would not be serious enough to in any way hinder our operations, but photographically it was disastrous, and even if photographed the effect would not be impressive in the slightest degree, merely a wall of smoke which to the public would appear unintelligible. But in that seemingly useless cloud were falling thousands of shells of all calibres, tearing the earth into dust, the German line into fragments, forming a living and death-dealing curtain of blazing steel behind which our men were advancing.
But adverse wind conditions were not all, for when I had taken the camera out of its case I found that by some means or other the lens mounts had received such a knock as to throw it out of alignment. How it happened I cannot think, for the case was intact, the only possible explanation being that I must have dropped it the night before when I took shelter in the trench and in my dazed condition did not remember doing so.
It was quite impossible to repair it even temporarily in time to obtain the opening attack, so I hurried away and took shelter behind some ruins on the south-west side of the village. It was now close on twelve; our intense bombardment would shortly begin, and I worked feverishly at the repair to the camera, perspiring at every pore.
Suddenly, like the terrific crack of a thousand thunders, our fire on the German position began. Bursting from the mouths of hundreds of British guns it came, the most astonishing, astounding, brain-splitting roar that I had ever heard. In a few moments it reached a crescendo; everyone near by was transfixed with awe. Hundreds of shells went shrieking overhead. The air was literally alive with blazing metal.
Imagine, if you can, being in the midst of five hundred drums. At a given moment every drummer beats his drum with ever-increasing force without a fraction of a moment's respite. Add to this the most soul-splitting crash you have ever heard and the sound as of a gale of wind shrieking through the telegraph wires. It will give you a little idea of what it was like under this bombardment. It seemed to numb one's very brain. What it must have been like in the German position is beyond me to conceive. We were certainly giving Fritz a jump.
At last my camera was finished. Looking in the direction of Bouleaux Wood I could see our men still pouring forward over the open. I raced towards them as hard as possible and filmed them going across first one section then the other; Bosche shells were falling near them, knocking a few out but missing most, first one line then the other.
Bosche was dropping large "coal boxes" all along our supports. Two Tanks coming up provided me with several interesting scenes as Fritz was pestering them with his attentions but without injury. I obtained a scene of two heavy "crumps" bursting just behind one of them, but the old Tank still snorted on its way, the infantry advancing close behind in extended formation.
Throughout the remainder of the day I was kept well on the move, filming the many-varying scenes of battle, either whilst they were in progress or immediately afterwards. Prisoners came pouring in from all directions, first a batch of two hundred and then odd stragglers, then further batches. The Guards seemed to have had a rather good bag, as I noticed that most of the Bosches were brought in under care of guardsmen. One Tommy came in the proud possessor of six.
From the immediate fighting ground I made my way towards Trones Wood, upon the outskirts of which the Guards had their dressing station. Many of our men were there, lying about in all directions on stretchers, waiting to be taken away to the Casualty Clearing Station. I filmed many scenes here of our wonderful men suffering their physical torments like the heroes they were. One, in particular, sitting on a box making a cigarette, had a broad smile on his face, though the whole of his elbow was shot completely away. Another came in, helped along by two other men; he was a raving lunatic, his eyes ghastly and horrible to look upon, and he was foaming at the mouth, and gibbering wildly.
"Shell-shock," said the doctor, close beside me; "bad case too, poor chap! Here, put him into this ambulance; three men had better go with him to look after him."
"Do you get many cases like that?" I asked the doctor.
"Yes," he said, "quite a few, but not all so bad as that."
Wounded were still pouring in, both ours and German. The Bosche was shelling the ground only a short distance away and I managed to film several of our wounded men being dressed whilst shells were bursting in the near background.
Another man was brought in on a stretcher. I looked closely at him when he was set on the ground. He had been knocked out by shell-fire. A piece of shrapnel was buried in his jaw, another large piece in his head, and, by the bloodstains on his tunic, about his body also.
He was groaning pitiably. The doctor bending down had a look at him, then stood up.
"It's no use," he said, "he's beyond human aid; he cannot last many minutes. Place him over there," he said to the stretcher-bearers. The men gently lifted the poor fellow up, and less than three minutes afterwards one came up to the doctor.
"He's dead, sir."
"Just tell the padre then, will you, and get his disc and name and have his belongings packed up and sent home."
And so the day drifted on. The sun was blazing hot; every man there was working like a demon. Perspiring at every pore, each doctor was doing the work of four; the padre was here, there and everywhere, giving the wounded tea and coffee, and cheering them up by word and deed.
Towards evening there came a lull in the attack. It had been a great success; all our objectives had been gained; the wounded drifted in in lessening numbers.
An elderly doctor in his shirt sleeves had just finished binding up the stump of a man's leg, the lower part of which had been torn away by a piece of shell. He stood up, mopped his forehead, and, after bidding the carriers take the man away, he lay on the ground practically exhausted, dried blood still upon his hands and arms and scissors held loosely in his fingers; he closed his eyes to try and doze.
"That doctor is a marvel," said an officer to me. "He snatches a few moments sleep between his cases. Now watch!"
Another stretcher-party was coming in, and it was set down. An orderly went up to the doctor and lightly touched him on the shoulder.
"Another case, sir," he said.
The doctor opened his eyes and quickly rose to his feet.
The wounded man's head was bound round with an old handkerchief, matted with blood which had dried hard. Warm disinfectant was quickly brought and the doctor proceeded to gently loosen the rough bandage from the head, revealing a nasty head wound, a gash about three inches long and very swollen.
"What do you think of that?" he said, holding out something in his hand to me, "that's from this lad's head."
I looked and saw that it was a piece of his shrapnel helmet about two inches square, it had been driven into the flesh on his head, fortunately without breaking the skull. The wound was quickly dressed and the doctor again lay down to snatch a few more moments' respite.
"This will go on all night," said the padre, "and all day to-morrow. Have a cup of tea at my canteen, will you?"
Having had nothing to eat or drink all day I accepted the invitation. On the opposite side of the wood was a small shack built of old lumber, and every man before he left by ambulance received a cup of tea or coffee and biscuits.
"I find the boys greatly appreciate it," he said.
I joined him in a cup of tea.
"Don't you think it's a good idea?"
"Excellent," I replied, "like heaven to a lost soul."
"Look round here," he said, pointing away in the distance. "Did you ever see such a ghastly travesty of nature, the whole country-side swept clean of every green and living thing, beautiful woods and charming villages blown to the four winds of heaven, and this might have been our own beautiful sunny downs, our own charming villages. The British public should go down on its knees every day of the week and thank God for their deliverance."
The sun was now setting, and having obtained all the scenes I required, I decided to make my way back. We were still shelling the German lines very hard, and the Bosche was putting over a few of his H.E. and high shrapnel, but fortunately none came within a hundred yards of us.
I bade adieu to the doctors and the padre.
"I hope we shall see the films in town," they said. "It's a pity you can't introduce the sounds and general atmosphere of a battle like this. Good-bye, best of luck!" they shouted.
I left them and made my way across to the battery to thank the Captain. When I arrived I met one of the subalterns.
"Where's ——?" I asked.
"I am afraid you won't see him," he replied.
"Why?" half suspecting some bad news.
"Well, he and four others were killed shortly after you left."
I turned slowly away and walked off in the direction of Guillemont.
A hundred yards further on I came upon a scene which afforded some relief to the tragedies of the day. A short bantam-like British Tommy was cursing and swearing volubly at a burly German sitting on the ground rubbing his head and groaning like a bull. Tommy, with a souvenir cigar in his mouth, was telling him in his best cockney English to get a move on.
"What's the matter?" I said.
"Well, sir, it's like this. This 'ere cove is my own prisoner and 'e's been giving me no end of trouble, tried to pinch my gun, sir, 'e did, so I 'it 'im on 'is head, but 'e ain't 'urt, sir, not a bit, are yer, Fritz? Come on." And Fritz, thinking discretion the better part of valour, got up, and Tommy strutted off with his big charge as happy as a peacock.
CHAPTER XXIV
fighting in a sea of mud
Inspecting a Tank that was Hors de Combat—All that was Left of Mouquet Farm—A German Underground Fortress—A Trip in the Bowels of the Earth—A Weird and Wonderful Experience.
After our successful attack and capture of Lesboeufs and Morval on September 25th, 1916, beyond consolidating our gains there was comparatively little done in the way of big offensives until the capture of Mouquet Farm and Thiepval and the capture of Beaumont Hamel—that fortress of fortresses—on November 13th, and I devoted the interval to recording the ground won.
One interesting incident occurred when I filmed Mouquet Farm situate between Pozières and Thiepval. Looking at the Farm from the strategical point of view, I feel quite confident in saying that only British troops could have taken it. It was one of the most wonderful defensive points that could possibly be conceived, and chosen by men who made a special study of such positions. The whole place was thickly planted with machine-guns, so cunningly concealed that it was impossible to observe them until one was practically at the gun's mouth.
To get here it was necessary to go down a long steep glacis, then up another to the farm. The Germans, with their network of underground passages and dug-outs, were able to concentrate at any threatened point with their machine-guns in such a manner that they would have our troops under a continual stream of lead for quite one thousand yards without a vestige of cover. The farm had been shelled by our artillery time after time, until the whole ground for miles round was one huge mass of shell-craters, but the Germans, in their dug-outs forty and fifty feet underground, could not be reached by shell-fire. I will not go into details of how the place was eventually taken by the Midlanders—it will remain an epic of the war.
The weather was now breaking up. Cold winds and rain continually swept over the whole Somme district, invariably accompanied by thick mists. I wanted to obtain a film showing the fearful mud conditions, which we were working hard and fighting in and under. And such mud! You could not put the depth in inches. Nothing so ordinary; it was feet deep. I have known relief battalions take six hours to reach their allotted position in the front line, when, in the dry season, the same journey could be accomplished in an hour; and the energy expended in wading through such a morass can be imagined. Many times I have got stuck in the clayey slime well above my knees and have required the assistance of two, and sometimes three men to help me out. To turn oneself into a lump of mud, all one had to do was to walk down to the front line; you would undoubtedly be taken for a part of the parapet by the time you arrived. I asked a Tommy once what he thought of it.
"Sir," he replied, "there ain't no blooming word to describe it!" And I think he was right.
On one journey, when filming the carrying of munitions by mule-back—as that was the only method by which our advanced field-guns could be supplied—while they were being loaded at a dump near —— Wood, the mud was well above the mules' knees, and, in another instance, it was actually touching their bellies. In such conditions our men were fighting and winning battles, and not once did I hear of a single instance where it affected the morale of the men. We cursed and swore about it; who wouldn't? It retarded our progress; we wallowed in it, we had to struggle through miles of it nearly up to our knees; we slept in it or tried to; we ate in it, it even got unavoidably mixed up with our food; and sometimes we drank it. And we tolerated it all, month after month. If it was bad for us, we knew it was far worse for the Bosche, for not only had he to live under these conditions, but he was subjected to our hellish bombardment continually without rest or respite.
Thus it was I filmed Mouquet Farm and other scenes in the neighbourhood. I went to Pozières and then struck across country. On my way I passed a Tank which, for the time being, was hors de combat. It naturally aroused my interest. I closely inspected it, both inside and out, and, while I stood regarding it, two whizz-bangs came over in quick succession, bursting about thirty feet away. The fact immediately occurred to me that the Tank was under observation by the Bosche and he, knowing the attraction it would have for enquiring natures, kept a gun continually trained upon it. I had just got behind the body of the thing when another shell dropped close by. I did not stop to judge the exact distance. I cursed the mud because it did not allow me to run fast enough, but really I ought to have blessed it. The fact that it was so muddy caused the shell to sink more deeply into the ground before exploding, its effective radius being also more confined.
When I got clear of the Tank, the firing ceased. I mentally vowed that, for the future, temporarily disabled Tanks near the firing-line would not interest me, unless I was sure they were under good cover.
I continued my journey to the farm, but kept well below the top of the ridge. At one section, to save my dying a sailor's death, duck-boards had been placed over the mud to facilitate easier travelling. It made me feel like going on for ever, after ploughing for hours through mud the consistency of treacle.
Eventually I arrived on the high ground near Mouquet. Many of our field-gun batteries had taken up their position near by: they had turned old shell-holes into gun-pits—occasionally a burst of firing rang out, and Bosche was doing his level best to find them with his 5·9 crump. Here I managed to obtain several very interesting scenes.
The farm, as a farm, did not exist; a mass of jumbled-up brickwork here and there suggested that once upon a time, say 100 b.c., it might have been. In due time I reached the place. A machine-gun company were in possession, and I found an officer, who offered to show me over the Bosche's underground fortress. I entered a dug-out entrance, the usual type, and switching on my electric torch, proceeded with uncertain steps down into the bowels of the earth. The steps were thick with mud and water; water also was dripping through all the crevices in the roof, and the offensive smell of dead bodies reached me.
"Have you cleaned this place out?" I called to my friend in front.
"Yes," he said. His voice sounded very hollow in this noisome, cavernous shaft. And it was cold—heavens how cold! Ugh!
"There was one gallery section; where it leads to we cannot find out, but it was blown in by us and evidently quite a few Bosches with it; anyway, we are not going to disturb it. There is a possibility of the whole gallery collapsing about our ears."
"We are at the bottom now; be careful, turn sharp to the left."
"Why this place must be at least forty feet deep."
"Yes, about that. This gallery runs along to more exits and a veritable rabbit warren of living compartments. See these bullet-holes in the side here," pointing to the wooden planks lining the gallery. "When our men entered the other end the Bosche here had a machine-gun fixed up and so they played it upon anybody who came near; lit up only by the gun flashes it must have been a ghastly sight. It must have been the scene of devilish fighting judging by the number of bullet-holes all over the place. There are plenty of bloodstains about, somebody caught it pretty badly."
I followed my guide until eventually we came to a recessed compartment; it was illuminated by two German candles stuck in bottles, and a rough wooden table with two chairs, evidently looted from the farm when the Bosche arrived.
We made our exit from another shaft and came out at a spot about one hundred yards from the place we had entered.
This will give you some idea of the way the ground was interlaced with subterranean passages, and this, mind you, was only one tunnel of many.
It was quite pleasant to breathe comparatively fresh air again after the foul atmosphere down below.
Bosche was more lively with his shell-fire and they were coming much too near to be pleasant. I fixed up my machine and filmed several very good bursts near some guns. He was evidently shooting blind, or by the map, for they dropped anywhere but near their objectives. Anyway it was his shoot and it was not up to us to correct him.