What a terrible sight it was! The skeletons of houses stood grim and gaunt, and the sound of the wind rushing through the ruins was like the moaning of the spirits of the dead inhabitants crying aloud for vengeance. The sounds increased in volume as we neared this scene of awful desolation, and the groans became a crescendo of shrieks which, combined with the crash of shell-fire, made one's blood run cold.
Leaving the ruins behind we gained the main road, and on arriving at the bridge where we had stopped on our journey out, I parted with the company, thinking to make my way to a café by a short cut over some fields. I wished to heaven afterwards that I had not done so. I cut across a ditch, feeling my way as much as possible with a stick. But I had not gone far before I knew I had lost my way. The rain was driving pitilessly in my face, but I stumbled on in the inky darkness, often above my knees in thick clay mud. Several times I thought I should never reach the road. It was far worse than being under fire.
I must have staggered along for about two miles when I perceived a light ahead. Never was sight more welcome. Remember, I had about fifty to sixty pounds weight on my back, and having had little or no sleep for five nights my physical strength was at a low ebb. It seemed hours before I reached that house, and when at last I got there I collapsed on the floor.
I struggled up again in a few minutes, and asked the bewildered occupants to give me hot coffee, and after resting for an hour, I made again for Furnes reaching it in the early hours of the morning.
Going to my café, I went to bed, and slept for eighteen hours; the following day I packed up and returned to London.
A day or two afterwards I was sitting comfortably in a cushioned chair in the private theatre at our London office watching these selfsame scenes being projected upon the screen. Ah! thought I, how little does the great public, for whom they are intended, know of the difficulties and dangers, the trials and tribulations, the kinematograph camera man experiences in order to obtain these pictures.
A Morning of Surprises—The German Positions Bombarded from the Sea—Filming the Goumiers in Action—How these Tenacious Fighters Prepare for Battle—Goumier Habits and Customs—I Take the Chief's Photograph for the First Time—And Afterwards take Food with Him—An Interesting and Fruitful Adventure Ends Satisfactorily.
Once more I went to Furnes, and while sipping my coffee at the café I heard a remark made about the Goumiers (the Arab horsemen employed by the French as scouts). Quickly realising the possibilities in a film of such a body of men, I made enquiries of the speakers as to their whereabouts.
"Ah, monsieur, they are on the sand-dunes near Nieuport. They are veritable fiends, monsieur, with the Bosches, who run away from them like cats. They are terrible fighters."
After such a glowing account, I thought the sooner I interviewed these fighters the better.
Starting out next morning, I made a bee-line for the coast.
I soon began to hear the sharp crackle of rifle-fire, and artillery on my right opened fire on the German position, and then the heavy boom, boom of the guns from the sea. Looking in that direction, I discerned several of our battleships opening fire, the shells giving a fearful shriek as they passed overhead. The Germans were certainly in for it that day.
Keeping along the bottom of the dunes, I observed a Goumier encampment in the distance. At that moment there came a rasping voice on my right.
"Halt!" This certainly was a morning of surprises.
"Ah," I said, with a laugh, "you startled me."
"I am sorry, monsieur," he said. "The password, if you please?"
"It is not necessary," I replied. "I wish to speak to your officer. I will go by myself to the officer in charge, it is not necessary for you to leave your post. Direct me to Headquarters, and tell me your captain's name."
"Captain ——, monsieur. He is billeted in that house which is half destroyed by shell-fire. Be careful, monsieur, and keep low, or you will draw the fire on you." He saluted, and turned back to his post.
Making straight for the ruined house in question, I observed a sentry on guard at the door. This, I perceived, led to a cellar. I asked to see the Captain. The man saluted and entered the house, appearing in a few minutes with his chief. I saluted, and bade him "good morning," extending my hand, which he grasped in a hearty handshake. I straightway explained my business, and asked him for his co-operation in securing some interesting films of the Goumiers in action.
He replied that he would be glad to assist me as far as possible.
"You will greatly help me, sir," I said, "if you can roughly give me their location."
"That I cannot do," he replied, "but follow my directions, and take your chance. I will, however, accompany you a short distance."
We started out, keeping as much to the seashore as possible.
"Keep low," the Captain said, "the place is thick with Bosche snipers." I certainly needed no second warning, for I had experienced those gentry before. "Our Goumiers are doing splendid work here on the dunes. It is, of course, like home to them among the sand-heaps."
Our conversation was suddenly cut short by the shriek of a shell coming in our direction. Simultaneously we fell flat on the sand, and only just in time, for on the other side of the dune the shell fell and exploded, shaking the ground like a miniature earthquake and throwing clouds of sand in our direction.
"They have started on our encampment again," the Captain said, "but our huts are quite impervious to their shells; the sand is finer than armourplate."
Several more shells came hurtling overheard, but fell some distance behind us. Looking over the top of the dune, I expected to see an enormous hole, caused by the explosion, but judge my surprise on seeing hardly any difference. The sides of the cavity had apparently fallen in again. A short distance further on the Captain said he would leave me.
"You can start now," and he pointed in the distance to a moving object in the sand, crawling along on its stomach for all the world like a snake. "I will go," he said, "and if you see the Chief of the Goumiers, tell him I sent you." With a handshake we parted. I again turned to look at the Goumier scout, his movements fascinated me. Keeping low under the top of the dune, I made for a small hill, from which I decided to film him. Reaching there, I did so.
I then saw, going in opposite directions, two more scouts, each proceeding to crawl slowly in the same fashion as the first.
"This film certainly will be unique," I thought. Who could imagine that within half an hour's ride of this whirling sand, with full-blooded Arabs moving about upon it, the soldiers of Belgium are fighting in two feet of mud and water, and have been doing so for months past. No one would think so to look at it.
A rattle of musketry on my right served as a hint that there were other scenes to be secured. Making my way in the direction of the sound, I came upon a body of Goumiers engaged in sniping at the Germans. I filmed them, and was just moving away when the interpreter of the company stopped and questioned me. I told him of my previous conversation with the Captain, which satisfied him.
"Well," he said, "you are just in time to catch a troop going off on a scouting expedition," and he led the way to a large dune looking down on the sea, and there just moving off was the troop.
What a magnificent picture they made, sitting on their horses. They seemed to be part of them. Veritable black statues they looked, and their movements were like a finely tensioned spring. Hastily filming the troop, I hurried across and succeeded in obtaining some scenes of another detachment proceeding further on the flank, and as they wound in and out up the sand-hills, I managed to get into a splendid point of vantage, and filmed them coming towards me. Their wild savage huzzas, as they passed, were thrilling in the extreme. Looking round, I perceived a curious-looking group a short distance away, going through what appeared to be some devotional ceremony.
Hastening down the hill, I crossed to the group, which turned out to be under the command of the Chief of the Goumiers himself, who was going through a short ceremony with some scouts, previous to their meeting the Germans. It was quite impressive. Forming the four men up in line, the Chief gave each of them instructions, waving signs and symbols over their heads and bodies, then with a chant sent them on their journey. The actual obeisance was too sacred in itself to film. I was told by the interpreter afterwards that he was glad I did not do so, as they would have been very wrath?
A few words about the customs of the Goumiers may not be out of place. These men are the aristocracy of the Algerian Arabs; men of independent means in their own land. At the outbreak of war they patriotically combined under their chief, and offered themselves to the French Government, which gladly accepted their services for work on the sand-dunes of Flanders. The troop bore the whole cost of their outfit and transport. They brought their own native transport system with them. The men obey none but their chief, at whose bidding they would, I believe, even go through Hell itself. All arguments, quarrels, and discussions in the troop are brought before the Chief, whose word and judgment is law.
On the dunes of Northern Flanders they had their own encampment, conducted in their own native style. They looked after their horses with as much care as a fond mother does her child. The harness and trappings were magnificently decorated with beautiful designs in mother-of-pearl and gold, and the men, when astride their horses and garbed in their long flowing white burnouses, looked the very personification of dignity. The Chief never handles a rifle, it would be beneath his position to do so. He is the Head, and lives up to it in every respect possible.
I filmed him by the side of his horse. It was the first time he had been photographed.
Returning to the point where the scouts were leaving, I decided to follow close behind them, on the chance of getting some good scenes. Strapping my camera on my back, and pushing a tuft of grass under the strap, to disguise it as much as possible if viewed from the front, I crawled after them. One may think that crawling on the sand is easy; well, all I can say to those who think so is, "Try it." I soon found it was not so easy as it looked, especially under conditions where the raising of one's body two or three inches above the top of the dune might be possibly asking for a bullet through it, and drawing a concentrated fire in one's direction.
I had crawled in this fashion for about 150 yards, when I heard a shell come shrieking in my direction. With a plunk it fell, and exploded about forty feet away, choking me with sand and half blinding me for about five minutes. The acrid fumes, too, which came from it, seemed to tighten my throat, making respiration very difficult for some ten minutes afterwards. Cautiously looking round, I tried to locate the other scouts, but nowhere could they be seen. I crawled for another thirty yards or so, but still no sign of them. Deciding that if I continued by myself I had everything to lose and nothing to gain, I concluded that discretion was the better part of valour. Possibly the buzzing sensation in my throat, and the smarting of my eyes, helped me in coming to that decision, so I retraced my steps, or rather crawl. Getting back to the encampment, I bathed my eyes in water, which quickly soothed them.
In a short time news came in that the scouts were returning. Hurrying to the spot indicated, I was just in time to film them on their arrival. The exultant look on their faces told me that they had done good work.
I then filmed a general view of the encampment, and several other interesting scenes, and was just on the point of departing when the Chief asked me to partake of some food with him. Being very hungry, I accepted the invitation, and afterwards, over a cup of coffee and cigarettes, I obtained through an interpreter some very interesting information.
The night being now well advanced, I bade the Chief adieu, and striking out across the dunes I made for Furnes. The effect of the star-shells sent up by the Germans was very wonderful. They shed a vivid blue light all round, throwing everything up with startling clearness.
After about a mile I was suddenly brought up by the glitter of a sentry's bayonet. "Password, monsieur." Flashing a lamp in my face, the man evidently recognised me, for he had seen me with his officer that day, and the next moment he apologised for stopping me. "Pardon, monsieur," he said. "Pass, Monsieur Anglais, pardon!"
Accepting his apologies, I moved off in the direction of Furnes, where, after reviewing the events of the previous days, I came to the conclusion that I had every reason to be thankful that I had once more returned from an interesting and fruitful adventure with a whole skin.
A Dangerous Adventure and What Came of It—A Race Across the Sand-dunes—And a Spill in a Shell-Hole—The Fate of a Spy—A Battle in the Dunes—Of which I Secured Some Fine Films—A Collision with an Obstructive Mule.
I arrived at Oost-Dunkerque, which place I decided to use as a base for this journey, chiefly because it was on the main route to Nieuport Bain. Having on my previous visit proceeded on foot, and returned successfully, I decided that I should go by car. To get what I required meant that I should have to pass right through the French lines.
Finding out a chauffeur who had previously helped me, I explained my plans to him.
"Well, monsieur," he said, "I will try and help you, but for me it is not possible to get you through. I am stationed here indefinitely, but I have a friend who drives an armoured car. I will ask him to do it." We then parted; I was to meet him with his friend that night.
I packed my things as close as possible, tying two extra spools of film in a package round my waist under my coat, put on my knapsack, and drew my Balaclava helmet well down over my chin.
Anxiously I awaited my friends. Seven o'clock—eight o'clock—nine o'clock. "Were they unable to come for me?" "Was there some hitch in the arrangement?" These thoughts flashed through my mind, when suddenly I heard a voice call behind me.
"Monsieur, monsieur!"
Turning, I saw my chauffeur friend beckoning to me. Hurrying forward, I asked if all was well.
"Oui, monsieur. I will meet you by the railway cutting."
This was the beginning of an adventure which I shall always remember. I had been up at the bridge some two minutes, when the armoured car glided up. "Up, monsieur," came a voice, and up I got. Placing my camera by the side of the mitrailleuse, I sat by my chauffeur, and we started off for the French lines.
Dashing along roads covered with shell-holes, I marvelled again and again at the man's wonderful driving. Heaps of times we escaped a smash-up by a hair's-breadth.
On we went over the dunes; the night was continuously lighted up by flashes from the big guns, both French and German. We were pulled up with a jerk, which sent me flying over the left wheel, doing a somersault, and finally landing head first into a lovely soft sandbank. Spluttering and staggering to my feet, I looked round for the cause of my sudden exit from the car, and there in the glare of the headlight were two French officers. Both were laughing heartily and appreciating the joke. As I had not hurt myself, I joined in. After our hilarity had subsided they apologised, and hoped I had not hurt myself. Seeing that I was an an Englishman, they asked me where I was going. I replied, "to Nieuport Bain." They asked me if my chauffeur might take a message to the Captain of the —— Chasseurs. "Yes, yes," I replied, "with pleasure."
Thinking that by staying every second might be dangerous, I asked the officers to give the message, and we would proceed. They did so, and again apologising for their abrupt appearance, they bade us "good night."
I hurriedly bade the driver start off, and away we went. He evidently had not got over his nervousness, for, after going about three-quarters of a mile, we ran into a large, partially filled shell-hole, burying the front wheels above the axle. To save myself from a second dive I clutched hold of the mitrailleuse.
This was a position indeed! Scooping away as much sand as possible from the front wheels, we put on full power, and tried to back the car out of it. But as the rear wheels were unable to grip in the sand it would not budge.
While there the Germans must have seen our light, for suddenly a star-shell shot up from their position, illuminating the ground for a great distance. I swiftly pinched the tube of our headlight, so putting it out, then dropped full length on the sand. I observed my companion had done the same.
We lay there for about ten minutes, not knowing what to expect, but luckily nothing happened. It was obvious that we could not move the car without assistance, so shouldering my apparatus we started to walk the remaining distance. Twice we were held up by sentries, but by giving the password we got through. Enquiring for the headquarters of Captain ——, we were directed to a ruined house which had been destroyed by German shell-fire. "Mon Capitaine is in the cellar, monsieur."
Thinking that it would be a better introduction if I personally delivered the message to the Captain, I asked my chauffeur to let me do so. Asking the sentry at the door to take me to his Captain, we passed down some dozen steps and into a comfortably furnished cellar. Sitting round a little table were seven officers. I asked for Captain ——.
"He is not here, monsieur," said one. "Is it urgent?"
"I do not know," I replied. I was trying to form another reply in French, when an officer asked me in English if he could be of any service. I told him that an officer had given me a message to deliver on my journey here, but owing to an accident to the car I had had to walk. Taking the letter, he said he would send a messenger to the Captain with it.
"You must be hungry, monsieur. Will you share a snack with us?" Gladly accepting their hospitality, I sat down with them. "Are you from London?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Do you know it?"
"Yes, yes," he replied. "I was for three years there. But are you militaire?" he enquired.
"Well, hardly that," I confess. "I am here to take kinema records of the war. I have come in this direction to film an action on the sand-dunes. Will you help me?"
"I will do what I can for you," he replied. "We expect to make a sortie to-morrow morning. It will be very risky for you."
"I will take my chance," I replied, "with you."
Whilst our conversation proceeded, I noticed a scuffling on the cellar steps, then into the room came four soldiers with a man in peasant's clothes. He turned out to be a spy caught signalling in the dunes. They brought him in to have a cup of coffee before taking him out to be shot. He was asked if he would take sugar; his reply was "No."
Presently there was a shot outside, and there was one spy the less.
The Captain returned and, after explanations, made me understand that he would accept no responsibility for my safety. Those conditions I did not mind a scrap. Rolling myself in a blanket, I tumbled in. "What would the morrow bring forth?" I wondered.
I was up next morning at four o'clock. Everywhere there was a state of suppressed excitement. Outside the men were preparing, but there was not the least sign of confusion anywhere. To look at them one would not imagine these men were going out to fight, knowing that some of them at least would not return again. But it is war, and sentiment has no place in their thoughts.
The order came to line up. Hours before the scouts had gone out to prepare the ground. They had not returned yet. Personally, I hoped they would not turn up till the day was a little more advanced. Eight o'clock; still not sufficient light for filming. A lieutenant came to me, and said if I would go carefully along the sand-dunes in the direction he suggested, possibly it would be better; he would say no more. I did so; and I had only gone about half a kilometre when, chancing to turn back, I spied coming over the dunes on my right two scouts, running for all they were worth.
Quietly getting my camera into position, I started exposing, being certain this was the opening of the attack. I was not mistaken, for within a few minutes the advance guard came hurrying up in the distance; the attack was about to begin. Suddenly the French guns opened fire; they were concealed some distance in the rear. Shells then went at it thick and fast, shrieking one after the other overhead.
The advance guard opened out, clambered up the dunes, and disappeared over the top, I filming them. I waited until the supporting column came up, and filmed them also. I followed them up and over the dunes. Deploying along the top, they spread out about six metres apart, with the object of deceiving the Germans as to their numbers, until the supporting column reached them. The battle of musketry then rang out. Cautiously advancing with a company, I filmed them take the offensive and make for a large dune forty yards ahead. Successfully reaching it they lay down and fired in rapid succession. Crawling up, I managed to take a fine scene of the attack, showing the explosion of two French shells over the ruins of the town. The Germans evidently found our range, for several shells came whistling unpleasantly near me.
What followed was a succession of scenes, showing the covering columns advancing and others moving round on the flank. The Germans lost very heavily in this engagement, and great progress was made by the gallant French. While filming a section of the flanking party, I had the nearest acquaintance with a shell that I shall ever wish for. I don't think it would have been the good fortune of many to have such an experience and come scathless out of it.
I was kneeling filming the scene, when I heard a shell hurtling in my direction. Knowing that if I moved I might as likely run into it as not, I remained where I was, still operating my camera, when an explosion occurred just behind me, which sounded as if the earth itself had cracked. The concussion threw me with terrific force head over heels into the sand. The explosion seemed to cause a vacuum in the air for some distance around, for try as I would I could not get my breath. I lay gasping and struggling like a drowning man for what seemed an interminable length of time, although it could have only been a few seconds.
At last I pulled round; my first thought was for my camera. I saw it a short distance away, half buried in the sand. Picking it up, I was greatly relieved to find it uninjured, but choked with sand round the lens, which I quickly cleared. The impression on my body, caused by the concussion of the exploding shell, seemed as if the whole of one side of me had been struck with something soft, yet with such terrible force that I felt it all over at the same moment. That is the best way I can describe it, and I assure you I don't wish for a second interview. Noticing some blood upon my hand, I found a small wound on the knuckle. Whether or no it was caused by a small splinter from the shell, I cannot say; in all probability it was, for I do not think striking the soft sand would have caused it.
Turning back, I made for the sea road, and filmed the reserves coming up to strengthen the positions already won. Hurrying across in the direction of another column, I filmed them steadily advancing, while their comrades kept the Germans employed from the top of a large dune. The main body then came up and lined the top for a considerable distance, and at the word of command the whole body arose as one man. For the fraction of a second they were strikingly silhouetted against the sky-line; then with a cheer they charged down the other side.
Darkness was now closing in, making it impossible for me to film any further developments, so I proceeded back to the cellar with an officer and some men. After resting awhile, I decided to go back to Furnes that night with my films and get home with them as quickly as possible. Meeting a small transport car going in the desired direction after some stores, I begged a ride, and getting up beside the driver, we started off. Owing to the enormous shell-holes it was impossible to proceed along the road without a light.
What a magnificent sight it was. Magnesium star-shells were continually being sent up by the Germans. They hung in the air alight for about thirty seconds, illuminating the ground like day. When they disappeared the guns flashed out; then the French replied; after that more star-shells; then the guns spoke again, and so it continued. We were suddenly stopped by an officer warning us to put out our lamp immediately, and proceed cautiously for about three hundred yards. While doing so a shell came screaming by. We knew then that the Germans had seen our light. We immediately rushed to a shell-proof shelter in the sand. I had barely reached it when a shell exploded close by the car, half destroying the body of it. That was the only one that came anywhere near. Running to see what damage was done, I was pleased to see, by the aid of a covered light, that the chassis was practically uninjured. So starting up we once more proceeded on our journey.
We had several narrow squeaks in negotiating corners and miniature sand-banks, and once we bumped into a mule that had strayed on to the road—but whether it will do so again I don't know, for after the bump it disappeared in a whirl of sand, making a noise like a myriad of fiends let loose. But the remainder of the journey was uneventful, and after a long night's rest I left for Calais.
In a Trench Coat and Cap I again Run the Gauntlet—A Near Squeak—Looking for Trouble—I Nearly Find It—A Rough Ride and a Mud Bath—An Affair of Outposts—I Get Used to Crawling—Hot Work at the Guns—I am Reported Dead—But Prove Very Much Alive—And then Receive a Shock—A Stern Chase.
Time after time I crossed over to France and so into Belgium, and obtained a series of pictures that delighted my employers, and pleased the picture theatre public. But I wanted something more than snapshots of topical events.
Unfortunately, I had been unable to make previous arrangements for a car to take me into Belgium. The railroad was barred to me, and walking quite out of the question. A motor-car was the only method of travelling. After two days of careful enquiries, I at last found a man to take me. He was in the transport department, taking meat to the trenches. I was to meet him that evening on the outskirts of Calais. And I met him that night at an appointed rendezvous, and started on our journey.
Eventually we entered Furnes. Making my way into a side street, I told my chauffeur to call at a certain address whenever he passed through the town, and if I should require his services further, I would leave a letter to that effect.
I was awakened next morning by being vigorously shaken by my Belgian friend, Jules.
"Quick, monsieur, the Germans are bombarding us," he cried.
Jumping out of bed, I rushed to the window. The next second I heard the shriek of shells coming nearer. With a crash and a fearful explosion they burst practically simultaneously on the houses opposite, completely demolishing them, but luckily killing no one. Hastily dressing, I grabbed my camera and went out into the square and waited, hoping to film, if possible, the explosion of the shells as they fell on the buildings. Two more shells came shrieking over. The few people about were quickly making for the cover of their cellars. Getting my camera into position, ready to swing in any direction, I waited. With deafening explosions the shells exploded in a small street behind me. The Germans were evidently trying to smash up the old Flemish town hall, which was in the corner of the market-place, so I decided to fix my focus in its direction. But though I waited for over an hour, nothing else happened. The Germans had ceased firing for that morning at least. Not till I had gone to my café did I realise the danger I had exposed myself to, but somehow I had seemed so confident that I should not get hit, that to film the explosions entirely absorbed all my thoughts.
Next morning I decided to tour the front line, if possible from Dixmude to Nieuport, making Ramscapelle a centre. I hoped to drop in with an isolated action or a few outpost duels, for up to the present things were going exceedingly slow from my point of view.
Arranging for a dispatch rider to take me along to Ramscapelle, away I went. The roads were in a frightful condition after months of rain, and shell-holes were dotted all over the surface. It is marvellous these men do not more frequently meet death by accident, for what with the back wheel sliding and skidding like an unbroken mule, and dodging round shell-holes as if we were playing musical chairs, and hanging round the driver's waist like a limpet to keep our balance, it was anything but a comfortable experience. In the end one back wheel slipped into a shell-hole and pitched me into a lovely pool of water and mud. Then after remounting, we were edged off the road into the mud again by a heavy transport lorry, and enjoyed a second mud-bath. After that I came to the conclusion that I would rather film a close view of a bayonet charge than do another such journey.
By now I was the most abject-looking specimen of humanity imaginable. My camera in its case was securely fastened on my shoulders as a knapsack, and so, with the exception of a slight derangement, which I soon readjusted, no damage was done. But the motor-cycle suffered considerably, and leaving it alongside the road to await a breakdown lorry to repair it—or a shell to finish it—I proceeded on foot to Ramscapelle.
Within a hundred yards of the ruined town, from the shelter of a wrecked barn came the voice of a Belgian soldier peremptorily ordering me to take cover. Without asking questions, I did so by sprawling full length in a deep wheel-rut, but as I had previously had a mud-bath, a little more or less did not matter. I wriggled myself towards the cover of the barn, when a sharp volley of rifle-fire broke out on my left. Gaining shelter, I asked the soldier the reason of the fusillade.
"Uhlan outposts, monsieur," replied the man laconically.
Keeping under cover, I crawled towards the back of the barn, and ensconced behind some bales of straw, on a small bridge, I filmed this Belgian outpost driving off the Uhlans, and peeping through one of the rifle slots, I could see them showing a clean pair of heels, but not without losing one of their number. He was brought into our lines later, and I was lucky enough to secure the pennon from his lance as a souvenir.
I made my way by various means into the town. The place was absolutely devoid of life. It was highly dangerous to move about in the open. To be seen by the German airmen was the signal for being shelled for about three hours.
Whilst filming some of the ruins, I was startled by a sharp word of command. Turning round, I saw a Belgian soldier, with his rifle pointing at me. He ordered me to advance. I produced my permit, and giving the password, I quite satisfied him. Bidding me come inside he indicated a seat, and asked me to have some soup. And didn't it smell appetising! A broken door served as a table; various oddments, as chairs and the soup-copper, stood in the centre of the table. This proved one of the most enjoyable meals of the campaign.
The soldier told me they had to be very careful to guard against spies. They had caught one only that morning, "but he will spy no more, monsieur," he said, with a significant look.
I rose, and said I must leave them, as I wanted to take advantage of the daylight. I asked my friend if he could give me any information as to the whereabouts of anything interesting to film, as I wanted to take back scenes to show the people of England the ravages caused in Belgium by the Huns, and the brave Belgians in action. He was full of regrets that he was not able to accompany me, but being on duty he dare not move.
With a hearty shake of the hand and best wishes we parted, and, keeping under cover of the ruined buildings as much as possible, I made my way through Ramscapelle. Hardened as I was by now to sights of devastation, I could not help a lump rising in my throat when I came upon children's toys, babies' cots, and suchlike things, peeping out from among the ruins caused by the German guns.
These scenes caused me to wander on in deep thought, quite oblivious to my immediate surroundings. This momentary lapse nearly proved disastrous. By some means I had passed the sentries, and wandered practically on top of a Belgian concealed heavy gun battery. I was quickly brought to my senses by being dragged into a gun trench, absolutely invisible both from the front and above.
Compelled to go on hands and knees into the dug-out, I was confronted by a rather irate Belgian officer, who demanded why I was there walking about and not taking cover. Did I know that I had drawn the enemy's fire, which was very nearly an unpardonable offence?
Quickly realising the seriousness of my position, I thought the best thing to do was to tell him my mission, and so I explained to the officer that I had unconsciously wandered there.
"There, monsieur," he said, "that is what you have done," and at that moment I heard two shells explode fifteen yards behind us. "We dare not reply, monsieur," he said, "because this is a secret battery. Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, "I hope they cease firing, or they may destroy our defences." Fortunately, the Germans seeing no further sign of life, evidently thought it was a case of an isolated soldier, and so ceased their fire. Imagine my thankfulness.
I enquired if there was anyone there who could speak English. A messenger was sent out and returned with a Belgian, who before the war broke out was a teacher of languages in England. With his aid I gave the chief officer full explanation, and pledged my word of honour that neither names, districts, nor details of positions should ever be mentioned.
Wishing to film some scenes of big guns in action, I enquired whether he was going to fire. He was expecting orders any minute, so making myself as comfortable as possible in the dug-out, I waited. But nothing happened, and that night, and the one following, I slept there.
Early next morning (about 3 a.m.) I was awakened by the noise of a terrific cannonading. Together with the officer I crawled out on to the top of our embankment and viewed the scene. The Germans had started a night attack, the Belgian guns had caught them in the act and were shelling them for all they were worth.
As soon as it was daylight I strapped my camera on my back, and, lying flat in the mud, I edged away in the direction of the battery. Before leaving, the officer gave me a final warning about drawing the Germans' fire. Alternately crawling and working my way on hands and knees, and taking advantage of any little bit of cover, I drew nearer to the guns. While I was lying here, there crashed out a regular inferno of rifle-fire from the German trenches. The bullets sang overhead like a flight of hornets. This certainly was a warm corner. If I had filmed this scene, all that would have been shown was a dreary waste of mud-heaps, caused by the explosion of the shells, and the graves of fallen soldiers dotted all over the place. As far as the eye could see the country was absolutely devoid of any living thing.
Thousands of people in England, comfortably seated in the picture theatre, would have passed this scene by as quite uninteresting except for its memories. But if the sounds I heard, and the flying bullets that whizzed by me, could have been photographed, they might take a different view of it.
Death was everywhere. The air was thick with it. To have lifted my head would have meant the billet for a bullet. So there I had to lie soaked through to the skin, and before I had been there twenty minutes I was literally lying in water. The German fusillade seemed interminable. Suddenly with a roar the Belgian guns spoke. About fifty shells were fired, and gradually the rifle-fire ceased. With a sigh of relief I drew myself out of the hole which my body had made, and on my elbows and knees, like a baby crawling, I covered the intervening ground to the battery. Getting up, and bending nearly double, I ran under cover of the barricades.
The men were astounded to see me run in. I went in the direction of a group of officers, who looked at me in amazement. Saluting me, one of them came forward and asked who I wanted. Explaining my business, I told him I had permission from headquarters to film any scenes of interest. The officer then introduced me to his friends, who asked me how in the world I had crossed the district without getting hit. I described my movements, and they all agreed that I was exceedingly lucky.
Once more the guns started, so getting my camera ready I commenced filming them in action, one scene after another. I changed from the firing of one gun to the full battery in action. The men were working like mad. All the time they were baling water out of the gun trenches with buckets. In some cases after the gun had fired it sank back about eighteen inches in the mud, and had to be dug out and set again. These poor devils had been doing this for nearly four months, every man of them was a hero.
While taking these scenes, my compressed air cylinders ran out. Looking round for somewhere solid on which to put my machine and foot-pump, I found some bricks, and made a little foundation. Then I started to pump up. At every six strokes of the pump, it was necessary to pack under it more bricks, and still more, for the ground was a veritable morass. In the ordinary way my camera takes ten minutes to refill. On this occasion it took me forty-five minutes, and all the time guns were thundering out.
Making my way in a semi-circle, under cover of the communication trenches, to the most advanced outpost, I filmed a party of Belgian snipers hard at work, cheerfully sniping off any German unwise enough to show the smallest portion of his head. Several times while I was watching, I noticed one of the men mark upon his rifle with the stub of a pencil. I asked why he did it.
"That, monsieur," he replied, "is a mark for every Bosche I shoot. See," he said, holding the butt-end for me to look at, and I noticed twenty-eight crosses marked upon it. Snatching it up to his shoulder he fired again, and joyfully he added another cross.
By this time it was getting dark, and quite impossible to take any more scenes, so I returned to the battery, where the officer kindly invited me to stay the night. Getting some dry straw from a waterproof bag, we spread it out on the boards of the trench-hut, rolled our blankets round our shoulders, and lighted our cigarettes. Then they asked me about England. They told me that as long as Belgium existed they would never forget what England had done for her people. While talking our candle went out, and as we had no other we sat in the darkness, huddled together to keep warm. Heavy rain again came on, penetrating through the earth roof and soaking into my blanket.
I must have dozed off, for after a little while I awoke with a start and, looking towards the entrance, I noticed a blue-white glare of light. As my companions were getting out, I followed them, in time to see the Germans sending up star-shells, to guard against any attack on our part.
The following day I filmed several scenes connected with the Belgian artillery and outposts. I waited during the remainder of the day to catch, if possible, some scenes of German shells exploding, but again I was doomed to disappointment, for, with the exception of a few at a distance, I was never able to get the close ones in my field of view.
Having exhausted my stock of film, I decided to return to my base, but on bidding adieu to the Commandant he begged me to return under cover of darkness. That night I set out for Furnes, and after walking about an hour, I was lucky enough to get a lift in an ambulance waggon, which set me down in the market-place.
Entering the café by a side door, my Belgian friend seemed to me to be astounded at my appearance. He immediately rushed up to me, shook my hands and pummelled my back. His friends did the same. After I had got over my astonishment, I ventured to ask the reason for this jubilation.
"We thought you were dead," he cried; "we heard you had been shot by the Germans, and as you had not turned up for the last five days, we came to the conclusion that it was true. But, monsieur, we cannot tell you how pleased we are to see you again alive and well."
Seeing the condition I was in, they heated water for a bath, and assisted me in every way possible. When I was once more comfortable, I asked my friend, over a cup of coffee, to tell me the exact report, as it highly amused me.
"Well, monsieur," he said, "your motor cyclist came rushing in the other evening, saying that Monsieur Malins, the Englishman, had been shot while crossing ground between the two batteries. He told us that you had been seen attempting the crossing; that you suddenly threw up your arms, and pitched forward dead. And, monsieur, we were preparing to send your bag to London, with a letter explaining the sad news. The Colonel was going to write the letter."
"Well," I replied with a laugh, "I am worth a good many dead men yet. I remember crossing the ground you mention—but, anyway, the 'eye-witness' who saw my death was certainly 'seeing things.'"