To keep hard upon the heels of the retreating Germans and so obtain scenes, the character of which had never been presented before to the British public, was my chief aim. I had no time for sleep. I arrived at my base wet through, the rain had continued throughout the whole of my return journey. Changing into dry underwear, I refilled my exposed spool-boxes and packed up a good surplus supply, sufficient to last for several days, then packing my knapsack with the usual rations, bully and bread, condensed milk and slabs of chocolate, I was ready to start out once more. My clothes had by this time dried. Daylight was breaking, the car arrived and, with all kit aboard, I started out again for the Somme, wondering what the day would bring forth.

I stopped on the way to pick up the "still" photographer.

"Where for to-day?" he asked.

"Bovincourt and Vraignes," I replied, "and, if possible, one or two of the villages near by. I must get into them before our troops, so as to be able to film their entry. Does that suggest possibilities to you?" I said, with a smile, knowing that he, like myself, would go through anything to obtain pictures.

"Possibilities," he said, "don't, you make my mouth water. How about food? Shall we take some to the villages?"

"Excellent idea," I said.

We stopped on the way and purchased a good supply of white bread and French sausages, thinking that these two commodities would be most useful.

Through Foucacourt Estrées and Villers-Carbonel the roads were lined with troops, guns, and transport of every description, all making their way forward. Engineers were hard at work on the roads; shell-holes were filled in and road trenches bridged. Work was being pushed forward with an energy and skill which reflected great credit upon those in charge; traffic controls were at cross roads which forty-eight hours before had been "No Man's Land." Hun signboards were taken down and familiar British names took their place. The sight was wonderful. En route I stopped and filmed various scenes. Arriving again at Brie on the Somme the change in affairs was astounding. The place was alive with men; it was a veritable hive of industry; new lines were being laid to replace the torn and twisted rails left by the Germans; bridges were being strengthened, roads on both sides were widened, and, to make it possible to continue the work throughout the night, a searchlight was being mounted upon a platform.

Crossing the bridges of Brie we mounted the hill and were once again upon the ridge. Great gaps had been made by our men in the huge line of barbed wire entanglements which the Huns had spent months of laborious work to construct. It stretched away over hill and dale on both sides as far as the eye could see.

To pick up further information I stopped a cyclist officer coming from the direction of Mons.

"Any news?" I enquired. "Where is Bosche?"

"We were in touch with his rearguards all last night," he said. "They have made several strong points round the villages of Vraignes, Haucourt, and Bierne. They were scouting around Vraignes, but we quickly put the wind up them," he said, with a smile. "Several villages were seen burning during the night and the enemy put a little shrapnel around some patrols near Pouilly, but no damage was done."

"Vraignes, of course, is quite clear?"

"Yes, as far as we know. Our patrols reported it clear late last evening, but possibly Bosche returned during the night. We captured three Bosches and they have an extraordinary tale of seeing two armoured cars yesterday evening near Bovincourt, and they insist upon it although I am quite aware there were none at all near there. They say that about six o'clock they were on the outskirts of Bovincourt when two armoured cars came in sight. Not having a machine-gun with them they decided to hide and so took cover in the ruins of a house. Later on they say they saw only one car leave in the direction of the main road. That's their tale and they seem quite serious about it."

"Well," I said, with a grin, "do you think this car of mine would look like an armoured car at a distance?"

"Well, yes, possibly, in a failing light. Why?"

"Well, this must be one of your excellent prisoner's so-called armoured cars, because I was in Bovincourt with —— of the Corps Intelligence, hence the two cars. I missed him through getting stuck in the mud, and entered Bovincourt about six o'clock and left by myself later as a skirmish was taking place somewhere near by, and not being armed with anything more dangerous than a camera, I decided to quit. I am much obliged to the Bosche for taking this bus of mine for an armoured car."

With a laugh and a cheery adieu the officer bade me good luck and pedalled off.

I could not help thinking that I had had a lucky escape.

On again, and reaching the first mine, the scene of the previous night's adventure, I put the car to the field at a rush and by some extraordinary means got her round.

I was just entering the village when, with a shriek and a crash, a shell burst near the church. I stopped the car and, under cover of the ruins, reached a distance of about three hundred yards from where it fell. If any more were coming over I intended, if possible, to film them bursting.

Carefully taking cover behind a wall, I fitted up my camera. Another shell came hurtling over and dropped and burst quite near the previous spot. Showers of bricks flew in all directions, liberally splattering the wall behind which I was concealed. The débris cleared, up went my camera, and, standing by the handle, I awaited the next.

It came soon enough, I heard the shriek nearer and nearer. I turned the handle and put my head close behind the camera with my eye to the view-finder. Crash came the shell, and, with a terrific report, it exploded. The whole side of a house disappeared, and bricks, wood, and metal flew in all directions. I continued to turn when, with an ugly little whistle, a small piece of something struck my view-finder and another my tripod. Luckily nothing touched the lens. I awaited the next. It was longer this time, but it came, and nearer to me than the previous one. I was satisfied. I thought if they elevated another fifty yards I might get a much too close view of a shell-burst, so scrambled aboard the car, and made a detour round the mine on to the road beyond.

"Those scenes ought to be very fine," I said. "It's one of those lucky chances where one has to take the risk of obtaining a thrilling scene."

By the balls of white smoke I could see that shrapnel was bursting in the near distance.

"That's near Pouilly," I said. "We are turning up on the left, let's hope the Huns don't plaster us there."

Reaching the village of Bovincourt, the villagers were there eagerly awaiting our arrival. They again crowded around the car, and it was with difficulty that I persuaded them to let us pass into the village. Cheering, shouting, and laughing they followed close behind. I stopped the car and asked an old man who, by his ribbons, had been through the 1870 war:

"Where is the Mayor?"

"There is no Mayor, monsieur, but a mayoress, and she is there," pointing to a buxom French peasant woman about fifty years of age.

I went up to her and explained in my best French that I had brought bread and sausages for the people, would she share them out?

"Oui, oui, monsieur."

"I would like you to do it here, I will then take a kinematograph film of the proceeding, so that the people in England can see it."

"Ah, monsieur, it is the first white bread and good French sausage we have seen since the Bosches came. They took everything from us, everything, and if it had not been for the American relief we should have starved. They are brutes, pig-brutes, monsieur, they kill everything." And, with tears in her eyes, she told me how the Huns shot her beautiful dog because, in its joyfulness, it used to play with and bark at the children. "They did not like being disturbed, monsieur, so they shot him—poor Jacques! They have not left one single animal; everything has gone. Mon Dieu, but they shall suffer!"

I changed the painful subject by saying that now the British had driven back the Bosche everything would be quite all right. With a wan smile she agreed.

I set up my camera, and telling my man to hand over the food, the Mayoress shared it out. One sausage and a piece of white bread to each person, men, women, and children. The joy on their faces was wonderful to behold. As they received their share they ran off to the shelter of some ruins, or up into the church, to cook their wonderful gifts. I filmed the scene, and I shall never forget it.

The last of the batch had disappeared when up the road came hobbling a woman whose age I should say was somewhere about forty-five. I could see she was on the point of exhaustion. She had a huge bundle upon her back and a child in her arms, another about seven years clinging to her skirts. They halted outside the ruins of a cottage, the woman dropped her bundle, and crouching down upon it clung convulsively to the babe in her arms and burst into tears.

I went up to her and gently asked her the cause.

"This, monsieur, was my house. Two days past the Germans drove me away with my children. My husband has already been killed at the front. They drove me away, and I come back to-day and now my home, all that I had in the world, monsieur, is gone. They have burnt it. What can I do, monsieur? And we are starving."

The babe in her arms began to send forth a thin lifeless wail. I helped the poor woman to her feet and told her to go to the church, and that I would bring her bundle and some food for her.

God above, what despair! The grim track of war in all its damnable nakedness was epitomised in this little French hamlet. Houses burnt, horses taken away, agricultural implements wilfully smashed, fruit trees and bushes cut down, even the hedges around their little gardens, their cemetery violated and the remains of their dead strewn to the four winds of heaven. Their wells polluted with garbage and filth; in some cases deliberately poisoned, in others totally destroyed by dynamite. Their churches used as stables for horses and for drunken orgies. All the younger men deported, and the prettiest of the girls. In some cases their clothes had been forcibly taken away from them and sacks had been given in exchange to clothe themselves with. They were robbed of every penny they possessed.

But when the wonderful sound of the British guns and the tramp of our soldiers crept nearer and nearer, terrifying, relentless, and irresistible, the Germans left, fleeing with their ill-gotten spoil like demons of darkness before the angels of light, leaving in their trail the picture I have unfolded to you.

Wishing to push on further I scouted round the outskirts of the village. In a wood a short distance away it was evident that our patrols were in contact with the Huns. Volley after volley of rifle-fire rang out, and now and then a burst from the machine-guns. A horseman was heading straight for me. Was he British or Hun? In a few minutes I could see he was one of our men—evidently a dispatch-rider. He swept down into a hollow, then up the road into the village. He was riding hard; his horse stumbled, but by a great effort the rider recovered himself. He dashed past me and, clattering over the fallen masonry, disappeared from sight.

I looked around. Not a sign of life anywhere, so I decided to make for Vraignes about a kilometre distant south-east of Bovincourt. I had previously heard from one of the villagers that there were about one thousand people left there.

Strapping my camera on my back I tramped away, my man following in the rear. The "still" man, who had left me after feeding the villagers, had been prowling around getting pictures. Accidentally he ran into me, so together we trekked off.

Taking advantage of every bit of cover possible, as German snipers were none too careful as to where they put their bullets, we eventually reached the outskirts of Vraignes. Not a sign of Germans, but crowds of civilians. Things here were the same as at Bovincourt, but a few more houses were left standing owing to the fire not completely doing its work. The people were in the same state. We had just got into the village, and near the Mairie, when a commotion round the corner by the church attracted my attention. The men and women who had crowded around us shouting with joy, turned and rushed up the road.

"Vive les Anglais! Vive les Anglais!" The cry was taken up by every one. Hands and handkerchiefs were waving in all directions. "Vive les Anglais! Vive les Anglais!"

"Our boys are there," I said.

My camera was up and turned on to the corner where the crowd stood and, at that moment, a troop of our cyclists entered, riding very slowly through the exultant people—the first British troops to enter the village. I turned the handle. The scene was inspiring. Cheer after cheer rent the air. Old men and women were crying with joy. Others were holding their babies up to kiss our boys. Children were clinging and hugging around their legs, until it was impossible for them to proceed further. The order was given by the officer in charge to halt. The men tumbled off their machines, the people surged round them. To say the men were embarrassed would be to put it mildly. They were absolutely overcome. I filmed them with the crowd around. And then an order was given to take up billets. Patrols were thrown out, sentries posted, the men parked their cycles and rested.

On a large double door of a barn the Huns had gone to the trouble of painting in huge letters the hackneyed phrase "Gott strafe England," and immediately our men saw it one of them, with a piece of chalk, improved upon it.

They gathered the children round them and formed a group beneath the letters with German trophies upon their heads; I filmed them there, one of the happiest groups possible to conceive.

I left them and went to find the officer in charge, and asked him for the latest news from other sections.

"I couldn't say," he replied, "but my men were well in touch with them early this morning, but you seem to know more about it here than anyone else. When on earth did you arrive in the village?"

"Just before you," I replied. "I came from Bovincourt."

"Well, you have got some job. I certainly didn't expect to find anyone so harmless as a photographer awaiting our arrival."

The conversation was abruptly stopped by a warning shout from one of the observers on a house-top close by.

"Germans, sir."

The officer and I rushed to a gap in the buildings and looked through our glasses, and there, on a small ridge a thousand yards off, a body of horsemen were seen approaching, riding hard, as if their very lives depended upon it.

An order was immediately given to the machine-gun company who had taken up a most advantageous position and one that commanded most of the country near by.

I placed my camera in such a position by the side of a wall that I could see all that was taking place and if seen myself I could easily pull it under cover.

Nearer and nearer they came. They were too far away to photograph. Excitement was intense. Were they coming into the village? If they did, I thought, in all conscience they would get a warm reception, knowing as I did the arrangements for its defence. My eyes were fixed upon them.

The officer close by was on the point of giving the order to fire when a burst of machine-gun fire rang out in the distance.

"Our cavalry have got them," said the officer. "We have some strong posts just here, Bosche has fairly run into them. Look! They have their tails up."

And they had, for they were running back for all they were worth in the direction of Bierne.

Our men were positively disappointed, and I can honestly say I was myself, for the possibilities of a wonderful scene had disappeared.

The tension relaxed; most of the men returned to their billets and quickly made themselves at home with the people.

Noticing people going into church, I went up the hill to investigate. As I entered the outer gate an officer clattered up on horseback, swung himself off and walked up to me.

"Hullo," he said, "I am the doctor. Anything doing here?"

"Well," I said, "there might have been just now."

I related the happenings of the last ten minutes.

"Have you been to Bovincourt?"

"Yes, but the poor devils are too ill for me. I haven't sufficient stuff with me to go round."

Another officer ran up, "I say, Doctor, for Heaven's sake look in the church here. The place is packed and half of them are ill, God knows what with, and one or two are dead."

"Well, I will look, but I can do nothing until this evening. I have no stuff with me."

We went into the church. Heavens! what a sight met our eyes; the atmosphere was choking. It was like a charnel-house. Crowds of old men, women, and children of all ages were crowded together with their belongings. They had been evacuated from dozens of other villages by the Huns. Women were hugging their children to them. In one corner an old woman was bathing the head of a child with an old stocking dipped in water. The child, I could see, was in a high fever. There must have been at least three hundred people lying about in all directions, wheezing and coughing, moaning and crying.

The doctor spoke to one old woman, who had hobbled forward and sank down near a pillar. The doctor bent down and told her that he would bring medicine in the evening. Everybody there seemed to hear that magic word, and scrambled forward begging for medicine for themselves, but mostly for the children. The scene was pitiable in the extreme.

I asked one women where they had come from. She told me from many villages. The Bosche had turned them all out of their homes, then burnt their houses and their belongings. They had walked miles exposed to the freezing cold rains and winds, they had been packed into this church like a lot of sheep without covering, without fires. She was begging for medicine for her three-months-old babe.

"She will die, monsieur, she will die!" And the poor woman burst into a flood of tears.

I calmed her as much as possible by telling her that everything would be done for them without delay, and that medicine, food, and comfort would be given them.

I turned and left the building, for the air was nearly choking me. Outside I met the doctor, who was arranging to send a cyclist back for an ambulance.

"They cannot be treated here, it's impossible. I've never seen such a sight."

I left him and went into the house where the cyclist C.O. had made his temporary headquarters.

"I want to get on further, is there any other village near by?"

"Yes," he said, "there is Haucourt, but I believe Bosche is in part of it, or he was this morning. It's about two kilos from here. I shouldn't go if I were you unless you get further information; I am expecting another patrol in from there. If you care to wait a few minutes you may learn something."

I agreed to wait, the "still" man came in just then, and he agreed to come with me.

"We may as well risk it," I said. "I will take my old bus into the place. If Bosche sees it he may mistake it again for an armoured car."

So, packing the cameras aboard, I waited for the expected patrol to turn up. Half an hour passed; no sign. Daylight was waning.

"I am going on," I said to the "still" man, "we cannot wait for the patrol, there's not time. Will you come?"

"Yes," he said.

I told the C.O. of my intention.

"It's thundering risky," he said. "You're going into new ground again."

I left Vraignes and advanced at a cautious pace in the direction of Haucourt. Rifle-fire was proceeding in the distance, which I judged was the other side of the village. A destroyed sugar refinery on the left was still smoking. It had been blown up by the Huns and the mass of machinery was flung and twisted about in all directions.

In the village I stopped the car close by a crucifix, which was still standing.

"Turn the car round," I said to my driver, "and keep the engine going, we may have to bolt for it."

Then, shouldering the camera, I made my way up the main street. The place was a mass of smoking ruins; absolutely nothing was left. A huge mine had been blown up at a cross-road; all trees and bushes had been cut down. A piano, curiously enough, was lying in the roadway; the front had been smashed, and no doubt all the wires were hacked through by some sharp instrument, and the keys had all been broken. The Huns had evidently tried to take it away with their other loot, but finding it too heavy for quick transport had abandoned, then wilfully destroyed it to prevent its being used by others.

The place was as silent as the grave. I filmed a few scenes which appealed to me, and was on the move towards the further end of the road when two of our cyclists suddenly came into view. I hurried up to them.

"Any news?" I asked. "Where's Bosche?"

The men were half dead with fatigue. Their legs were caked inches thick in mud, and it was only by a tremendous effort that they were able to lift their feet as they walked. They were pushing their cycles; the mud was caked thick between the wheels and the mudguards forming in itself a brake on the tyres. Fagged out as they obviously were they tried to smile at the reply one made.

"Yes, the Bosche is about here outside the village," said one. "We had a small strong point last night over there," pointing in the distance, "myself and two pals. We were sitting in the hole smoking when nine Bosches jumped in on us. Well, sir, they managed to send my pal West, but that's all. Then we started and six Fritzes are lying out there now. The other three escaped. It made my blood boil, sir, when they did in my pal. I'm going to make a wooden cross, and then bury him. We had been together for a long time, sir, and—well—I miss my pal, but we got six for him and more to come, sir, more to come before we've finished."

I thanked the man and sympathised with him over his loss and complimented him on his fight.

"But it's not enough yet, sir, not enough."

The two then struggled away, bent on their errand of making a cross for a pal. And as they disappeared among the ruins I wondered how many men in the world could boast of such a true friend. Very few, worse luck!

The sharp crack of a rifle quickly brought me back to earth. A bullet struck the wall close by. I dived under cover of some bricks dragging my camera after me. Another came over seeming to strike the spot I had just vacated. I decided to keep the ruins between myself and the gentle Bosche. Scenes were very scarce, no matter where one looked it was just ruins, ruins, ruins.

I wandered on until I came to a long black building, evidently put up by the Huns. It was quite intact, which to me seemed suspicious. It might hide a German sniper. I put my camera behind a wall then quietly edged near the building. Not a sound was audible. In case anyone was there I thought of a little ruse. The door was close to me and it opened outwards, so picking up a stone I flung it over the roof, intending it to fall the other end and so create a diversion. With a sudden pull I opened the door alongside me, but with no result. I peered round the door; nobody there. I entered and found the building had been used as a stable. Straw was lying all over the place; feed-bags had been hastily thrown down, halters were dotted here and there, and a Uhlan lance was lying on the ground, which, needless to say, I retained as a souvenir. The rearguard of the enemy had evidently taken shelter there during the previous night and had made a hasty exit owing to the close proximity of our boys.

Evening was drawing on apace, so I decided to make my way back to the car. The "still" man was awaiting my return.

At Bovincourt I met an Intelligence Officer and told him of my experiences. He seemed highly amused and thanked me for the information brought. I told him that wishing to be on the spot if anything interesting happened during the night or early next morning I had decided to sleep in my car in the village. I was going to hunt up a place to cook some food.

"I will take you somewhere," he said. "There is the old Mayor of Bierne here. He has been evacuated by the Bosche. He's an interesting old fellow and you might have a chat with him. He is in a house close by with his wife. Come along."

We found the old man in one of the half-dozen remaining houses left intact by the Huns.

We entered the kitchen and my friend introduced us to Paul Andrew, a tall stately French farmer of a type one rarely sees. He had dark curly hair, a shaggy moustache and beard, blue eyes and sunken cheeks, sallow complexion and a look of despair upon his face, which seemed to brighten up on our entrance.

I asked him if his good wife would cook a little food for us, as we wished to stay the night in the village.

"Monsieur," he said, "what we have is yours. God knows it's little enough—the Bosche has taken it all. But whatever monsieur wishes he has only to ask. Will monsieur sit down?"

I bade adieu to the officer who had brought us there, had the car run into the yard, and then returned to the cosy kitchen, and sat by the fire whilst the old lady prepared some hot coffee.

"These are more comfortable quarters than we expected to-night," I said. "I must make a note of all my scenes taken to-day. Have you a light, Monsieur Andrew?"

"Oui, Monsieur, I have only one lamp left and I hid that as the Bosche took everything that was made of brass or copper, even the door handles."

He brought in the lamp, a small brass one with a candle stuck in it. I proceeded with my record, then we supped on bread, sardines, and bully, sharing our white bread with Andrew and his wife. They had not seen or tasted such wonderful stuff since the Bosche occupation, and their eyes sparkled with pleasure on tasting it again. I had brought copies of the Echo de Paris, Journal, Matin and other French papers, and these were the first they had seen for two years. The farmer declared it was like a man awakening from a long sleep.

"We'll turn in," I said.

Gathering up my coat I opened the door. The freezing cold seemed to chill me to the bone, and it was snowing hard. I flashed on my torch and we found our way to the car. Quickly getting inside, I unfolded the seats which formed two bunks, and struggling inside our sleeping-bags we were soon asleep.

I awoke with a start. It was pitch dark. I rubbed the steam from the door window and looked out; it was still snowing. I had an extraordinary feeling that something was happening, that some danger was near. If anybody had been there near the car I should have seen them; the snow made that possible. But there was not a sign of movement. I got out of my sleeping-bag, thinking that if any prowling Bosche patrol ventured near I should be able to do something. Nothing happened, and for quite half an hour I was on the alert. Several rifle-shots rang out quite near, then quietness reigned again, and, as nothing else happened, I wriggled into my bag again and dozed.

In the morning I told one of our patrol officers of my experience.

"You were right," he said. "Uhlan rearguard patrols sneaked in near the village, and must have passed quite close to your place. My men had some shots at them and gave chase, but owing to the confounded snow they got away."

I decided that if I slept there again that night it would be with a rifle by my side.

CHAPTER XXIX

before st. quentin

Still the great German retreat continued. Village after village fell into our hands; mile after mile the enemy was relentlessly pursued by our cavalry and cyclist corps. Still the Germans burnt and devastated everything in their path although, in some instances, there was evidence that they were shifted from their lines of defence with far more force and promptitude than they imagined we would put up against them in this particular section. The enemy had arranged his operations, as usual, by timetable, but he had failed to take into consideration the character of the British soldier, with the result his schemes had "gone agley." To save men the German high command gave orders for a further retirement to their Hindenburg defences, a fortified line of such strength as had never been equalled.

If this line was not impregnable, nothing could be. It was the last word in defence system and it had taken something like two years to perfect.

The barbed wire, of a special kind, was formidable in its mass; three belts fifty feet deep wound about it in an inextricable mass in the form of a series of triangles and other geometric designs. The trenches themselves were constructional works of art; switch lines were thrown out as an extra precaution; in front of the most important strategical positions, machine-gun posts and strong points abounded in unlimited quantities. It was the Hun's last and most powerful line of defence this side of the Franco-German frontier. This "Hindenburg" line stretched from a point between Lens and Arras where it joined the northern trench system, which had been occupied for the past two years, down to St. Quentin, passing behind the town at a distance of about five kilos, with a switch line in front to take the first shock of the Allies' blow when it came.

Behind this trench the Huns thought they could safely rest and hold up the Allies' advance. But, with their wonderful and elaborate system of barbed-wire defence which they anticipated would keep us out, they probably forgot one point—it would certainly keep them in—tightly bolted and barred. Therefore, under such conditions, it was the side which had the predominance in guns and munitions that could smash their way through by sheer weight of metal, and force a passage through which to pour their troops, taking section by section by a series of flanking and encircling movements, threaten their line of communication, finally cracking up the whole line and compel a further extensive falling back to save their armies.

Against the front portion of this line we thrust ourselves early in March, 1917, and our massed guns poured in the most terrible fire the world had ever known. Lens was practically encircled—the Vimy ridge was taken by assault, and dozens of villages captured, resulting in the capture of eighteen thousand prisoners and over two hundred guns. Hindenburg threw in his divisions with reckless extravagance; he knew that if this section gave way all hope of holding on to Northern France was gone. Time and again he sent forward his "cannon fodder" in massed formation—targets which our guns could not possibly miss—and they were mown down in countless numbers; his losses were appalling. In certain places his attacking forces succeeded for a time in retaking small sections of ground we had gained, only to be driven out by a strong counter-attack. His losses were terribly disproportionate to his temporary advantage.

I moved down to the extreme right of the British line; St. Quentin was the goal upon which I had set my mind. In my opinion the taking of that place by a combined Franco-British offensive with the triumphant entry of the troops would make a film second to none. In the first place the preliminary operations pictorially would differ from all previous issues of war films, and in the second place it would be the first film actually showing the point of "liaison" with the French and their subsequent advance—making it, from an historical, public, and sentimental point of view, a film par excellence. Therefore in this section of the British line I made my stand.

I left my H.Q. early in April, 1917. I intended to live at the line in one of the cellars of a small village situated near the Bois de Holnon, which had been totally destroyed.

I proceeded by the main St. Quentin road, through Pouilly into Caulaincourt. The same desolation and wanton destruction was everywhere in evidence; but the most diabolical piece of vandalism was typified by the once beautiful Château of Caulaincourt, which was an awful heap of ruins. The Château had been blown into the Somme, with the object of damming the river, and so flooding the country-side; partially it succeeded, but our engineers were quickly upon the scene and, soon, the river was again running its normal course. The flooded park made an excellent watering-place for horses. The wonderful paintings and tapestries in the library on the Château had been destroyed. As I wandered among the ruins, filming various scenes of our engineers at work sorting out the débris, I noticed many things which must have been of inestimable value. Every statue and ornamentation about the grounds was wilfully smashed to atoms; the flower-pots which lined the edges of the once beautiful floral walks had been deliberately crushed—in fact a more complete specimen of purposeless, wanton destruction it would be impossible to find.

I filmed the most interesting sections; then continued my way through Bouvais on to see the General of a Division. This Division was working near the French left. After a very interesting conversation this officer recommended me to call on a Brigadier-General.

"He is stationed at ——," he said. "I will ring him up and tell him you are on the way. He will give you all the map references of the O.P.'s in the neighbourhood. Anyway, you can make your own arrangements, I suppose, about views?"

"Oh, yes, sir, certainly, so long as I can get very near to the place."

"Right. You go into all these details with General ——."

Thanking him I hurried away. I found the mines which Bosche had exploded at all cross-roads very troublesome, and on one occasion, in endeavouring to cross by way of the field alongside, I got badly stuck; so I had to borrow a couple of horses to get me out on to the road again.

I duly arrived and reported to Brigadier H.Q. It was the cellar of a once decent house by the appearance of the garden. I went down six steps into a chamber reeking with dampness about six feet high by ten feet square; a candle was burning in a bottle on a roughly made table, and, sitting at it, was the General closely studying details on a map.

He looked up as I entered.

"Are you the Kinema man?" he enquired. "General —— told me you were coming; what do you want?"

"Well, sir," I said, "I want to obtain films of all the operations in connection with the taking of St. Quentin; if you have an observation-post from which I can obtain a good view it will suit me admirably."

"I am sure we can fix you up all right. But we are just going to have a meal; sit down and join us. We can then go into details."

Lunch was served in primitive fashion, which was unavoidable under such conditions—but we fared sumptuously, although on a rough plain table with odds and ends for platters, and boxes and other makeshifts for chairs.

During the meal I went into details with the General about my requirements. He quite understood my position and thoroughly appreciated my keen desire to obtain something unique in the way of film story.

"The taking of St. Quentin by the Allied troops, sir, would be one of my finest films."

"Well," he said, "the French are bombarding the suburbs and other places, so far as damage is concerned, to-day; our batteries are also giving a hand. I should advise you to go to this spot"—indicating a position on the map. "What do you think?" he turned to the Brigade Major. "Will this do for him?"

"Yes, sir, I should think so."

"Anyway, I can soon see, if you can put me on the road to find it. But a guide would save time."

"You had better take him," said the General to the Brigade Major; "you know the place quite well."

"Right, sir," he said.

So, getting hold of an extra orderly to help carry my kit, we started off, up through a wood and then for the first time I viewed St. Quentin.

"We had better spread out here," said my guide. "Bosche can observe all movements from the Cathedral tower, and he doesn't forget to 'strafe' us although no harm is ever done."

"He is crumping now by all appearances," I replied, noticing some crumps bursting about three hundred yards away.

"Yes, they are 'strafing' the place we are going to! That's cheerful, anyway. We will make a wide detour; he's putting shrapnel over now. Look out! Keep well to the side of the wood."

We kept under cover until it was necessary to cross a field to a distant copse.

"That's our O.P. We have some guns there, worse luck."

"Hullo, keep down," I said; "that's a burst of four." Crash—crash—crash—crash! in quick succession, the fearful bursts making the ground tremble.

"Very pretty," I remarked. "I will get my camera ready for the next lot."

They came—and I started turning one after the other; it was an excellent scene; but, as the enemy seemed to swing his range round slightly, the pieces were coming much too near to be healthy. So, hastily packing up, we made straight for the copse on the quarry top.

High shrapnel was now bursting, several pieces whistling very unpleasantly near.

"Let's get under shelter of the trees," said the Brigade Major, "the trunks will give us a lot of cover."

We made a run for it, and reached them safely, and, gently drawing near the outer edge, I was in full view of St. Quentin.

The Cathedral loomed up with great prominence—and shrapnel was exploding near the tower.

"That's to keep the Hun observers down," he said. "We are not, of course, shelling the place to damage it at all. Those fires you can see there are of Bosche making; he is systematically burning the place as a prelude to retreat. My Intelligence officer says that the Palace of Justice and the theatre are well alight, and airmen declare the town quite empty; they flew over it yesterday only about two hundred feet above the house-tops and they were not fired at once. Seems to me they've evacuated the populace entirely."

"Jove," I said, "the French are letting them have it over there," pointing in the distance.

"That is, of course, south of the town, very nearly running due east and west—it's an excellent barrage—and all H.E., too."

I soon got my camera into action and, carefully concealing the tripod behind a tree trunk or rather a little to one side, I began exposing.

The firing was very heavy. I continued exposing on various sections which gave me the most comprehensive idea of barrage fire.

"The French are bang up against the 'Hindenburg' line there, and it's pretty deep in wire—as you know," said my guide, "but I think they will manage it all right; it's only a matter of time. Hullo! they are 'strafing' their confounded guns again with H.E. Look out! keep down!" And keep down we did. "Those 5·9 of brother Fritz's are not very kind to one; we had better stay for a few minutes; he may catch us crossing the field."

Ten minutes went by; things were a bit quieter, so, hastily packing up, we doubled back to the road.

"I never did like getting near forward gun position," I said, "but, curiously enough, my best view-points compel me on many occasions to fix up in their vicinity."

We got on to the road without casualties and in time to see the H.L.I. forming up to leave at dusk for the front line, or the series of strong points which comprised it in this section.

They were having the operation orders read out to them by their officer in charge. The scenes made very interesting ones for me—the men, alert and keen to the last degree, stood there in line, listening intently to the words until the end.

The next morning I had a wire from H.Q. asking me to take charge of two French journalists for a day or two; they were most anxious to see the British troops in action before St. Quentin. Towards midday they arrived—M. Gustave Babin, of L'Illustration, Paris—and M. Eugène Tardeau, of the Echo de Paris. I presented these gentlemen to the General, who kindly extended every facility to them.

I took them up to the observation post from which they could look down on St. Quentin.

"It will be a great moment for me," said M. Babin, "to obtain the first impression of the Allied entry in the town."

For myself the day was quite uneventful, beyond obtaining extra scenes of the preparatory work of our artillery. The heavy bombardment was continuing with unabated fury, the horizon was black with the smoke of bursting high explosives, huge masses of shrapnel were showering their leaden messengers of death upon the enemy. Towards evening the weather changed for the worse. It began with a biting cold sleet, which quickly turned into snow.

That night we slept in an old greenhouse which was open to the four winds of heaven. The cold was intense. I rolled myself up tight in my bag and drew my waterproof ground-sheet well over my body. It was a good job I did so for the snow was blowing in through the many fissures and cracks and settling upon me like fallen leaves in autumn.

The heavy shelling continued throughout the night. Several Bosche shells came unpleasantly near, shaking my rickety shelter in an alarming manner.

The next day the weather continued vile and the operations were indefinitely postponed. Therefore there was nothing further to do but to return to H.Q.

St. Quentin, for the present, was to me a blank, although I had continued for some time preparing all the scenes leading up to its capture.

The weather was changing, the ground was drying. Our line, just north of the town, was being pushed further forward. Holon-Selency, Francilly-Selency, Fayet and Villerete had fallen to our victorious troops, but the main attack was not yet.

To obtain scenes of our men actually in the front line trenches facing the town, I made my way through Savy and Savy Wood, in which not a single tree was left standing by the Bosche. Through the wood I carefully worked forward by keeping well under cover of a slight rise in the ground. I met a battalion commander on the way who kindly directed me to the best path to take.

"But be careful and keep your head down. Hun snipers are very active and he is putting shrapnel over pretty frequently. Although it doesn't hurt us—it evidently amuses him," he said, with a smile. "There is one section where you will have to run the gauntlet—for you are in full view of the lines. Keep down as low as possible."

I thanked the C.O. and went ahead. The weather was now perfect—a cloudless blue sky flecked here and there by the furry white balls of our bursting shrapnel around Hun aeroplanes, keeping them well above observation range.

I noticed a flight of our men winging their way over enemy lines. I could hear the rapid fire of the Bosche anti-aircraft guns, and see their black balls of shrapnel burst. But our birdmen went on their way without a moment's hesitation. I recalled the time when I was up among the clouds, filming the Bosche lines thirteen thousand feet above mother earth.

Suddenly a sharp crack, crack and whir of a machine-gun rang out. A fight was going on up there; our anti-aircraft guns ceased, being afraid of hitting our own men, but the Bosche still kept on.

It was impossible to see the progress of the fight; the whole flock was now directly overhead. Watching the "strafe" with such keen interest, this point quite escaped me until pieces of shrapnel began to fall around in alarming proportions, causing me to beat a hasty retreat out of range, though I still hung about in the hope of a Bosche machine being brought down, thereby providing me with a thrilling scene. But it did not happen. The airmen disappeared in a southerly direction, still fighting until the sharp cracks of the guns droned away in the distance.

In a few minutes I came in full view of one of our strong points in the shape of a disused quarry. Around the inner lip our Tommies had made a series of funk-holes, which looked quite picturesque in the bright sunlight.

Machine-gun parties were there ready for anything that might turn up; in the far corner a group of Frenchmen were chattering volubly to a knot of our men.

This certainly was a most interesting scene—the point of "liaison" between the two great armies, France and Britain. I noticed by fresh shell-holes that Bosche had a rather bad habit of annoying the place with his pip-squeaks, but generally they only resulted in scoring a Blighty for more or one of the occupants—and, for others, they were a source of amusement in the shape of gambling on the spot the next one would fall.

I filmed various sections here, then, having partaken of a little tea, I wended my way to the trenches. I kept low, as the tower of the Cathedral was in full view. I had previously covered the aluminium head of my tripod with a sandbag to prevent it glistening in the sun. As I drew nearer to the trench, which I could now see quite distinctly, more and more of St. Quentin came into view. Such a picture gives one rather a queerish feeling. If a keen-eyed Hun observer spotted me, with my load, he would take me for a machine-gunner or something equally dangerous. But, fortunately, nothing happened.

I dropped into the trench of the —— Worcesters who were amazed and amused to see me there, as one of them said:

"Well, sir, I always thought all the War pictures were fakes, but now I know they're not.

"Will you take us, sir? We expect to go over to-night. Please do, sir; our people at home will then in all probability see us. Don't suppose I shall. I have an idea I shan't—but," he said, pulling himself together, "I hope so, yer know, sir."

I liked the man's spirit. It caused all the others to smile. I carefully fixed up my machine and filmed them, holding our front line.

"How close is this to the town?" I asked.

"About nine hundred yards, sir."