"I feel confident I can manage it, and that the result will be both instructive and unique, and provided the weather is clear and I get as small a dose of 'Bosche' as possible, there is no reason why it shouldn't be successful."

"Of course, I am quite aware of the atmospheric difficulties. The fact that it is so thick and misty is entirely due to the heavy body of moisture in the ground—but if I start off early in the morning I may just escape it."

This conversation took place in the office of a certain British aerodrome in France between the Flight Commander and myself. We had been going into the pros and cons of an aerial expedition over the German lines. I was anxious to film the whole line from an aeroplane.

"Well," said he, "what about the height? I think I had better call in the Captain," and pressing a bell an orderly quickly appeared and was sent off to inform the Captain that his presence was required.

"I say," said the Flight Commander, "this is Malins, the War Office Kinematographer." He then explained my mission and requirements.

"Now," he said, after all preliminaries had been discussed, "the question is about the height. What is a tolerably safe height over 'Bosche'?"

"About 8,000 feet, I should say, though of course if we go well over his lines it will be necessary to rise higher. There are too many 'Archibalds' about to dodge any lower."

"Well," I replied, "I'll start taking my scenes when we arrive at the coast-line. We can then follow it along and turn off inland towards Ypres. I should very much like to film that place from above, then follow down the lines, passing over St. Eloi, Plœgsteert, Armentières, Neuve Chapelle, Richebourg, Festubert, Givenchy, Loos, Hohenzollern Redoubt, and on to Arras. I am of course entirely in your hands. I do not want to jeopardise the trip, nor wish you to run any unnecessary risks, you understand, but I should like to get as low as possible, and so obtain more detail. It will be the first kinematograph film ever taken of the Western Front."

"Well," said the Flight Commander, rising, "you have full permission. You can have the use of a BE 2C machine, with Captain ——. Do what you like, but take care. Don't be rash. Good luck to you. I shall be as anxious as you to see the result."

In the Captain's company I left the office, and together we went round to make arrangements regarding the means of fixing my camera.

The machine was the usual type of passenger-carrying aero, numbered BE 2C, a very stable and reliable machine, but according to the Captain, not very fast. Speed in this case was not an absolute necessity, unless a Fokker favoured us with his attentions.

I went aboard to find the best means of fixing and operating my camera. I decided to use my debrie, not the aeroscope. The latter had jambed a day or two previous, and I had not had an opportunity of repairing it. The observer's seat was in the front, and just above, on the main struts, was a cross-tube of metal. On each end was an upright socket, for the purpose of dropping into it a Lewis gun. The pilot also had the same in front of him.

I suggested that a metal fixing, which would fit the socket, and a tilting arrangement, so that it would be possible to raise or lower the camera to any angle, would suit admirably, and on the other side, in case of attack, a Lewis gun could be fitted.

"It's well to be prepared for emergencies," said the Captain. "It's quite possible we shall be attacked."

"Well," I said, "I will have a good shot at him if he does turn up. And who knows—I may be able to get a picture of the Hun machine falling. By Jove, what a thrill it would provide!"

Instructions were given to the excellent mechanics employed in the R.F.C., and within an hour or so the metal tilting-top was made and fixed on the plane.

"You will have to wrap up well," said the Captain. "It's jolly cold up there. It looks rather misty, and that will make it all the worse. Now then, all aboard."

Up I scrambled, or rather wriggled, between a network of wire stays, and taking my seat the camera was handed to me. I fastened it on one side of the gun-mounting and fixed a Lewis gun on the other, making sure I had spare boxes of film ready, and spare drums of ammunition. I then fastened the broad web belt round my waist, and fixed on my goggles.

I was ready for the ascent.

My companion was in his seat, and the machine was wheeled into position for starting. The mechanics were turning the propeller round to suck the gas into the many cylinders, to facilitate easier starting.

"All ready," shouted the Captain. "Right away, contact, let her go." And with a jerk the motor started.

The whirl of the huge blades developed into a deafening roar. The machine vibrated horribly. I clung to my camera, holding it tight to the socket. I knew that once in the air the shake would be reduced to a minimum. Faster and faster whirled the propeller as the Captain opened the throttle. How sweet and perfect was the hum of the giant motor. Not the slightest sound of a misfire. Being an ardent motorist, I could tell that the engine was in perfect tune. The Captain leaned over and shouted to me through the roar to fasten the telephone receiver against my ear under my leather cap.

"That," said he, pointing to a mouthpiece attached to a small rubber tube, "is the transmitter. If you want to give me any instructions shout into that. I shall hear you. All fit?" he asked.

I nodded my head. He took his seat, and opened the throttle. The engine leapt into new life. The roar was deafening. The whirring blades flung the air back into my face, cutting it as if with a whip. He dropped his arm. The men drew away the chocks from the wheels, and amid shouts of "Good luck!" from the officers present, the machine sprang forward like a greyhound, bounding over the grass, until at last it rose like a gigantic bird into the air.

The earth gradually drew away. Higher and higher we rose, and began to circle round and round to gain height.

"We will get up to three thousand feet before we strike towards the coast," he shouted through the telephone.

The vibration, now we were in the air, was barely perceptible, at any rate it was not sufficient to affect the taking of my scenes. In case any moisture collected on my lens, I had brought a soft silk pad, to wipe it with occasionally. Higher, still higher, we rose.

"What's the height now?" I asked.

"Very nearly three thousand feet," he said. "We are now going towards the coast. That's Dunkirk over there."

I peered ahead. The port, with its shipping, was clearly discernible. Over the sea hung a dense mist, looking for all the world like a snowfield. Here and there, in clear patches, the sun gleamed upon the water, throwing back its dazzling reflections.

As soon as we reached the coast-line, I shouted: "Proceed well along this side, so that I can obtain an oblique view. It looks much better than directly above the object. What's our speed?"

"Sixty miles," he said. "I shall keep it up until we reach the German lines."

He turned sharp to the right. We are now following the coast-line towards Ostend. How beautiful the sand dunes looked from above. The heavy billows of sea-mist gave it a somewhat mystic appearance. How cold it was. I huddled down close into my seat, my head only above the fuselage. Keeping my eye upon the wonderful panorama unfolding itself out beneath me, I glanced at my camera and tested the socket. Yes, it was quite firm.

"We are nearing the lines now," my companion shouted. "Can you see them on your right? That's the Belgium area. Our section, as you know, begins just before Ypres. Will this height suit you? Shall I follow the trenches directly overhead or a little to one side?"

"Keep this side, I'll begin taking now." Kneeling up in my seat, I directed my camera downwards and started filming our lines and the German position stretching away in the distance.

We were nearing Ypres, that shell-battered city of Flanders. White balls of smoke here and there were bursting among the ruins, showing that the Huns were still shelling it. What a frightful state the earth was in. For miles and miles around it had the appearance of a sieve, with hundreds of thousands of shell-holes, and like a beautiful green ribbon, winding away as far as the eye could see, was that wonderful yet terrible strip of ground between the lines, known as "No Man's Land."

We were now running into a bank of white fleecy clouds, which enveloped us in its folds, blotting the whole earth from view. I held my handkerchief over the lens of the camera to keep the moisture from settling upon it. After a time several breaks appeared in the clouds beneath, and the earth looked wonderful. It seemed miles—many miles—away. Rivers looked like silver streaks, and houses mere specks upon the landscape. Here and there a puff of white smoke told of a bursting shell. But for that occasional, somewhat unpleasant reminder, I might have been thousands of miles away from the greatest war in history.

Who could imagine anything more wonderful, more fantastic? I had dreamed of such things, I had read of them; I even remembered having read, years ago, some of the wonderful stories in Grimm's Fairy Tales. To my childish mind, they seemed very wonderful indeed. There were fairies, goblins, mysterious figures, castles which floated in the air, wonderful lands which shifted in a night, at the touch of a magic wand or the sound of a magic word. Things which fired my youthful imagination and set me longing to share in their adventures. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I should live to do the same thing, to go where I listed; to fly like a bird, high above the clouds. It was like an adventure in fairyland to take this weird and wonderful creation of men, called an aeroplane, through the home of the skylark.

Boom! Boom! I was suddenly brought back to—no, not to earth, but to—things more material.

Looking down, I could discern several balls of smoke, which I immediately recognised as shrapnel shells, or "Archibalds," that had been fired at us by the Germans. They were well below. I looked round at the Captain. He was smiling through his goggles, and humorously jerked his thumb in the direction of the bursting "Archies."

"Too high, eh?" I shouted. But I had forgotten that in the fearful hum of the rushing air and whirling motors my voice would not carry. It was literally cut off as it left my lips. I picked up the 'phone and shouted through it.

"Yes, they are pretty safe where they are," he said drily. Then a few more burst underneath us.

By this time we were well out of the cloud bank. The atmosphere was much clearer. I knelt up again on my seat and began to expose, and continued turning the handle while we passed over St. Eloi and Hill 60. On certain sections I could see that a considerable "strafe" was going on. Fritz seemed to be having a very trying time. Near Messines my film suddenly ran out. I had to reload. This was anything but an easy operation. I unscrewed my camera from the gun socket, and in doing so had a near escape from doing a head-dive to earth. Like an idiot, I had unfastened my waist-strap, and in reaching over the fuselage my camera nearly over-balanced, the aeroplane contributing to this result by making a sudden dive in order to avoid an "Archibald."

For a second or two I had clear visions of flying through space on wings other than those of an aeroplane. But fortunately I had the steel crossbar to cling to, and this saved me.

Getting back to my seat, I asked the pilot to circle round the spot for a few minutes. While changing my spool, I settled down in the bottom of the car and reloaded my camera, eight thousand feet above the earth. This operation occupied about ten minutes, and when I had finished I gingerly raised myself on the seat and refixed the camera in its socket.

"Right away," I shouted. "Is it possible to go any lower?"

"It's very risky," he said, "but if you like I will try. Hold tight, it's a dive."

I held tight. The nose of the machine tilted forward until it seemed as if it was absolutely standing on end. The earth rushed up to meet us. For the moment it seemed as if the aeroplane was out of control, but with a graceful glide, which brought us level, we continued our journey at a height of three thousand feet.

"Get what you want quickly," he shouted. "We can't stay here long."

I began to expose again. By now we were over line after line of trenches. At times we were well over the Bosche lines. I continued to film the scenes.

First came Plœgsteert, Fromelles, and Aubers Ridge. Then we crossed to Neuve Chapelle, Festubert, La Bassée and Loos. Town after town, village after village, were passed over, all of them in ruins. From above the trenches, like a splash of white chalk dropped into the middle of a patch of brown earth. The long winding trenches cut out of the chalk twisted and wound along valley and dale like a serpent. Looking down upon it all, it seemed so very insignificant. Man? What was he? His works looked so small that it seemed one could, with a sweep of the foot, crush him out of existence. How small he was, yet how great; how powerful, yet how weak! We were now over La Bassée.

"We shall have to rise," shouted my companion. "Look up there." I looked up, and thousands of feet above us was a small speck.

"Bosche plane," said he. "Hold tight!" And I did.

CHAPTER X

filming the earth from the clouds

"Is that gun ready?" asked my companion, twisting round in his seat. I nodded. "Right-o! I'm going to get up higher. We are absolutely lost down here."

I fixed on a drum of cartridges, and with a butt in my hand was ready for any emergency. Higher and higher we rose. The mist was becoming more and more dense. Photographing was impossible. The cold seemed to chill one's bones. I could tell by the increasing vibration we were going "all out," in order to get above the enemy machine, which seemed to be drawing closer and closer. I looked at the pilot. He had his eyes fixed upon the Bosche.

"What are we now?"

"Eight thousand," he said. "That chap must be at least thirteen thousand up. Do you notice whether he is coming nearer?"

I told him it seemed to me as if he was doing so.

Up and up we went. Colder and colder it grew. My face was frozen. To breathe, I had to turn my head sideways to avoid the direct rush of air from the whirling propeller. I could just discern the ground through the mist. I looked around for the Bosche. He seemed further away. I shouted to the pilot. He looked round.

"I'm going to chase it," he said. And away he went. But the faster we moved the faster went the other machine. At last we discovered the reason. In fact, I believe we both discovered it at precisely the same moment. The plane was one of our own! I looked at the Captain. He smiled at me, and I'm positive he felt disappointed at the discovery.

"What's the height?" I enquired.

"About thirteen thousand feet," he said. "Shall we go higher? We may get above the mist."

"Try a little more," I replied. "But I don't think it will be possible to film any more scenes to-day; the fog is much too heavy."

The whole machine was wet with moisture. It seemed as if we should never rise above it. I had never before known it so thick. My companion asked if we should return. With reluctance I agreed, then, turning round face to the sun, we rushed away.

The mist did not seem to change. Mile after mile we encountered the same impenetrable blanket of clammy moisture. I was huddling as tight as possible to the bottom of the seat, taking advantage of the least bit of cover from the biting, rushing swirl of icy-cold air. Mile after mile; it seemed hours up there in the solitude. I watched the regular dancing up and down of the valves on top of the engine. I was thinking of a tune that would fit to the regular beat of the tappets.

I shouted through the 'phone.

No answer.

He must be too cold to speak, I thought. For myself, I did not know whether I had jaws or not. The lashing, biting wind did not affect my face now. I could feel nothing. Once I tried to pinch my cheek; it was lifeless. It might have been clay. My jaw was practically set stiff. I could only just articulate.

I tried again to attract my companion's attention. Still no answer.

I was wondering whether anything had happened to him, when something did happen which very nearly petrified me. I felt a clutch on my shoulder. Quickly turning my head, I was horrified to see him standing on his seat and leaning over my shoulder.

"Get off the telephone tube, you idiot. You are sitting on it," he shouted. "We can't speak to one another."

"Telephone be damned!" I managed to shout. "Get back to your seat. Don't play monkey-tricks up here."

If you can imagine yourself fourteen thousand feet above the earth, sitting in an aeroplane, and the pilot letting go all his controls, as he stands on his feet shouting in your ear, you will be able to realise, but only to a very slight extent, what my feelings were at this precise moment.

He returned to his seat. He was smiling. I fumbled about underneath and found the tube. Putting it to my mouth, I asked him what he meant by it.

"That's all right, my dear chap," he said, "there's no need to get alarmed. The old bus will go along merrily on its own."

"I'll believe all you say. In fact I'll believe anything you like to tell me, but I'd much rather you sit in your seat and control the machine," I replied.

He chuckled, apparently enjoying the joke to the full, but during the remainder of the journey I made sure I was not sitting on the speaking tube.

The mist was gradually clearing now. The sun shone gloriously, the clouds, a long way beneath us, looked more substantial; through the gaps in their fleecy whiteness the earth appeared. It seemed a long time since I had seen it. We were again coming to the edge of a cloud bank. The atmosphere beyond was exceedingly clear.

"We are nearly home," said my companion. "Are you going to take any more scenes?"

"Yes," I said, "I suppose you'll spiral down?"

"Right-ho!"

"I'll take a film showing the earth revolving. It'll look very quaint on the screen."

"Here goes then. We are going to dive down to about six thousand feet, so hold on tight to your strap."

The engines almost stopped. Suddenly we seemed to be falling earthwards. Down—down—down! We were diving as nearly perpendicular as it is possible to be. Sharp pains shot through my head. It was getting worse. The pain was horrible. The right side of my face and head seemed as if a hundred pin-points were being driven into it. I clutched my face in agony; then I realised the cause. Coming down from such a height, at so terrific a speed, the different pressure of the atmosphere affected the blood pressure on the head.

Suddenly the downward rush was stopped. The plane was brought to an even keel.

"I'm going to spiral now," said the pilot. "Ready?"

"Right away," I said, and knelt again in my seat. The plane suddenly seemed to swerve. Then it slanted at a most terrifying angle, and began to descend rapidly towards the earth in a spiral form. I filmed the scene on the journey. To say the earth looked extraordinary would be putting it very mildly. The ground below seemed to rush up and mix with the clouds. First the earth seemed to be over one's head, then the clouds. I am sure the most ardent futurist artist would find it utterly impossible to do justice to such a scene. Round and round we went. Now one side, now the other. How I held to my camera-handle goodness only knows. Half the time, I am sure, I turned it mechanically.

Suddenly we came to an even keel. The earth seemed within jumping distance. The nose dipped again, the propeller whirled. Within a few seconds we were bounding along on the grassy space of the aerodrome, and finally coming to rest we were surrounded by the mechanics, who quickly brought the machine to a standstill.

"By the way," I said to the pilot, as we went off to tea, "how long were we up there altogether?"

"Two hours," he replied.

Two hours! Great Scott! It seemed days!

CHAPTER XI

preparing for the "big push"

The time for which England has been preparing during these past two awful years is here. We are now on the threshold of tremendous happenings. The Great Offensive is about to begin. What will be the result?

We see the wonderful organisation of our vast armies, and we know the firm and resolute methods of our General Staff—as I have seen and known them during the war—would leave nothing to be desired. As a machine, it is the most wonderful that was ever created.

My position as Official Kinematographer has afforded me unique opportunities to gain knowledge of the whole system required to wage the most terrible war that has ever been known to mankind. I have not let these opportunities slip by.

The great day was coming; there was a mysterious something which affected everyone at G.H.Q. There was no definite news to hand; nobody, with the exception of those directly concerned, knew when and where the blow was to be struck. Some thought on the northern part of our line, others the centre; others, again, the south. In the home, in the streets, in the cafés and gardens, the one topic of conversation was—the coming Great Offensive.

I was told by a colonel that my chance to make history was coming. That was all. But those few words conveyed an enormous lot to me. Later in the day I was told by a captain to proceed to the front line, to choose a suitable position wherein to fix up my camera. Our section facing Gouerment was suggested to me as the place where there was likely to be the most excitement, and I immediately set out for that section. During the journey I was held up by a large body of our men, who turned out afterwards to be the London Scottish. They were formed up in a square, and in the centre was a general, with his staff officers, addressing the men. His words thrilled the hearts of every one who heard them:

I waited until the address was finished, and then proceeded to a certain place, striking out on the left and trudging through innumerable communication trenches, at times up to my knees in mud and water. Eventually I reached an eminence facing the village of Gouerment. It was in a valley. The German trenches ran parallel with my position, and on the right I could discern the long green ribbon of grass termed "No Man's Land," stretching as far as the eye could see. The whole front of the German lines was being shelled by our heavy guns; the place was a spitting mass of smoke and flame. Salvo after salvo was being poured from our guns.

"What an inspiring sight," I said to an officer standing by my side, "and these shells were made by the women of England."

"Well," he said, "you see Gommecourt; that's all coming down in a day or two. Every gun, large and small, will concentrate its fire on it, and level it to the ground. That's your picture."

"In that case," I replied, "I shall want to be much nearer our front line. I must get within five hundred yards of it. What a sight! What a film it will be!"

I stood watching the bombardment for some time, then fixing my camera position, I returned. Divisional H.Q. told me I should be informed in ample time when the attack was to be made.

That afternoon I returned to G.H.Q., but the best laid schemes of mice and men aft gang agley. I was told that night to prepare immediately to proceed to the H.Q. of a certain Division, with instructions to attach myself to them for the next week; all particulars would be given to me in the morning.

I received my instructions next morning. I was to proceed to the Division, report myself, and I should receive all the information and assistance I required. With parting wishes for the best of luck, and "don't come back wounded," I left H.Q., and proceeded by car to the Company H.Q., where I was received with every courtesy by General ——.

He told me the best thing to do was to go to Divisional H.Q. and see the General. He had been informed of my arrival, and the final details could be arranged with him, such as the best points of vantage for fixing up my camera. Accordingly I hurried off to Divisional H.Q. and met the General. On being ushered into his room, I found him sitting at a table with a large scale map of a certain section of our line before him. He looked the very incarnation of indomitable will, this General of the incomparable —— Division.

I quickly explained my mission, and told him I should like to go to the front trenches to choose my position.

"Certainly," he said, "that is a very wise plan, but if you will look here I will show you the spot which, in my opinion, will make an ideal place. This is the German position. This, of course, is Beaumont Hamel, which is our objective. This is as far as we are going; it will be a pivot from which the whole front south of us will radiate. We are going to give the village an intense bombardment this afternoon, at 4 o'clock; perhaps you would like to obtain that?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, "it is most necessary to my story. What guns are you using?"

"Everything, from trench mortars to 15-inch howitzers. We are going to literally raze it to the ground. It is one of the strongest German redoubts, and it's not going to be an easy job to occupy it; but we achieved the impossible at Gallipoli, and with God's help we will win here. There is a spot here in our firing trench called 'Jacob's Ladder,'" and pointing to the map, he showed it me.

"That certainly looks a most excellent point, sir," I said. "What is the distance from Bosche lines?"

"About 150 yards. They 'strafe' it considerably, from what I am told; but, of course, you will have to take your chance, the same as all my other officers."

"That is unavoidable, sir. The nature of my work does not permit me to be in very comfortable places, if I am to get the best results."

"Right," he said, "if you will report to Brigade H.Q. the Brigade Major will give you what orderlies you require, and you had better draw rations with them while you are there. He has instructions to give you every assistance."

"Oh, by the way, sir, what time does the mine go up?"

"Ten minutes to zero," he replied. "You quite understand, don't you? Major —— will give you zero time to-morrow night."

After lunching with the General I started off for Brigade H.Q. The weather was vile. It had been raining practically without break for several days, and was doing its best to upset everything and give us as much trouble as possible.

What an enormous number of munition waggons and lorries I passed on the road; miles and miles of them, all making for the front line. "Ye gods!" I thought, "Bosche is certainly going to get it."

I reached my destination about 2.30. What a "strafe" there was going on! The concussion of what I afterwards found out was our 15-inch howitzers was terrible. The very road seemed to shake, and when I opened the door of the temporary Brigade H.Q., one gun which went off close by shook the building to such an extent that I really thought for the moment a shell had struck the house.

"Captain ——, I presume?" said I, addressing an officer seated at a long table making out reports and giving them over to waiting dispatch riders. The room was a hive of industry.

"Gad, sir," he said, "are you the kinema man? I am pleased to see you. Take a seat, and tell me what you want. You are the last person I expected to see out here. But, seriously, are you really going to film 'The Day'?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Where do you propose to take it?"

"General —— suggested 'Jacob's Ladder.'"

"What?" came a startled chorus from about half a dozen other officers. "Take photos from 'Jacob's Ladder,'" they repeated in tones of amazement. "Good Lord! it's an absolute death-trap. Bosche strafes it every day, and it's always covered by snipers."

"Well," I said, "it certainly seems by the map to be an ideal place to get the mine going up and the advance over 'No Man's Land.'"

"Granted, but—well!—it's your shoot. Will you let us introduce the doctor? You'll need him."

"Gentlemen," I said, with mock gravity, "I assure you it would be most difficult for me to receive a more cordial welcome." This remark caused some laughter. Turning to the Captain, I said: "Will you give me an orderly? One who knows the trenches, as I wish to go there this afternoon to film the 'strafe' at 4 o'clock. I shall stay down there for the next few days, to be on the spot for 'The Day,' and ready for anything that follows."

"Certainly," he said. "Have you got a trench map? What about blankets and grub?"

"I have my blanket and some provisions, but if I can draw some bully and biscuits, I shall manage quite well."

Having secured supplies and filled my knapsack, I strapped it on my shoulder, fixed the camera-case on my back and, handing the tripod to another man, started off. I had hardly got more than two hundred yards when the Captain ran up to me and said that he had just had a 'phone message from D.H.Q., saying that the General was going to address the men on the following day, before proceeding to battle. Would I like to film the scene? It would take place about 10 a.m. Naturally, I was delighted at the prospect of such a picture, and agreed to be on the field at the time mentioned. Then with a final adieu we parted.

The weather was still vile. A nasty, drizzly mist hung over everything. The appearance of the whole country was much like it is on a bad November day at home. Everything was clammy and cold. The roads were covered to a depth of several inches with slimy, clayey mud. Loads of munitions were passing up to the Front. On all sides were guns, large and small. The place bristled with them, and they were so cunningly hidden that one might pass within six feet of them without being aware of their existence. But you could not get away from the sounds. The horrible dinning continued, from the sharp rat-tat-tat-tat of the French 75mm., of which we had several batteries in close proximity, and from the bark of the 18-pounders to the crunching roar of the 15-inch howitzer. The air was literally humming with shells. It seemed like a race of shrieking devils, each trying to catch up with the one in front before it reached its objective.

Salvo after salvo; crash after crash; and in the rare moments of stillness, in this nerve-shattering prelude to the Great Push, I could hear the sweet warblings of a lark, as it rose higher and higher in the murky, misty sky.

At one place I had to pass through a narrow lane, and on either side were hidden batteries, sending round upon round into the German trenches, always under keen observation from enemy-spotting balloons and aeroplanes. The recent shell-holes in the roadway made me pause before proceeding further. I noticed a sergeant of the Lancashire Fusiliers at the entrance to a thickly sand-bagged shelter, and asked him if there was another way to the section of the front line I sought.

"No, sir," he said, "that is the only way; but it's mighty unhealthy just now. The Hun is crumpling it with his 5·9-inch H.E., and making a tidy mess of the road. But he don't hit our guns, sir. He just improves their appearance by making a nice little frill of earth around them, he does, and—look out, sir; come in here.

"Here she comes!"

With a murderous shriek and horrible splitting roar a German shell burst on the roadway about fifty yards away.

"That is Fritz's way of making love, sir," he said, with a chuckle; which remark admirably reflects the marvellous morale of our men.

"Have they been shelling the avenues much?" I asked, referring to the various communication trenches leading to the front line.

"Yes, sir. Nos. 1, 2 and 3 are being severely crumped. I would suggest No. 5, sir; it's as clear as any of them. I should advise you to get along this lane as fast as possible. I have been here some time, so I know Fritz's little ways."

He saluted, and like a mole disappeared into his dug-out as I moved away.

I told my man to keep about ten yards behind me, so that in the event of a shell bursting near by one or the other of us would have a chance of clearing.

"Now," I said, "let it go at a double. Come on," and with head well forward I raced up the road.

Altogether, with my camera, I was carrying about seventy pounds in weight, so you can guess it was no easy matter. There was about another 150 yards to go, when I heard the ominous shriek of a German shell.

"Down in the ditch," I yelled. "Lie flat," and suiting the action to the word, I flung myself down in the mud and water near a fallen tree. Crash came the shell, and it exploded with a deafening roar more on the side of the road than the previous one, and near enough to shower mud and water all over me as I lay there.

"Now then," I yelled to my man, "double-up before they range the next one," and jumping up we raced away. Not before I had got well clear, and near the old railway station, did I stay and rest. While there several shells crashed in and around the road we had just left. I was glad I was safely through.

With the exception of the usual heavy shelling, getting down to the front trench was quite uneventful. My objective was a place called "The White City," so called because it is cut out of the chalk-bank of our position facing Beaumont Hamel. Getting there through the communication trenches was as difficult as in the winter. In places the mud and water reached my knees, and when you had come to the end of your journey you were as much like dirty plaster-cast as anything possibly could be.

After three-quarters of an hour's trudging and splashing I reached "The White City," and turned down a trench called "Tenderloin Street." About one hundred yards on my right, at the junction of "King Street" and "St. Helena Street," my guide pointed me out the Brigade dug-out. Depositing my camera and outfit close to some sandbags I went inside and introduced myself. Four officers were present.

"By Jove!" said one, "you are welcome. Have a drink. Here's a cigarette."

"Here you are," said another, "have a match. Now tell us all the news from home. My word, we haven't heard a blessed thing for days. Have you really come to photograph 'The Day'?"

"Yes," I replied. "But I have come this afternoon to look round, and to film the 'strafe' at Beaumont Hamel. You know the trenches round here: where can I see the village to the best advantage?"

"Well," said one, "there are several places, but Bosche is 'hating' us rather this afternoon, and the firing trench is anything but healthy. He's been properly dosing us with 'whizz-bangs,' but you know he will have his bit of fun. You see, when Fritz starts we let off a few 'flying pigs' in return, which undoubtedly disturbs his peace of mind."

"By my map, a spot called 'Lanwick Street' seems likely," I said. "It's bang opposite the village, and they are putting the 15-inch on the eastern corner. If you will be good enough to guide me, I will have a look now; it will take me some time to fix up my camera in reasonable safety."

"You won't find much safety there," he replied. "We have practically to rebuild the parapet every night, but only for a few more days, thank Heaven! Anyway, come along."

We proceeded by way of "King Street" to "Lanwick Street," and several times we had to fall flat in the trench bottom to escape being hit by shells. They seemed at times to burst almost overhead. The "whizz-bangs" which Fritz puts over are rather little beggars; you have no time to dodge them. They come with a "phut" and a bang that for sheer speed knocks spots off a flash of lightning. One only thinks to duck when the beastly thing has gone off.

"Lanwick Street" was the usual sort of trench. At one end was an artillery observation officer, correcting the range of his guns.

"Go easy, won't you?" he said to me. "Bosche has an idea we use this corner for something rather important. If he sees your camera we shall certainly receive his attention. For Heaven's sake, keep your head down."

"Right-o!" I said. "Lend me your periscope; I will have a look at the ground first through that."

I looked on the village, or rather the late site of it. It was absolutely flattened out, with the exception of a few remaining stumps of trees, which used to be a beautiful wood, near which the village nestled.

"That's been done by our guns in five days; some mess, eh?"

"My word, yes. Now about this afternoon's bombardment; they are working on the left-hand corner."

I chose a spot for working and fixing up my tripod, and waited until 4.30 p.m.

In the meantime, with the aid of a stick, I gradually pushed away several sandbags which interfered with my view on the parapet. To do this it was necessary to raise myself head and shoulders above the top and, with one arm pushed forward, I worked the bags clear. I felt much better when that job was done.

"You're lucky," said the A.O. "I had one of my periscopes hit clean by a bullet this morning. Fritz must be having a nap, or he would have had you for a cert."

"Anyway," I replied, "it gives me a comparatively clear view now."

Time was drawing near. I prepared my camera by clothing it in an old piece of sacking, and gently raising it on to the tripod I screwed it tight. Then gradually raising my head to the view-finder, I covered the section which was going to be "strafed," and wrapping my hand in a khaki handkerchief, waited.

Our guns were simply pouring shells on the Bosche. The first of the 15-inch came over and exploded with a deafening roar. The sight was stupefying.

I began to expose my film, swinging the camera first on one side then the other. Shell after shell came roaring over; one dropped on the remaining walls of a château, and when the smoke had cleared there was absolutely nothing left. How in the world anything could live in such a maelstrom of explosive it is difficult to conceive.

I continued to expose my film at intervals until about 6 o'clock, and twice I had to snatch my camera down hastily and take shelter, for the "whizz-bangs" came smashing too close for safety.

I was just taking down my camera when several shells exploded in the trenches about fifteen yards behind us. Then a man came running into our traverse: "Shure, sor," he said, "and it's gas-shells the dirty swine are sending over. My eyes seem to be burning out." His eyes were undoubtedly bad. Tears were pouring down his cheeks, and he was trying to ease the pain by binding his handkerchief over them. Then I smelt the gas, and having had a previous dose at Vernilles, and not wishing for further acquaintance with it, I bade my man rush as quickly as possible back to "The White City."

I got back to H.Q. dug-out just in time for tea. I told the officers present of my success in filming the "strafe," and I learned that it was the first time Fritz had put tear-shells over them. "We must certainly prepare our goggles," they said.

"Have you seen 'Jacob's Ladder'?" enquired one of the officers.

"No," I replied, "I shall wait until dusk. It will then be safer to move about."

We sat smoking and talking about the prospects of the "Big Push," and at last we all lapsed into silence, which was broken by the arrival of a lieutenant. The Captain looked up from his bench. "Hullo, what's up? Any news?"

"Oh, no; nothing much, sir," said he, "but H.Q. wishes me to go out for a raid to-night. They want a Bosche to talk to; there are a few things they want to know. We haven't brought one in for several nights now. They asked me to go out again; I said, if there was one to be had my Company would bring him along."