Since I left France in December many changes had taken place; tremendous preparations for the next great offensive were in progress. We shall now see the results of all our hard and bloody work, which began on the Somme on July 1st, 1916. I think I can safely say that we have never relaxed our offensive for a single day. Granted the great pressure has not been kept up, but in proportion to the weather conditions the push has been driven home relentlessly and ground won foot by foot, yard by yard, until, in February, 1917, the Germans retired behind their Bapaume defences.

Just how far they are going back one cannot decide. The fact remains that the enemy is falling back, not for strategical reasons, as he is so anxious for his people and neutrals to believe, but because he is forced to by the superiority of our troops and our dominating gun-power. The beginning of the end is at hand, the eve of great events is here; the results of this year's fighting will decide the future peace of the world, the triumph of Christianity over barbarity, of God over the devil.

I received instructions to proceed again to France. "The capture of Bapaume is imminent, you must certainly obtain that," I was told, "and add another to your list of successes." So I left by the midday boat-train; the usual crowds were there to see their friends off. A descriptive writer could fill a volume with impressions gathered on the station platform an hour before the train starts. Scenes of pathos and assumed joy; of strong men and women stifling their emotions with a stubbornness that would do justice to the martyrdom of the Early Christians in the arenas of Rome.

I arrived at Folkestone; the weather was very cold and a mist hung over the sea, blotting everything out of view beyond the end of the breakwater. The train drew up alongside and it emptied itself of its human khaki freight, who, with one accord, made their way to the waiting steamboats, painted a dull green-grey. All aboard: quickly and methodically we passed up the gangway, giving up our embarkation tickets at the end and receiving another card to fill up, with personal particulars, as we stepped on board. This card was to be given up upon one's arrival at Boulogne.

Gradually the boat filled with officers and men; kits and cars were hoisted aboard, life-belts were served out; everybody was compelled to put them on in case of an accident.

Everything was aboard; the three boats were ready to leave; the two in front, one an old cross-Channel paddle boat, the other one of the later turbine class—but still no sign of leaving.

"What are we waiting for?" I asked a seaman near by.

"We must wait until we get permission; the mist is very thick, sir—going to be a cold journey." With that he left. I buttoned my warm great-coat well round my throat, pulled my cap firmly down over my ears and went to the upper deck and peered out into the thickening sea-mist towards the harbour entrance.

I went to the deck-rail and leaned over. Crowds of sea-gulls cawed and wheeled round, seemingly hung suspended in the air by an invisible wire. The gulls fascinated me; one second they were in the air motionless on their huge outstretched wings, then suddenly, seeing either the shape of a fish coming to the surface, or a crumb of bread floating, one of the birds would dart down, make a grab with its beak at the object, skim the surface of the water, then gracefully wing its way upwards and join its fellows.

I turned my gaze again seawards: the mist was drawing nearer, threatening to envelop our boats in its embrace. How cold it was! The upper deck was now full of officers, busily putting on their life-belts—I had secured mine to my kit-bag, ready to put it on when required. At that moment an officer came up to me.

"Have you a life-belt?" he said, "if so would you mind putting it on? I have to go all round the boat and see that everybody has one."

"Right," I said, and so I donned my life-belt, and passing along the deck stood underneath the Captain's bridge and gazed around. The men in the two boats ahead of us were singing lustily, singing because they were going back to the land of bursting shells and flying death, laughing and singing because they were going again out to fight for the Empire.

As I stood there, gazing into the mist and hearing the continuous roar of the sea beating upon the rocks behind me, a review of the events passed through my mind which have happened to me, and the countless scenes of tragedy and bloodshed, of defeat and victory that I had witnessed since I first crossed over to France in October, 1914. I recalled my arrival in Belgium; the wonderful rearguard actions of the Belgian troops; the holding up of the then most perfect (and devilish) fighting machine the world had ever known, by a handful of volunteers. The frightful scenes in the great retreat through Belgium lived again; the final stand along the banks of the Ypres canal; the opening of the dykes, which saved the northern corner of France; the countless incidents of fighting I had filmed. Then my three months with the French in the Vosges mountains, the great strain and hardships encountered to obtain the films, and now, after eighteen months with the British army on the Western Front, I was again going back—to what?

How many had asked themselves that question! How many had tried as I was doing to peer into the future. They had laid down their lives fighting for the cause of freedom. "But, although buried on an alien soil, that spot shall be for ever called England."

I was quickly recalled to the present by the flashing of a light on the end of the harbour jetty. It was answered by a dull glare seawards; everybody was looking in that direction; and then....

A sudden clanging of bells, a slipping of ropes from the first boat, a final cheer from the men on the crowded decks, and, with its bow turned outwards from the quay, it nosed its way into the open sea beyond. The second boat quickly followed, and then, with more clanging of bells and curt orders to the helmsman, she slid through the water like a greyhound, and, with shouts of "good luck!" from the people on the quay, we were quickly swallowed up in the mist ahead.

The boats kept abreast for a considerable time and then, our vessel taking the lead, with a torpedo boat on either side and one ahead, the convoy headed for France.

The journey across was uneventful. It was quite dark when we backed into harbour at Boulogne; flares were lit and, as the boat drew alongside the quay, the old familiar A.M.O. with his huge megaphone shouted in stentorian tones that all officers and men returning on duty must report to him at his offices, fifty yards down the quay, etc., etc., etc. His oration finished, the gangway was pushed aboard and everybody landed as quickly as possible. I had wired from the War Office earlier in the day to G.H.Q., asking them to send a car to meet the boat. Whether they had received my message in time I did not know—anyway I could not find it, so, that night, I stayed at Boulogne, and the following evening proceeded to G.H.Q. to receive instructions.

Here I collected my apparatus and stood by for instructions. News of our continued pressure on the German line of retreat was penetrating through. First one village, then another fell into our hands. The fall of Peronne was imminent. My instructions were to proceed to Peronne, or rather the nearest point that it was possible to operate from.

I journeyed that night as far as Amiens, and arriving there about midnight, dog tired, went to my previous billet in the Rue l'Amiral Cambet, and turned in. Early next morning I reported to a major of the Intelligence Department, who told me our troops had entered Peronne the previous night. Rather disappointed that I had not been there to obtain the entry, I made tracks for that town.

I took by-roads, thinking that they would be more negotiable than the main ones, and, reaching the outskirts of the village of Biaches, I left the car there and prepared to walk into Peronne. I could see in the distance that the place was still burning; columns of smoke were pouring upwards and splashing the sky with patches of villainous-looking black clouds.

Strapping my camera upon my back, and bidding my man follow with my tripod, I started off down the hill into Biaches. Then the signs of the German retreat began to fully reveal themselves. The ground was absolutely littered with the horrible wastage of war; roads were torn open, leaving great yawning gaps that looked for all the world like huge jagged wounds. On my right lay the Château of La Maisonnette. The ground there was a shambles, for numerous bodies in various stages of putrefaction lay about as they had fallen.

I left this section of blood-soaked earth, and, turning to my left, entered the village, or rather the site of what had once been Biaches. I will not attempt to describe it; my pen is not equal to the task of conveying even the merest idea of the state of the place. It was as if a human skeleton had been torn asunder, bone by bone, and then flung in all directions. Then, look around and say—this was once a man. You could say the same thing of Biaches—this was once a village. I stayed awhile and filmed various scenes, including the huge engineers' dump left by the Germans, but, as the light was getting rather bad, I hurried as fast as possible in the direction of Peronne.

I wandered down the path of duck-boards, over the swamp of the Somme, filthy in appearance, reeking in its stench, and littered with thousands of empty bottles, that showed the character of the drunken orgies to which the Huns had devoted themselves.

I reached the canal bank. Lying alongside was the blackened ribs of a barge. Only the stern was above water and it was still smouldering; even the ladders and foot-bridges were all destroyed; not a single thing that could be of any use whatsoever had been left. I trudged along the canal bank; bridge after bridge I tried, but it was no use, for each one in the centre for about ten or twelve feet was destroyed—and, stretched between the gap, I found a length of wire netting covered over with straw—a cunning trap set for the first one across. Not a bridge was passable—they were all down!

Peronne lay on the other side and there I must get before the light failed and while the place was still burning; if I had to make a raft of old timber I made up my mind to get there.

Returning to the bank I placed my camera upon the ground and with the help of three men gathered up some rusty tin cylinders, which, earlier in the campaign, had been utilised as floats for rafts.

I had fished out of the river three planks, and laying them at equal distance upon the cylinders, I lashed them together and so made a raft of sorts. With care I might be able to balance myself upon it and so reach the other section of the bridge and then a rope at either end would enable my man and tripod to be pulled across.

The idea was excellent, but I found that my amateur lashing together with the strong current that was running made the whole plan quite impossible, so, after being nearly thrown into the river several times, and one of the floats coming adrift and washing away, and then doing a flying leap to save myself being hurled into the water upon a trestle which collapsed with my weight, I decided to give up the experiment and explore the river bank further down in the hope of getting across. Eventually, after going for about two kilometres, I reached the ruins of the main bridge leading into the town. This, also, was blown up by the retreating Huns, but, by using the blocks of stone and twisted iron girders as "stepping-stones," I reached the other side.

The old gateway and drawbridge across the moat were destroyed; the huge blocks of masonry were tossed about, were playthings in the hands of the mighty force of high explosives which flung them there. These scenes I carefully filmed, together with several others in the vicinity of the ramparts.

The town was the same as every other I had filmed—burnt and shell-riven. The place as a habitable town simply did not exist. German names were everywhere; the names of the streets were altered, even a French washerwoman had put up a notice that "washing was done here," in German.

Street after street I passed through and filmed. Many of the buildings were still burning and at one corner of the Grande Place flames were shooting out of the windows of the three remaining houses in Peronne. I hastily fitted up my camera and filmed the scene. When I had finished it was necessary to run the gauntlet, and pass directly under the burning buildings to get into the square.

Showers of sparks were flying about, pieces of the burning building were being blown in all directions by the strong wind. But I had to get by, so, buttoning up my collar tightly, fastening my steel shrapnel helmet on my head, and tucking the camera under my arm, I made a rush, yelling out to my man to follow with the tripod. As I passed I felt several heavy pieces of something hit my helmet and another blazing piece hit my shoulder and stuck there, making me set up an unearthly yell as the flames caught my ear and singed my hair. But, quickly shooting past, I reached a place of safety, and setting up the camera I obtained some excellent views of the burning buildings.

Standing upon a heap of rubble, which once formed a branch of one of the largest banking concerns in France, I took a panoramic scene of the great square. The smoke clouds curling in and around the skeleton walls appeared for all the world like some loathsome reptile seeming to gloat upon its prey, loath to leave it, until it had made absolutely certain that not a single thing was left to be devoured.

With the exception of the crackling flames and the distant boom of the guns, it was like a city of the dead. The once beautiful church was totally destroyed. In the square was the base of a monument upon which, before the war, stood a memorial to France's glorious dead in the war of 1870. The "kultured" Germans had destroyed the figure and, in its place, had stuck up a dummy stuffed with straw in the uniform of a French Zouave. Could ever a greater insult be shown to France!

Not content with burning the whole town, the Huns had gone to the trouble of displaying a huge signboard on the side of a building in the square on which were these words: "Don't be vexed—just admire!"

Think of it! The devils!

CHAPTER XXVI

an uncanny adventure

Lieutenant B——, the official "still" photographer, and I have been companions in a few strange enterprises in the war, but I doubt whether any have equalled in strangeness, and I might say almost uncanny, adventure that which I am about to record. In cold type it would be pardonable for anyone to disbelieve some of the facts set forth, but, as I have proved for myself the perfect application of the well-known saying that "truth is stranger than fiction," I merely relate the facts in simple language exactly as they happened, and leave them to speak for themselves.

It was early morning on March 17th, 1917, when the Germans began their headlong flight towards their Cambrai, St. Quentin, or "Hindenburg" Line. When B—— and I hastened along the main St. Quentin Road, troops and transports were as usual everywhere. We passed through the ruined villages of Foscaucourt and Estrées and brought our car to a standstill about two kilometres from the village of Villers-Carbonel, it being impossible owing to the fearful road conditions to proceed further.

We left the car and started off to explore the unknown. On either side of the road I noticed many troops in their trenches; they were looking down at us as if we were something out of the ordinary, until I turned to him and said:

"Is there anything funny about us? These chaps seem to be highly interested in our appearance, or something. What is it?"

"I don't know," he said, "let's enquire."

So, going up to an R.A.M.C. officer, who was standing outside his dug-out, I asked him if there was any news—in fact I enquired whether there was a war on up there, everything seemed to be so absolutely quiet.

"Well," he said, "there was up to about three hours ago; Bosche has fairly plastered us with 5·9 and whizz-bangs. These suddenly ceased, and, as a matter of fact, I began to wonder whether peace had been declared when your car came bounding up the road. How the devil did you manage it? Yesterday evening the act of putting one's head over the parapet was enough to draw a few shells; but you come sailing up here in a car."

"This is about the most charming joy-ride I have had for many a day," I replied, "but let me introduce myself. I am Malins, the Official Kinematographer, and my friend here is the Official 'still' picture man. We are here to get scenes of the German retreat, but it seems to me that one cannot see Bosche for dust. That is Villers-Carbonel, is it not?" I said, pointing up the road in the distance.

"Yes," he replied.

"Right," I said, "we are going there and on our way back we'll tell you all the news."

With a cheery wave of the hand he bade us adieu, and we started on our journey.

The once beautiful trees which lined the sides of the road were torn to shreds and, in some instances, were completely cut in half by shell-fire and the trunks were strewn across the road. These and the enormous shell-holes made it difficult to proceed at all, but, by clambering over the huge tree trunks, in and out of filthy slime-filled shell-holes, and nearly tearing oneself to pieces on the barbed wire intermingled with the broken branches, we managed at last to reach the village. Not a sound was to be heard. I turned to my companion.

"This is an extraordinary state of affairs, isn't it? In case there are any Bosche rearguard patrols, we'll keep this side of the ruins as much as possible."

The village was practically on the top of a ridge of hills. I stood under the shadow of some tree-stumps and gazed around. What a scene of desolation it was. I got my camera into action and took some excellent scenes, showing what was once a beautiful main road: broken trees flung over it in all directions like so many wisps of straw, and an unimaginable mass of barbed wire entanglements. Then, swinging my camera round, I obtained a panoramic view of the destroyed village. Dotted here and there were the dead bodies of horses and men: how long they had lain there Heaven knows!

While examining the ruins of a building which used to be a bakehouse I received a startling surprise. I was bending down and looking into an empty oven when, with a rush and a clatter, a fine black cat sprang at my legs with a frightened, piteous look in its eyes, and mewed in a strange manner. For a moment I was startled, for the animal clung to my breeches. The poor creature looked half-starved. In its frenzy, it might bite or scratch my leg or hand. Blood-poisoning would be likely to follow. I gently lowered my gloved hand and caressed its head. With a soft purr it relaxed its hold of my leg and dropped to the ground. Feeling more comfortable I unfastened my satchel and, taking out some biscuits, gave them to the poor brute. It ravenously ate them up. My second surprise was to come. A faint scratching and mewing sound came from behind some bread bins in a corner and, as I looked, the black cat sprang forward with a biscuit in its mouth in the direction of the sound. I followed and gently moved the bin aside. The sight there almost brought tears into my eyes. Lying upon some old rags and straw were three tiny kittens. Two were struggling around the mother cat, mewing piteously and trying to nibble at the biscuit she had brought. The other was dead.

The mother cat looked up at me with eyes which were almost human in their expression of thanks. I took out some more biscuits, and breaking them up in an empty tin I picked up from the floor, I poured some water from my bottle on to them, placed it beside the starving group and, leaving a handful near the mother cat, I made their retreat as snug as possible.

Making our way again to the main road I stood by some ruins and looked away in the distance where the Germans had disappeared. What a difference. Here were green fields, gorgeous woods, hills, and dales with winding roads sweeping away out of sight. It reminded me of the feeling Moses must have experienced when he looked upon the Promised Land. Here were no shell-torn fields, no woods beaten out of all semblance to anything, no earth upon which thousands of men had poured out their blood; but, here in front of us, a veritable heaven.

"Come along," I said, "let's explore. If there are any Bosches about they'll soon let us know of their presence. Let's get on to that other ridge; the Somme river should be there somewhere."

We left the village and cautiously followed the road down one hill and up the next. The Germans had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed them up. Not a soul was to be seen; we might have been strolling on the Surrey hills!

I gradually reached the brow of the next ridge. The sight which met my eyes was the most stimulating one I had ever seen from a picture point of view. There, in front of us, at a distance of six hundred yards, was the river Somme—the name which will go down to history as the most momentous in this the bloodiest war the world has ever known.

There it glistened, winding its way north and south like a silver snake.

"Come along," I said, "I shall get the first picture of the Somme," and we raced away down the road.

In calmer moments at home I have admitted that we were mad. Nobody in their right senses would have done such a thing as to rush headlong into country which might have been thick with enemy snipers and machine-guns. But the quietness of the grave reigned—not a rifle-shot disturbed the silence.

Evidence of the German retreat met our gaze as we ran down the road. On either side were discarded material and, in a quarry on the left, a German Red Cross sign was stuck up on a post, and several dug-outs were burning—smoke was pouring up from below, showing that the Hun was destroying everything.

I was brought to a standstill at the sight of a mass of wreckage near the river. Smoke was issuing from it. I looked on my map and saw that it was the village of Brie; a small section was this side of the river, but the main part was on the other side. The whole place had been completely destroyed, partly, I ultimately found out, by our gun-fire, and the remainder burnt or blown up by the Germans.

The river had developed into a swampy marsh; in fact it was very difficult to say precisely where the river and canal finished and the marshes began.

I again got my camera into action and filmed, for the first time, the Somme river which was directly in our line of advance.

The bridges were blown up; huge masses of stone and iron, twisted and torn and flung into the morass of weeds and mud and water, forming small dams, thus diverting the river in all directions. Several scenes on this historic spot I filmed, then, wishing to push forward, I attempted to cross the broken bridges. By careful manœuvring I managed to cross the first, then the second, but a large gap blown in the roadway about forty feet across, through which the water rushed in a torrent, brought me to a standstill, so reluctantly I had to retrace my steps.

Except for the sound of rushing water the quietness was almost uncanny—the excitement of the chase was over. Then I began to realise our position.

We were in a section of ground which the enemy had occupied only a few hours before and had apparently abandoned—vanished into thin air! We were at least two kilometres in front of our infantry, in fact we had, of our own accord—keen on obtaining live scenes for the people at home—constituted ourselves an advance patrol, armed, not with machine-guns, swords, or lances, but with cameras. There was every possibility of our being taken for Germans ourselves by our men from a distance; the real advance guard coming up would undoubtedly open fire and enquire into credentials afterwards. The ruins across the bridge might hide enemy rifles; they might open fire any moment. I explained the situation to my companion, who had also presumably reached a decision very similar to my own, which was to return to the village of Villers-Carbonel as quickly and as carefully as possible.

Keeping to the side of the road we trudged back, and half-way up the hill we ran into one of the things I expected—an advance party. An officer came forward and said in astonished tones:

"Where the devil have you fellows come from?"

"We've been getting photographs of the German retreat," I replied. "We're the official photographers and have been half-way across the Somme, but owing to the bridge being blown up we have come back. The Germans seem to have vanished entirely, not a sign of one about anywhere."

"Well, I'm ——," he said, "this is the funniest thing I've ever known. Will our advance patrols constitute the official photographers for the future? If so, it will save us any amount of trouble."

"Well?" I said, "you can go on—devil a Bosche is over there anyway."

"Well," he said, "these troops I am taking down will be the first across the Somme."

"Right," I said, seeing immediately the scoop it would be for my film. "I will come back and film your men going over; it will make a unique picture."

With that we retraced our steps, and laughing and chatting about our adventure, we once again reached the Somme river.

I fixed up my camera, and, when all was ready, a rough bridge was hastily made of several planks lashed together to bridge gaps in the fallen stonework, and I filmed the first troops to cross the Somme during the great German retreat.

The light was now failing, so, packing up my apparatus, and waving farewells to the C.O., I turned back again. B—— joined me; the day had been a great one for us, and we mutually agreed that it was a fitting sequel to the first British battle that had ever been filmed which I took at Beaumont Hamel on July 1st, 1916.

Weary in body, but very much alive mentally, we returned via Villers-Carbonel to our car.

On my way back I wondered how the cat and her kittens were getting on.

The black cat had certainly brought me luck.

CHAPTER XXVII

the germans in retreat

To keep in touch with all the happenings on that section of the front for which I was responsible, and to obtain a comprehensive record of events, it was necessary to keep very wide awake. Movements, definite and indefinite, were taking place in scores of different places at the same moment. To keep in touch with the enemy, to work with our forward patrols, to enter upon the heels of our advance guard into the evacuated villages—and, if possible, to get there first and film their triumphal entry, film our advance infantry and guns taking up new positions, the engineers at work remaking the roads, building new bridges over the Somme, laying down new railways and repairing old ones—the hundred and one different organisations that were working and straining every muscle and nerve for the common cause. Only the favoured few have the remotest idea of the enormous amount of work to be done under such conditions.

The road (which was No Man's Land yesterday morning) to the village of Villers-Carbonel was now swarming with men clearing away the accumulated débris of the battlefield. Tree trunks were moved off the road, shell-holes were being filled up with bricks and branches, trenches, which crossed the road, were being filled in, a Tank trap at the entrance to the village, the shape of a broad, deep ditch, about thirty by twenty feet wide by fifteen feet deep, was being loaded with tree trunks and earth. I filmed these scenes; then hurried as fast as possible in the direction of Brie to cover the advanced work on the Somme, and then to cross to the other side and get in touch with our cavalry patrols.

What an extraordinary change in the place! Yesterday a ghostly silence reigned; now men and material and transport were swarming everywhere. I reached the river. The engineers had thrown up light, temporary bridges—six in all. Huge iron girders had arrived from back behind; they had been made in readiness for "The Day." Our H.Q. had known that the Germans in their inevitable retreat would destroy the bridges, so, to save time, duplicates were built in sections, ready to throw across the gap.

I managed to arrive in time to film several squadrons of the Duke of Lancaster's cavalry hurrying forward to harass the enemy. Cyclist patrols were making their way over. I hurried as fast as possible through the ruins of Brie and on to the ridge beyond. In the distance I watched our cavalry deploying in extended order and advance towards a wood to clear it of the enemy rearguards. Motor-cyclists, with their machine-guns, were dashing up the hill anxious to get into contact with the flying enemy. I filmed many scenes in this section.

I looked along the road which was the main one into St. Quentin; it stretched away as far as the eye could see. The condition is certainly excellent, I thought. There would be a greater possibility of obtaining exciting scenes if it were possible to proceed in my car; the only question was whether the temporary bridges across the Somme were capable of sustaining the weight. The possibility of getting into villages just evacuated by the Germans spurred me on, so retracing my steps, I reached the river again.

"Do you think the bridge will take the weight of my car?" I asked an officer in charge of engineers.

"What is it?"

"Daimler," I replied.

"Well," he said, "there is a risk, of course, but our G.S. wagons have been across and also the artillery, so they may take your bus—if you don't bounce her in crossing."

"Right-o!" I said. "I will get it down." Hurrying across I had just reached the last bridge when, with a sudden snap, one of the main beams gave way. All traffic was, of course, stopped, and engineers quickly got to work replacing the broken girder.

"It will be at least another hour, sir," said a sergeant in answer to my enquiry. So there was nothing for it but to curb my impatience and wait, and I stood my apparatus down and watched the proceedings.

At that moment a car came to a standstill alongside me.

"What's wrong?" called out one of the occupants.

"Broken bridge," I said. "I'm waiting to cross with my car to get films of the villages and the occupants."

"That's good," said the speaker, a captain. "I am going up to them as well. Intelligence I heard from our airmen this morning that they saw civilians in one or two villages a few miles out—so I'm off to investigate. Would you care to come? We shall be the first there."

"Yes, rather," I replied. "It will be a fine scoop for me to film the first meeting of British troops in the liberated villages. I will follow in my car."

The bridge was again complete, so, dumping my camera aboard, I followed in the wake of the captain. Up the hill we dashed and spun along the road at the top, passing beyond the outskirts of Brie. We were now beyond the extreme limit of the shelling which we had subjected the Germans to during their months of occupation.

I was now beginning to see the sights and view the atrocious system and regularity of wilful destruction which had obviously been planned months before by the Huns to carry out Hindenburg's orders and make the whole land a desert. Not a tree was standing; whole orchards were hewn down; every fruit tree and bush was destroyed; hedges were cut at the base as if with a razor; even those surrounding cemeteries were treated in the same way. Agricultural implements were smashed. Mons en Chaussée was the first village we entered; every house was a blackened smoking ruin, and where the fiends had not done their work with fire they had brought dynamite to their aid; whole blocks of buildings had been blown into the air; there was not sufficient cover for a dog.

The car suddenly came to a standstill; my driver jammed on his brake and I hurried forward. There, at the middle of the village cross-roads was another enormous mine-crater—one hundred feet across by about sixty feet deep. It was quite impassable, but the sight which astounded me was to see about twenty old women and children running up the road the other side of the crater shouting and waving their arms with joy. "Les Anglais! Les Anglais!" they yelled. I got my camera into position and filmed the captain and his companions as they clambered round the jagged lip of the crater and were embraced by the excited people. For the first time since their captivity by the Germans they had seen "les Anglais." Liberators and captives met!

Several scenes I filmed of the enormous crater and of the cut-down fruit trees. Not a single tree, old or young, was left standing. To blow up roads, and hew down telegraph poles was war, and such measures are justified; but to destroy every tree or bush that could possibly bear fruit, wilfully to smash up agricultural implements; to shoot a dog and tie a label to its poor body written in English:

To crucify a cat upon a door and stick a cigar in its mouth, to blow up and poison wells, to desecrate graves, to smash open vaults and rob the corpses which lay there, and then to kick the bones in all directions and use the coffins as cess-pools—these things I have seen with my own eyes. Is this war? It is the work of savages, ghouls, fiends.

I wondered where these people had come from and where they had been as the whole village was burnt out. I enquired and found that the Germans, two days before, had cleared the village of its population and distributed them in villages further back, and had then set fire to the place, leaving nothing but a desert behind, and taking with them all the men who could work and many girls in their teens to what fate one may guess.

These few villagers had wandered back during the day to gaze upon the wreckage of their homes and arrived just in time to meet us at the crater.

"We will get along," said my companion. "I want to visit Bovincourt and Vraignes before nightfall, though I am afraid we shall not do it. By making a detour round these ruins I believe we shall strike the main road further down."

I followed him through the ruins and, after bouncing over innumerable bricks and beams, we reached the main road. We passed through Estrées-en-Chaussée. One large barn was only standing; everything was as quiet as the grave; columns of smoke were still rising from the ruins.

Another jamming on of brakes brought us to a standstill at a cross-roads; another huge mine-crater was in front of us and it was most difficult to see until we were well upon it. There was nothing to do but to take to the fields—our road was at right angles to the one we were traversing.

I examined the ground, it was very soft, and the newly scattered earth and clay from the mine made it much worse.

"If we get stuck," I thought, "there is nobody about to help us out." The captain tried and got over.

I yelled out that I would follow; they disappeared in the direction of Bovincourt. Backing my car to get a good start I let it go over the edge of the road into the field. It was like going through pudding. The near wheels roared round without gripping. Then it happened! We were stuck! A fine predicament, I thought, with prowling enemy patrols about and no rifle.

"All shoulders to the wheel," I said. By digging, and jamming wood, sacking and straw under the wheels we managed, after three-quarters of an hour, to get it out. Jove! what a time it was! And so on the road again.

"We will get into Bovincourt," I said. "Let her go; I may meet the others."

The feeling was uncanny and my position strange, for all I knew Bosches were all around me (and later on this proved to be the case).

Night was falling, and ere I reached the village it was quite impossible to take any scenes.

At the entrance to the village I ran into several people who crowded round the car, crying and laughing in their relief at seeing the British arrive. Old men and women who could barely move hobbled forward to shake hands, with tears in their eyes. They clambered in and around the car, and it was only by making them understand that I would return on the following day that they allowed the car to proceed. The sight was wonderful and I wish I were able to describe it better.

I could not find the other car, so, assuming it had gone back, I decided to return as far as Brie and stay the night. As I was leaving the village a burst of machine-gun fire rang out close by followed by violent rifle-shots.

"Let her go," I said to my chauffeur. "I am not at all anxious to get pipped out here. My films must not fall into enemy hands."

The car shot up the road like a streak; the mine-crater was ahead and the possibility of getting stuck again whilst crossing made me feel anything but easy. Full tilt, I told my driver, we must trust to speed to get across. On went the lower gear; a right-hand twist of the wheel and we were on the field; the speed gradually grew less, the back wheels buzzed round but still gripped a little.

"Keep her going at all costs," I yelled, "if the car sticks here it will have to be left." To lighten her a little I jumped out and pushed up behind for all I was worth. Mud was flying in all directions; we were nearly across; another twenty yards. With a final roll and screech she bounded off on to the road. I jumped aboard again and up the road we shot towards Mons. If the Hun patrols had been anywhere near they must have thought a battalion of Tanks were on their track, for the noise my old "bus" made getting across that field was positively deafening. On I went through Mons, into the ruins of its houses, still glowing red and, in some places, flames were licking around the poor skeletons of its once prosperous farms.

One more mine-crater to negotiate; then all would be plain sailing. It was now quite dark. I dared not use lights, not, even side lamps, and going was decidedly slow and risky in consequence. I sat in the bonnet of the car and, peering ahead, called out the direction. Shortly a lightish mass loomed up only a few yards distant.

"Stop!" I yelled.

On went the brakes, and only just in time. We came to a standstill on the outer lip of a huge crater. Another two yards and I should have been trying to emulate the antics of a "tank" in sliding down a crater and crawling up the other side. In my case the sliding down would have been all right, but coming up the other side would have been on the lap of the gods. A hundred men with ropes and myself—well, but that's another story.

"Back the car to give it a good run," I said, "and let us lighten it as much as possible," and soon all was ready.

"I will go ahead and put my handkerchief over my electric light; we must risk being seen—you head direct for the glow."

I went into the muddy fields.

"Let her go," I shouted. With a whir and a grind I could tell it had started. I stood still. It was coming nearer. Ye gods! what a row. Then, suddenly, the engines stopped and dead silence reigned.

"It's stuck, sir," came a voice from the darkness.

I went to the car and switched my lamp on to the near wheels. The car was stuck right up to the axle.

"We shall never get out of this unaided," I said. "Put all the stuff back inside and get the hood up; we shall have to sleep here to-night."

Then, to add to the discomfiture of the situation, it began to rain, and rain like fury, and in a few minutes I was wet through to the skin. The hood leaked badly and had convenient holes in alignment to one's body, whether you were sitting lengthways or otherwise inside. I had resigned myself for a dismal night out. Two hours had passed when I heard the clatter of hoofs coming towards me in the distance and, by the direction of the sound, I could tell they were our men. I tumbled out and ran as fast as possible to the other side of the crater and reached there just as the horsemen arrived.

"Hullo!" I shouted.

"Hulloa!" came the reply, "who is it?"

"I am badly stuck, or rather my car is—in the mud in the field here. Can you hitch two or three of your horses on and help me out on to the road?"

"Certainly, if we can, sir."

"I will guide you with my lamp—by the way, where are you going?" I said.

"We are trying to get into touch with the Bosche."

"I have been in Bovincourt," I said, "but there are none there, though I heard a lot of rifle-fire just outside the village."

We arrived at the car and, quickly hitching on a rope, the engine was started up and, with a heave and a screech, it moved forward and was eventually dragged on to the road.

"Thank Heaven," I thought. Then, thanking the men, and warning them of the other delightful mine crater further down, I started off again, sitting on the bonnet.

As I neared Brie I switched on my lamp as a headlight and got held up by two sentries with their bayonets at the ready. They did not understand why a motor-car should be coming back apparently from the German lines, and their attitude was decidedly unfriendly till I assured them I was not a German, but only the Official Kinematographer out for pictures.

CHAPTER XXVIII

the story of an "armoured car" about which i could a tale unfold