"This morning, from Guillemont; our boys had a bit of a stunt on and landed a few of the beggars."

I filmed various incidents showing the treatment of wounded prisoners.

They received the same careful attention as our own men; whatever they asked for they had. Several padres were kneeling down beside our boys, taking down messages to be sent to their relatives.

Stretcher after stretcher with its human freight of Briton and Hun was deposited on the ground. Immediately doctors and orderlies were upon their knees tending to their wants with a gentleness that was wonderful. While I was there several sh.e.l.ls fell and exploded only a short distance away.

I left the dressing station and paused upon a mound near a tree stump, the top of which had been carefully split off by sh.e.l.l-fire. I stood looking in the direction of Trones. The Bosches were "strafing" it pretty thoroughly. Away across at Montaubon village the same thing was happening. They were fairly watering the place with H.E. and shrapnel.

Our guns were rattling out as well, and I am glad to say that it sounded to me as though ours were at least ten to their one.

Well, the scenes had to be obtained. I admit the job looked anything but pleasant. "Well, here goes!" I said, and putting on a cigarette, I trudged off with my apparatus across the open, making a bee-line midway between Montaubon and Bernafay Wood. I gave both places a wide berth, thereby steering clear of possible Bosche sh.e.l.ls. How hot it was.

Perspiration was literally pouring from me. I kept on over the ground captured from the Germans. The smell in places was almost unbearable. I puffed away at my cigarette, thereby reducing the stench to a minimum.

Several sh.e.l.ls came whizzing overhead in the direction of the dressing station I had just left. With a grinding crash they exploded. "Shrapnel, woolly bears," I said under my breath. They seemed to burst right on top of them too. I thought of all those poor wounded Tommies lying helpless on their stretchers. Another--then another--came hurtling over. The splitting crash of the burst can only be appreciated by those who have been in close proximity to a German H.E. Woolly Bear exploding. It gives one rather a sickening sensation. Another came over. This time it burst nearer. "Gee! they're dropping the range." I hastily grabbed my tripod and hurried off at a tangent. Proceeding for a distance of about five hundred yards I turned off again and made tracks for my original point.

In front, at a distance of about seven hundred yards, one of our forward field batteries of 18-pounders opened fire. I at first thought they were French 75 mm. owing to the extreme rapidity of fire. From my position I could not see the guns, but stretching across the country a rough line of brown earth was thrown up, which I afterwards found out was one of the old German lines. The guns were cunningly concealed in the trench.

Thinking that it would make rather a good scene I decided to film it in action.

I may add that I have previously been rather wary about having much to do with forward artillery positions. On three previous occasions I have been badly "strafed" by brother Fritz. He has the uncommonly irritating habit of putting his whizz-bangs much too near to be pleasant, with the result that I have more than once been compelled to take my camera and self off to the more congenial quarters of a dug-out, from which place, you will agree, one cannot obtain very interesting pictures.

Reaching the batteries I unlimbered myself of my gear and approaching the C.O. in charge told him who I was and what I wanted. He was quite pleased to see me and said that he was just about to give Fritz a good dose of "iron rations," firing in salvos. Quickly fixing up my camera I filmed the scenes from various points of view. The men were stripped to the waist, jumping out the sh.e.l.ls as fast as they could be handled.

While I was filming the scene brother Fritz replied with whizz-bangs thick and fast. They are perfect devils, and it is practically impossible to hear them coming until they burst. I turned my machine round upon the spot near which they were dropping. Several times they got within the range of my camera, and I continued to turn upon them until two came much too close, so thinking discretion the better part of valour, I hastily disappeared into the doubtful shelter of a broken-down Hun trench. Then they came over, several smothering me in dust as they exploded close by. Having obtained all the pictures I required I thanked the C.O. and went on my way.

My clothes were absolutely saturated with perspiration as I shambled away towards the top end of Bernafay Wood. I looked back at the battery.

Bosche was still "strafing." I vowed I would never go near any forward guns again; but good resolutions are made to be broken, and my l.u.s.t for pictures is too strong within me.

Moving was now difficult. The weight of my camera outfit seemed to be getting heavier. I could only get along at a very slow pace. The strap around my chest seemed to squeeze the very breath out of my lungs. But worse was to come. The Huns began sh.e.l.ling the section with shrapnel in a searching manner, and several times I collapsed into a sh.e.l.l-hole, in the hope of obtaining a little cover. But there is very little shelter from shrapnel. On several occasions I felt like throwing away my steel helmet; the weight seemed abnormal; but prudence warned me and I clung to it.

The fire was now too bad to proceed in the open. If there were any trenches or ditches I availed myself of their protection. The heat in the trenches was terrific, and to add to the horrors of the stench and heat there were millions of flies. Filthy brutes! They seemed to cling to one like leeches, and, my arms being full, I could not keep them off my face. Several times I almost decided to turn back, asking myself if it was worth while. But when I looked at Trones Wood in the distance, and the heavy sh.e.l.ls bursting all round, I gritted my teeth and decided to push on.

Thinking that more smoke might help to keep off the flies I lighted two cigarettes and puffed away at them, one in each corner of my mouth. I'm sure I must have looked a most extraordinary specimen of humanity at this moment. Loaded with kit, perspiring like a bull; my steel helmet c.o.c.ked on one side of my head; puffing away like a chimney at two cigarettes, and millions of flies buzzing all around me. Picture me if you can.

I was proceeding like an automaton along the trench when suddenly I came upon an officer who, I afterwards found out, was going up to fix his next gun positions. He was sitting on a sandbag swearing like Hades, and trying to disperse the clouds of flies which were settling upon him. He looked up as I approached, then suddenly burst into a peal of laughter.

I stood still and grinned, not daring to open my mouth to laugh for fear of losing my cigarettes. Then I dropped my tripod and leaned against the trench side to rest. His laughter suddenly developed into a coughing and spluttering, spitting and swearing, which in itself was strong enough to drive all the flies in existence away.

"Bust the things!" he spluttered. "I got a mouthful of them! They might have just come off some dirty Bosche. Got a drink on you?"

"Yes," I said, and handed him my water-bottle.

He rinsed out his mouth.

"I do believe it's worth risking shrapnel rather than tolerate these vile things!" he remarked. "But excuse my laughter; you did look funny coming along there."

"Yes, I expect I did," I said, still puffing away at my cigarettes. "I'd smoke a dozen at once if I could. Anything to keep the flies away."

"Well," he said, "I'm stumped. Have you one to spare?"

I handed him my case. He lighted up and both of us, puffing as hard as we could, made quite a healthy volume of smoke. From above it must have looked as if a small fire was raging.

We had sat there alternately puffing and chatting and killing flies by the hundreds for about ten minutes. I told him I wanted to get some scenes of Trones. He politely told me I ought to have brought my keeper out with me, but as he was going in that direction he would help me on the way to being killed by carrying my tripod.

We started off. The sh.e.l.ling was getting unpleasantly near. Phoot-bang!

We both ducked, my head getting a nasty knock against the tripod top.

For the moment I thought I had been struck by the whizz-bang. Presently we reached a junction in the trench, and as my friend's road lay in an opposite direction we parted, and I trudged on alone.

I was brought to a standstill by a mound of earth which completely blocked the way. By all appearances the sh.e.l.l that had caused it could have only come over a few minutes before, for a thin wisp of smoke was still curling up from the debris. "Well," I thought, placing my kit on the ground, "it's got to be done; so over I go." Here the air was completely free from flies. Evidently the gas from the bursting sh.e.l.l had choked them off for a time. Jove! I was glad. It was like heaven; and my tongue was beginning to burn rather badly through fiercely smoking two cigarettes at once.

Cautiously I crept up to the top of the parapet! What a sight! Sh.e.l.ls were falling thick and fast over Trones and towards Baentin-le-Grand. I must film this, Bosche or no Bosche! So hastily fixing up my tripod, I fastened on the camera and began exposing. "Excellent," I thought; "I've got it." Another sh.e.l.l came along. This time it was evidently a 5.9, and was right in the centre of my view, about one hundred and fifty yards away! Another one. Rotten! Just out of my limits. Phut-bang!

Phut-bang! I grabbed my camera and fell with it on the opposite side of the mound. I let it lie there, and dashing back into the other section of trench grabbed my bags and returned. Whizz-bangs followed; whizz-bangs in front and behind! I crouched as low as possible and replacing the camera in its case hung it over my back and, still bending low, hurried away dragging my tripod behind me.

The trench was blocked by a batch of men returning. They were crouching down for cover. The officer in charge asked me what in the world I was doing.

"Thunder," he said, "if I knew the 'movie' man had been here I would have gone the other way. You've evidently drawn fire by that contraption of yours. Where are you going?"

"To Trones Wood," I said.

The look of blank amazement on his face was amusing.

"My dear chap," he said, "are you serious?"

"Well," I replied, "I had intended going there till a moment ago, but the strafing seems to get worse."

Shrapnel was now bursting overhead, a piece hitting one of the men close by.

"Where's he hit?" enquired the officer. The poor fellow was lying down.

"In the shoulder, sir," one of the others shouted back. "Seems rather bad."

"Two of you bring him through and get ahead to the dressing station as quickly as possible. Keep your heads down." Then turning to me the officer said: "Look here, I've just come from the Wood, and, by gad, it's fair h.e.l.l there! The place is a charnel-house. It's literally choked with corpses; heaps of them; and we dare not bring them in. We've tried even at night, but the sh.e.l.ling prevents us. The place reeks. And the flies! They're awful. It's more than flesh and blood can stand! To put your head up means certain death and--well, you see what your camera did here. You can imagine what it would be like over there, can't you?"

"Yes, I see, but of course if I had known any men were about I wouldn't have put my machine up. I know there is always the possibility of drawing fire. It has happened quite a number of times to me!"

"If you respect your life don't go any further. The sh.e.l.l-fire is impossible, and the sight over there is too ghastly for words."

So I decided to relinquish my visit for the time being.

A call was made to proceed. "Half a minute," I said, "the trench had been blown in about fifty yards down, wouldn't it be better to clear it away rather than take these men over the top?"

The officer decided that it was. The men worked away with a will, and quickly replaced the earth in the hollow of the trench wall from which it had been blown.

Again we trudged on. The flies were beginning to annoy us once more. I put on a couple of cigarettes. All the men had ransacked odds and ends from their pockets, and the result was a line of men smoking as hard as they could, and enveloped in a haze of bluish white smoke. But the flies refused to budge. Smoke had no effect on them, and I'm inclined to think that nothing short of a 5.9 would do the trick. Not until we were out in the open were we free from them.

On two further occasions I tried to enter Trones Wood, and both times the conditions were if anything worse. The merest sign of a camera put up over a parapet would have instantly brought a host of sh.e.l.ls clattering round; therefore, on the third try, I decided to abandon the trip until a later date. But those attempts will always remain in my memory as a ghastly nightmare. The essence of death and destruction, and all that it means, was horribly visible everywhere.

I have been there since. I reached the place just before the final cleansing, and brother Fritz, just to let us know that he existed, and that he had a spite against us, persisted in flinging his shrapnel around, thereby keeping me well on the run. He did not give me the slightest chance to get pictures, nor to meditate on the surroundings; in fact the only meditation I indulged in was to wonder whether the next shrapnel bullet would strike my helmet plumb on the top or glance off the rim. Then thinking of George Grave's remark, I called Fritz a "nasty person," with a few extra additions culled from the "trench dictionary."

Being a fine night I decided to stay in the vicinity. An officer of a pioneer battalion kindly offered me a share of his dug-out--one of Fritz's cast-offs. I gladly accepted, and over a cup--or rather a tin--of tea, we exchanged views on various subjects. About ten o'clock I went above to terra firma and watched the sh.e.l.ls bursting over the German lines. Myriads of star-sh.e.l.ls or Verey lights shot high in the sky, lighting up the whole country-side like day. The sight was wonderful, and silhouetted against the flashes I could see countless bodies of men tramping on their way like silent phantoms.

Here and there I watched a sh.e.l.l burst. I could see and hear that it had dropped into a section of those men, adding to the number of that great army of heroes who had already "gone West." But into those gaps, through which the blasting sh.e.l.ls had torn their way, stepped other men.

A sharp word of command was rapped out, then on again to take up their battle position, leaving the dead behind to be reverently buried on the morrow. The wounded were brought away by the stretcher-bearers, and as one lot pa.s.sed me I heard a voice from the darkness murmur, "Bill, it's a blighty."