I GET INTO A WARM CORNER

Boxing Day--But No Pantomime--Life in the Trenches--A Sniper at Work--Sinking a Mine Shaft--The Cheery Influence of an Irish Padre--A Cemetery Behind the Lines--Pathetic Inscriptions and Mementoes on Dead Heroes' Graves--I Get Into a Pretty Warm Corner--And Have Some Difficulty in Getting Out Again--But All's Well that Ends Well.

Boxing Day! But nothing out of the ordinary happened. I filmed the Royal Welsh Fusiliers en route for the trenches. As usual, the weather was impossible, and the troops came up in motor-buses. At the sound of a whistle, they formed up in line and stopped, and the men scrambled out and stood to attention by the roadside. They were going to the front line. They gave me a parting cheer, and a smile that they knew would be seen by the people in England--perchance by their own parents.

I went along the famous La Ba.s.see Road--the most fiercely contested stretch in that part of the country. It was literally lined with sh.e.l.l-destroyed houses, large and small; chateaux and hovels. All had been levelled to the ground by the Huns. I filmed various scenes of the Coldstreams, the Irish and the Grenadier Guards. At the furthermost point of the road to which cars are allowed sh.e.l.ls started to fall rather heavily, so, not wishing to argue the point with them, I took cover. When the "strafing" ceased I filmed other interesting scenes, and then returned to my headquarters.

The next day was very interesting, and rather exciting. I was to go to the front trenches and get some scenes of the men at work under actual conditions. Proceeding by the Road, I reached the Croix Rouge crossing, which was heavily "strafed" the previous day. Hiding the car under cover of a partly demolished house, and strapping the camera on my back, my orderly carrying the tripod, I started out to walk the remaining distance. I had not gone far when a sentry advised me not to proceed further on the road, but to take to the trench lining it, as the thoroughfare from this point was in full view of the German artillery observers. Not wishing to be sh.e.l.led unnecessarily, I did as he suggested. "And don't forget to keep your head down, sir," was his last remark. So bending nearly double, I proceeded. As a further precaution, I kept my man behind me at a distance of about twenty yards. Several times high explosives and shrapnel came unpleasantly near.

Presently I came upon a wooden tramway running at right angles to the road. My instructions were to proceed along it until I came to "Signpost Lane." Why it was so dubbed I was unable to discover, but one thing I was certainly not kept in ignorance of for long, and that was that it was perpetually under heavy sh.e.l.l-fire by the Germans. They were evidently under the impression that it was the route taken by our relief parties going to the trenches at appointed times during the day, and so they fairly raked it with sh.e.l.l-fire.

Unfortunately I happened to arrive on one of these occasions, and I knew it. Sh.e.l.ls dropped all round us. Hardly a square yard of ground seemed untouched. Under such conditions it was no good standing. I looked round for cover, but there was none. The best thing to do under the circ.u.mstances was to go straight on, trust to Providence, and make for the communication trenches with all speed. I doubled like a hare over the intervening ground, and I was glad when I reached the trenches, for once there, unless a sh.e.l.l bursts directly overhead, or falls on top of you, the chances of getting hit are very small.

I was now in the sniping zone, and could continually hear the crack of a Hun rifle, and the resulting thud of a bullet striking the mud or the sandbags, first one side then the other. The communication trenches seemed interminable, and, as we neared the front line, the mud got deeper and parts of the trench were quite water-logged.

Plod, plod, plod; section after section, traverse after traverse.

Suddenly I came upon a party of sappers mending the parapet top with newly filled sandbags. At that particular section a sh.e.l.l had dropped fairly near and destroyed it, and anyone walking past that gap stood a very good chance of having the top of his head taken off. These men were filling up the breach. "Keep your head well down, sir," shouted one, as I came along. "They" (meaning the Germans) "have got this place marked."

Down went my head, and I pa.s.sed the gap safely.

We were now well up in the firing trench. Fixing the camera, and the rest of the apparatus, I began taking scenes of actual life and conditions in the trenches--that mysterious land about which millions have read but have never had the opportunity of seeing. No mere verbal description would suffice to describe them. Every minute the murderous crack of rifles and the whir of machine-guns rang out. Death hovered all round. In front the German rifles, above the bursting shrapnel, each sh.e.l.l scattering its four hundred odd leaden bullets far and wide, killing or wounding any unfortunate man who happened to be in the way.

The trenches looked as if a giant cataclysm of Nature had taken place.

The whole earth had been upheaved, and in each of the mud-hills men had burrowed innumerable paths, seven feet deep. It was hard to distinguish men from mud. The former were literally caked from head to foot with the latter. I filmed the men at work. There were several snipers calmly smoking their cigarettes and taking careful aim at the enemy.

Crack--crack--crack--simultaneously.

"Sure, sir," remarked one burly Irish Guardsman, "and he'll never bob his ---- head up any more. It's him I've been afther this several hours!" And as coolly as if he had been at a rifle range at home, the man discharged the empty cartridge-case and stood with his rifle, motionless as a rock, his eyes like those of an eagle.

All this time it was raining hard. I worked my way along the never-ending traverses. Coming upon a mount of sandbags, I enquired of an officer present the nature and cause of its formation. He bade me follow him. At one corner a narrow, downward path came into view.

Trudging after him, I entered this strange shelter. Inside it was quite dark, but in a few seconds, when my eyes had got used to the conditions, I observed a hole in the centre of the floor about five feet square.

Peering over the edge, I saw that the shaft was about _twenty-five feet deep_, and that there was a light at the bottom. It then dawned upon me what it really was. It was a mine-shaft. At the bottom, men worked at their deadly occupation, burrowing at right angles under our own trenches (under "No Man's Land") and under the German lines. They laid their mines, and at the appointed time exploded them, thus causing a great amount of damage to the enemy's parapets and trenches, and killing large numbers of the occupants.

Retracing my steps, I fixed the camera up and filmed the men entering the mines and others bringing up the excavated earth in sandbags and placing them on the outside of the barricade. Then I paused to film the men at work upon a trench road. Thinking I could obtain a better view from a point in the distance, I started off for it, bent nearly double, when a warning shout from an officer bade me be careful. I reached the point. Although about fifty yards behind the firing trench, I was under the impression that I was still sheltered by the parapet. Evidently I had raised my head too high while fixing up the tripod, for with a murderous whistle two bullets "zipped" by overhead. I must be more careful if I wanted to get away with a whole skin; so bending low, I filmed the scene, and then returned.

While proceeding along the line, I filmed the regimental padre of the Irish Guards wading through the mud and exchanging a cheery word with every man he pa.s.sed. What a figure he was! Tall and upright, with a long dark beard, and a voice that seemed kind and cheery enough to influence even the dead. He inspired confidence wherever he went. He stayed awhile to talk to several men who were sitting in their dug-outs pumping the water out before they could enter. His words seemed to make the men work with redoubled vigour. Then he pa.s.sed on.

Along this section, at the back of the dug-outs, were innumerable white crosses, leaning at all angles, in the mud. They were the last resting-place of our dead heroes. On each cross a comrade had written a short inscription, and some of these, though simple, and at times badly spelt, revealed a pathos and a feeling that almost brought tears to the eyes. For all its slime and mud it was the most beautiful cemetery I have ever seen. On some of the graves were a few wildflowers. No wreaths; no marble headstones; no elaborate ornamentation; but in their place a battered cap, a rusty rifle or a mud-covered haversack, the treasured belongings of the dead.

I had barely finished filming this scene when with a shriek several sh.e.l.ls came hurtling overhead from the German guns and burst about a hundred yards behind our firing line. Quickly adjusting the camera, I covered the section with my lens. In a few seconds more sh.e.l.ls came over, and turning the handle I filmed them as they burst, throwing up enormous quant.i.ties of earth. The Huns were evidently firing at something. What that something was I soon found out. An enemy observer had seen a small working party crossing an open s.p.a.ce. The guns immediately opened fire. Whether they inflicted any casualties I do not know, but a few minutes later the same party of men pa.s.sed me as though nothing had happened.

The rain was still falling, and the mist getting heavy, so I decided to make my way back to headquarters. Packing up, and bidding adieu to the officers, I started on the return journey through the communication trenches. One officer told me to go back the same way, via "Signpost Lane." "You will manage to get through before their evening 'strafing,'"

he called out. After wearily trudging through nearly a mile of trenches, I came out at "Signpost Lane," and I am never likely to forget it.

We had left the shelter of the trench, and were hurrying, nearly doubled, across a field, when a German observer spotted us. The next minute "whizz-bangs" started falling around us like rain. No matter which way I turned, the tarnation things seemed to follow and burst with a deafening crash. At last, I reached the crossing, and was making my way down the trench lining the road, when a sh.e.l.l dropped and exploded not thirty feet ahead. But on I went, for a miss is as good as a mile.

About a hundred yards further on was the battered sh.e.l.l of a farm-house.

When almost up to it a couple of sh.e.l.ls dropped fairly in the middle of it and showered the bricks all round. A fairly warm spot!

I had just reached the corner of the building when I heard the shriek of a sh.e.l.l coming nearer. I guessed it was pretty close, and without a moment's hesitation dropped in the mud and water of a small ditch, and not a moment too soon for with a dull thud the sh.e.l.l struck and burst hardly seven feet from me. Had I not fallen down these lines would never have been written. Picking myself up, I hurried on. Still the sh.e.l.ls continued to drop, but fortunately at a greater distance. When I reached Croix Rouge, I was literally encased in mud. Our progress along the road had been anxiously watched by the sentries and by my chauffeur.

"Well, sir," said the latter, with a sigh of relief, "I certainly thought they had you that time."

CHAPTER IV

THE BATTLEFIELD OF NEUVE CHAPELLE

A Visit to the Old German Trenches--Reveals a Scene of Horror that Defies Description--Dodging the Sh.e.l.ls--I Lose the Handle of My Camera--And then Lose My Man--The Effect of Sh.e.l.l-fire on a Novice--In the Village of Neuve Chapelle--A Scene of Devastation--The Figure of the Lonely Christ.

It occurred to me that an interesting film might be made out of scenes of the battlefield of Neuve Chapelle. The very thought of it conjured up a reeking, whirling ma.s.s of humanity, fighting with all the most devilish, death-dealing weapons that had ever been conceived by the mind of man. I decided to do a picture of the scene, and took with me an orderly who had never been under fire before.

We proceeded along the La Ba.s.see Road, and at the Croix Rouge proceeded on foot towards Neuve Chapelle. As usual, Bosche sh.e.l.ling was so consistent in its intensity that we thought it advisable to spread out a bit in case a sh.e.l.l burst near us. My guide was Major ----, who commanded one of the regiments holding the ground on the other side of Neuve Chapelle.

Eventually I reached the a.s.sembly trenches, where our men concentrated for the great attack. In shape they were just ordinary trenches, branches off a main gallery, but they were in an awful state of decay, and literally torn to shreds by sh.e.l.l-fire. What tales these old sandbags might tell if only they could speak, tales of our brave boys and our Indian troops that would live for ever in the history of mankind. Standing upon one of the parapets, I looked round, and marvelled that it was possible in so small a section of ground so many men were hidden there. Quickly formulating my programme, I decided to begin at the a.s.sembly trenches, and follow in imagination the path of the troops during the battle, ending up in the ruins of Neuve Chapelle village itself, which I could see in the distance.

"Be careful," came the warning voice of a major, "the whole of the ground here is in view of the Bosche artillery observers. If they see anyone moving about they'll start 'strafing' like anything, and I a.s.sure you they do it very conscientiously."

I therefore kept as low as possible.

Fixing up the camera, I started to film the scenes from the a.s.sembly trenches to the old first line trench, and then into the stretch of ground known as "No Man's Land." Finishing this particular picture, we went along to the old German trenches, and during the whole time we bent nearly double, to keep under the line of the old parapets. In the old German trenches the frightful effect of modern sh.e.l.l-fire was only too apparent. The whole line, as far as one could see, was absolutely smashed to atoms. Only the bases of the parapets were left, and in the bottom of the trenches was an acc.u.mulation of water and filth. It was a disgusting sight. The whole place was littered with old German equipment, and whilst wading and splashing along through the water I saw such things, and such stenches a.s.sailed my nostrils, as I shall not easily forget. Dotted all over the place, half in and half out of the mud and water, were dead bodies.

But why recount the horrors of the scene? Imagine the sights and the smell. How I got through that section of trench Heaven only knows. It was simply ghastly.

To escape from the scene I hurried to the end of the trench and again crossed "No Man's Land." The sight here was not so bad as in the trenches. To obtain a good view of the spot I got up very gingerly on top of the parapet, fixed the machine, and filmed the scene. But this enterprise nearly put an end to my adventure, _and also to the other members of the party_. I had finished taking, and had got my camera down on the stand, in the bottom of the trench, and was on the point of uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it, when two sh.e.l.ls came hurtling overhead and exploded about forty feet away. The Major ran up to me and shouted that I had been seen, and told me to take cover at once. He and the others, suiting the action to the word, dived below the parapets. s.n.a.t.c.hing the camera off its stand, I followed, and paddled as close as possible to the mud. The sh.e.l.ls began falling in quick succession. Nearer and nearer they came.

Some just cleared the parapet top; some burst in front, some immediately behind.

"They have got our line; let's shift along further," some one said.

From one point of the trench to the other we dodged. The sh.e.l.ls seemed to follow us wherever we went. Crash! One struck the crumbling parapet on the very spot where, a few seconds before, I had been sheltering. In the rush for cover I had lost the handle of the camera, and as it was the only one I had there, I began to work my way back to find it.

"Don't be a fool," called the Major. "If you show yourself they'll have you, as sure as eggs are eggs." But my anxiety to obtain pictures of the bursting sh.e.l.ls was too much for me. I set to to make a handle of wood.

Looking round, I spotted an old tree-trunk, behind which I could take cover. Doubling towards it, I crouched down, and finding a piece of wood and an old nail I fashioned a handle of a sort.

At this moment a funny incident occurred. I had momentarily forgotten the existence of the other members of the party. I was hoping against hope that they had escaped injury. What had happened to them? Where were they? It almost seemed as if my thoughts were communicated by telepathy to one of them, for just above the parapet in front of me rose the head of Captain ----.

"I say, Malins," he said, "did you find your handle?"

The words were barely out of his mouth when a sh.e.l.l shot by. Captain ----'s head went down like a jack-in-the-box. The sight was too funny for words. If he hadn't ducked the sh.e.l.l would have taken his head off, for it struck the ground and exploded, as we found out afterwards, only ten feet away.

For three-quarters of an hour this "strafing" continued, then giving Bosche ten minutes to settle down we came out of our holes and corners.

What sights we were!

Collecting my apparatus, I again crossed "No Man's Land," and carefully made my way into the village of Neuve Chapelle itself. To describe it would only be to repeat what I said of the devastated city of Ypres.