How I Filmed the War Part 17

"The rope is coming," I yelled. "Tug it as a signal, when you have it."

"Right," came the reply.

Three times I threw it before I received the welcome tug at the other end. Then a voice shouted: "Pull away, sir."

I pulled. I had to do it gently, otherwise the broken nature of the ground might damage the head. At last it was safely over, but Bosche had seen something moving across; then he turned his typewriter on again.

More bullets flew by, but with the exception of one which struck the metal revolving top and sliced out a piece as evenly as if it had been done by machine, no harm was caused.

I bade one of the men shoulder my tripod. We rushed up the trench as fast as possible, and I thanked Heaven for my escape. When I reached the section where I judged it best to fit up my camera, I gently peeped over the parapet. What a sight. Never in my life had I seen such a hurricane of fire. It was inconceivable that any living thing could exist anywhere near it. The sh.e.l.ls were coming over so fast and furious that it seemed as if they must be touching each other on their journey through the air.

To get my camera up was the work of a few seconds. I had no time to put any covering material over it. The risk had to be run, the picture was worth it. Up went my camera well above the parapet and, quickly sighting my object, I started to expose. Swinging the machine first one way then the other, I turned the handle continuously. Pieces of sh.e.l.l were flying and ripping past close overhead. They seemed to get nearer every time.

Whether they were splinters from the bursting sh.e.l.ls or bullets from machine guns I could not tell, but it got so hot at last that I judged it wise to take cover. I had exposed sufficient film for my purpose, so quickly uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the camera, my man taking the tripod, I hurried into a dug-out for cover. "Jove!" I thought, mopping the perspiration from my head, "quite near enough to be healthy!"

Although the men were all taking cover, they were as happy as crickets over this "strafe." There is nothing a Tommy likes more than to see our artillery plastering Bosche trenches into "Potsdam."

"Well, what's the next move?" I was asked.

"Trench Mortars," I said. "Both 'Flying Pigs' and 'Plum Puddings' ought to make topping scenes."

"Yes," the Captain said. "They are in action this afternoon, and I am in charge of H.T.M. I'll give you a good show. I have only one pit available, as Fritz dropped a 'crump' in the other yesterday, and blew the whole show to smithereens. My sergeant was sitting smoking at the time, and when she blew up it lifted him clean out of the trench, without even so much as scratching him. He turned round to me, and cursed Bosche for spoiling his smoke. He's promised to get his own back on 'Brother Fritz.' Bet your life he will too."

He had hardly ceased speaking, when our dug-out shook as if a mine had gone up close by. I tumbled out, followed by the others. Lumps of earth fell on our heads; I certainly thought the roof was coming in on us.

Getting into the trench, the bombardment was still going strong, and looking on my left I saw a dense cloud of smoke in our own firing trench.

"What in the world's up?" I enquired of a man close by.

"Dunno, sir," he said. "I believe it's a Bosche mine. It made enough fuss to be one, yet it seems in such an extraordinary position."

"How about getting round to have a look at it?" I said to ----.

"Right-o," he said; "but you know we can't cross the road there. I think if we back well down, about one hundred yards, we may nip across into No. 2 Avenue. That'll bring us out near 'Jacob's Ladder.'"

"Lead on," I said. "I wish I had known. I came in across the road there," pointing down our firing trench.

"You've got more pluck than I have," he said. "You can congratulate yourself that you are alive. Anyway, come on."

Eventually I reached "Jacob's Ladder," and asked an officer what had happened.

"I don't know," he said; "but whatever it was, it's smashed our front trench for about eighty yards: it's absolutely impa.s.sable."

Another officer came running up at that moment. "I say," he said, "there's a scene up there for you. A trench mortar gun had a premature burst, and exploded all the munition in the pit; blew the whole lot--men and all--to pieces. It's made a crater thirty yards across. It's a beastly wreck. Can't use that section of the front line. And to make matters worse, Fritz is pumping over tear-sh.e.l.ls. Everybody is tickled to death with the fumes."

"Don't cheer me up, will you?" I remarked. "I'm going to film the trench mortar this afternoon, both the H.T.M. and the 2-inch Gee. I can thank my lucky stars I didn't decide to do them earlier. Anyway, here goes; the light is getting rather poor."

The officer with whom I was talking kindly offered to guide me to the spot. Crumps were still falling, and so was the rain. "We'll go through 'Lanwick Street,' then bear to the left, and don't forget to keep your head down."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PLAN OF ATTACK AT BEAUMONT HAMEL. JULY 1ST, 1916]

[Ill.u.s.tration: OVER THE TOP OF BEAUMONT HAMEL. JULY 1ST, 1916]

There are two things I detest more than anything else in the trenches: they are "whizz-bangs" and rats. The latter got mixed up in my feet as I was walking through the trench, and one, more impudent than the rest, when I crouched down to avoid a burst, jumped on to my back and sprang away into the mud.

"We will turn back and go by way of 'White City,' then up King Street.

It may be cooler there." It certainly was not healthy in this neighbourhood.

Turning back, I bade my man follow close behind. Entering the main trench, I hurried along, and was quite near the King Street turning when a Hun "crump" came tearing overhead. I yelled out to my man to take cover, and crushed into the entrance of a dug-out myself. In doing so, I upset a canteen of tea over a bucket-fire which one of our lads was preparing to drink. His remarks were drowned in the explosion of the sh.e.l.l, which landed barely twenty-five feet away.

"Now then," I called to my man, "run for it into King Street," and I got there just in time to crouch down and escape another "crump" which came hurtling over. In a flash I knew it was coming very near: I crouched lower. It burst with a sickening sound. It seemed just overhead. Dirt and rubble poured over me as I lay there. I rushed to the corner to see where it had struck. It had landed only twelve feet from the dug-out entrance which I had left only a few seconds before, and it had killed the two men whom I had crushed against, and for the loss of whose tea I was responsible.

It was not the time or place to hang about, so I hurried to the trench-mortar pit to finish my scenes whilst daylight lasted.

I met the officer in charge of the T.M.

"Keep your head down," he shouted, as I turned round a traverse. "Our parapet has been practically wiped out, and there is a sniper in the far corner of the village. He has been dropping his pellets into my show all day, and Fritz has been splas.h.i.+ng me with his 'Minnies' to try and find my gun, but he will never get it. Just look at the mess around."

I was looking. It would have beaten the finest Indian scout to try and distinguish the trench from the debris and honeycomb of sh.e.l.l-holes.

"Where the deuce is your outfit?" I said, looking round.

"You follow me, but don't show an inch of head above. Look out."

Phut-bang came a pip-squeak. It struck and burst about five yards in front of us. "Brother Fritz is confoundedly inconsiderate," he said. "He seems to want all the earth to himself. Come on; we'll get there this time, and run for it."

After clambering, crawling, running and jumping, we reached a hole in the ground, into which the head and shoulders of a man were just disappearing.

"This is my abode of love," said my guide. "How do you like it?"

I looked down, and at the depth of about twelve feet was a trench mortar. The hole itself was, of course, boarded round with timber, and was about seven feet square. There was a gallery leading back under our parapet for the distance of about eighty feet, and in this were stored the bombs. The men also sheltered there.

I let myself down with my camera and threaded by the numerous "plum puddings" lying there: I fixed my camera up and awaited the order for the men to commence firing.

"Are you ready?" came a voice from above.

"Right, sir," replied the sergeant. I began exposing my film.

"Fire!" the T.M. officer shouted down.

Fire they did, and the concussion nearly knocked me head over heels. I was quite unprepared for such a backblast. Before they fired again, I got a man to hold down the front leg of my tripod. The gun was recharged; the order to fire was given, the lanyard was pulled, but no explosion.

"Hullo, another----"

"Misfire," was the polite remark of the sergeant. "Those fuses are giving us more trouble than enough."

Another detonator was put on, everything was ready again. Another tug was given. Again no explosion.

Remembering the happenings of the morning in another pit, when a premature burst occurred, I felt anything but comfortable. Sitting in the middle of about one hundred trench mortar bombs, visions of the whole show going up came to me.

Another detonator was put in. "Fire," came the order. Again it failed.