How I Filmed the War Part 4

Wis.h.i.+ng to film some scenes of big guns in action, I enquired whether he was going to fire. He was expecting orders any minute, so making myself as comfortable as possible in the dug-out, I waited. But nothing happened, and that night, and the one following, I slept there.

Early next morning (about 3 a.m.) I was awakened by the noise of a terrific cannonading. Together with the officer I crawled out on to the top of our embankment and viewed the scene. The Germans had started a night attack, the Belgian guns had caught them in the act and were sh.e.l.ling them for all they were worth.

As soon as it was daylight I strapped my camera on my back, and, lying flat in the mud, I edged away in the direction of the battery. Before leaving, the officer gave me a final warning about drawing the Germans'

fire. Alternately crawling and working my way on hands and knees, and taking advantage of any little bit of cover, I drew nearer to the guns.

While I was lying here, there crashed out a regular inferno of rifle-fire from the German trenches. The bullets sang overhead like a flight of hornets. This certainly was a warm corner. If I had filmed this scene, all that would have been shown was a dreary waste of mud-heaps, caused by the explosion of the sh.e.l.ls, and the graves of fallen soldiers dotted all over the place. As far as the eye could see the country was absolutely devoid of any living thing.

Thousands of people in England, comfortably seated in the picture theatre, would have pa.s.sed this scene by as quite uninteresting except for its memories. But if the sounds I heard, and the flying bullets that whizzed by me, could have been photographed, they might take a different view of it.

Death was everywhere. The air was thick with it. To have lifted my head would have meant the billet for a bullet. So there I had to lie soaked through to the skin, and before I had been there twenty minutes I was literally lying in water. The German fusillade seemed interminable.

Suddenly with a roar the Belgian guns spoke. About fifty sh.e.l.ls were fired, and gradually the rifle-fire ceased. With a sigh of relief I drew myself out of the hole which my body had made, and on my elbows and knees, like a baby crawling, I covered the intervening ground to the battery. Getting up, and bending nearly double, I ran under cover of the barricades.

The men were astounded to see me run in. I went in the direction of a group of officers, who looked at me in amazement. Saluting me, one of them came forward and asked who I wanted. Explaining my business, I told him I had permission from headquarters to film any scenes of interest.

The officer then introduced me to his friends, who asked me how in the world I had crossed the district without getting hit. I described my movements, and they all agreed that I was exceedingly lucky.

Once more the guns started, so getting my camera ready I commenced filming them in action, one scene after another. I changed from the firing of one gun to the full battery in action. The men were working like mad. All the time they were baling water out of the gun trenches with buckets. In some cases after the gun had fired it sank back about eighteen inches in the mud, and had to be dug out and set again. These poor devils had been doing this for nearly four months, every man of them was a hero.

While taking these scenes, my compressed air cylinders ran out. Looking round for somewhere solid on which to put my machine and foot-pump, I found some bricks, and made a little foundation. Then I started to pump up. At every six strokes of the pump, it was necessary to pack under it more bricks, and still more, for the ground was a veritable mora.s.s. In the ordinary way my camera takes ten minutes to refill. On this occasion it took me forty-five minutes, and all the time guns were thundering out.

Making my way in a semi-circle, under cover of the communication trenches, to the most advanced outpost, I filmed a party of Belgian snipers hard at work, cheerfully sniping off any German unwise enough to show the smallest portion of his head. Several times while I was watching, I noticed one of the men mark upon his rifle with the stub of a pencil. I asked why he did it.

"That, monsieur," he replied, "is a mark for every Bosche I shoot. See,"

he said, holding the b.u.t.t-end for me to look at, and I noticed twenty-eight crosses marked upon it. s.n.a.t.c.hing it up to his shoulder he fired again, and joyfully he added another cross.

By this time it was getting dark, and quite impossible to take any more scenes, so I returned to the battery, where the officer kindly invited me to stay the night. Getting some dry straw from a waterproof bag, we spread it out on the boards of the trench-hut, rolled our blankets round our shoulders, and lighted our cigarettes. Then they asked me about England. They told me that as long as Belgium existed they would never forget what England had done for her people. While talking our candle went out, and as we had no other we sat in the darkness, huddled together to keep warm. Heavy rain again came on, penetrating through the earth roof and soaking into my blanket.

I must have dozed off, for after a little while I awoke with a start and, looking towards the entrance, I noticed a blue-white glare of light. As my companions were getting out, I followed them, in time to see the Germans sending up star-sh.e.l.ls, to guard against any attack on our part.

The following day I filmed several scenes connected with the Belgian artillery and outposts. I waited during the remainder of the day to catch, if possible, some scenes of German sh.e.l.ls exploding, but again I was doomed to disappointment, for, with the exception of a few at a distance, I was never able to get the close ones in my field of view.

Having exhausted my stock of film, I decided to return to my base, but on bidding adieu to the Commandant he begged me to return under cover of darkness. That night I set out for Furnes, and after walking about an hour, I was lucky enough to get a lift in an ambulance waggon, which set me down in the market-place.

Entering the cafe by a side door, my Belgian friend seemed to me to be astounded at my appearance. He immediately rushed up to me, shook my hands and pummelled my back. His friends did the same. After I had got over my astonishment, I ventured to ask the reason for this jubilation.

"We thought you were dead," he cried; "we heard you had been shot by the Germans, and as you had not turned up for the last five days, we came to the conclusion that it was true. But, monsieur, we cannot tell you how pleased we are to see you again alive and well."

Seeing the condition I was in, they heated water for a bath, and a.s.sisted me in every way possible. When I was once more comfortable, I asked my friend, over a cup of coffee, to tell me the exact report, as it highly amused me.

"Well, monsieur," he said, "your motor cyclist came rus.h.i.+ng in the other evening, saying that Monsieur Malins, the Englishman, had been shot while crossing ground between the two batteries. He told us that you had been seen attempting the crossing; that you suddenly threw up your arms, and pitched forward dead. And, monsieur, we were preparing to send your bag to London, with a letter explaining the sad news. The Colonel was going to write the letter."

"Well," I replied with a laugh, "I am worth a good many dead men yet. I remember crossing the ground you mention--but, anyway, the 'eye-witness'

who saw my death was certainly 'seeing things.'"

CHAPTER VI

AMONG THE SNOWS OF THE VOSGES

I Start for the Vosges--Am Arrested on the Swiss Frontier--And Released--But Arrested Again--And then Allowed to Go My Way--Filming in the Firing Zone--A Wonderful French Charge Over the Snow-clad Hills--I Take Big Risks--And Get a Magnificent Picture.

The man who wants to film a fight, unlike the man who wants to describe it, must be really on the spot. A comfortable corner in the Hotel des Quoi, at Boulogne, is no use to the camera man.

"Is it possible to film actual events with the French troops in the Vosges and Alsace?" I was asked when I got back after my last adventure.

"If the public wants those films," I replied, "the public must have them." And without any previous knowledge of the district, or its natural difficulties, apart from the normal military troubles to which by that time I was hardened, I set out for Paris, determined to plan my route according to what I learned there. And for the rest I knew it would be luck that would determine the result, because other camera men had attempted to cover the same district, men who knew everything there was to be known in the way of getting on the spot, and all had been turned back with trifling success.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HOW I CARRIED MY FILM IN THE EARLY DAYS OF THE WAR IN BELGIUM AND THE VOSGES MOUNTAINS]

For various reasons, among them the claims of picturesqueness, St. Die struck me as the best field, and to get there it is necessary to make a detour into Switzerland. From Geneva, where I arranged for transport of my films in case of urgent need, much as an Arctic explorer would leave supplies of food behind him on his way to the Pole, I arranged in certain places that if I was not heard from at certain dates and certain times, enquiries were to be made, diplomatically, for me.

From Basle I went to the Swiss frontier, and had a splendid view of the Alsace country, which was in German possession. German and Swiss guards stood on either side of the boundary, and they made such a picturesque scene that I filmed them, which was nearly disastrous. A gendarme pounced on me at once, took me to general headquarters and then back to Perrontruy, where I was escorted through the streets by an armed guard.

At the military barracks I was thoroughly examined by the chief of the staff, who drew my attention to a military notice, prohibiting any photographing of Swiss soldiery. He decided that my offence was so rank that it must go before another tribunal, and off I was marched to Delemont, where a sort of court-martial was held on me. My film, of course, was confiscated; that was the least I could expect, but they also extracted a promise in writing that I would not take any more photographs in Switzerland, and they gave me a few hours to leave the country, by way of Berne.

That didn't suit me at all. Berne was too far away from my intended destination, and, after a hurried study of the map, I decided to chance it, and go to Biel. I did. So did the man told off to watch me. And when I left the train at Biel he arrested me. I am afraid I sang "Rule Britannia" very loudly to those good gentlemen before whom he took me, claiming the right of a British citizen to do as he liked, within reason, in a neutral country.

In the result they told me to get out of the country any way I liked, if only I would get out, and, as my opinion was much the same, we parted good friends.

I had lost a week, and many feet of good film, which showed me that the difficulties I should have to face in my chosen field of operations were by far the greatest I had up to then encountered in any of my trips to the firing line. I pushed on through Besancon on the way to Belfort.

Now Belfort, being a fortified town, was an obviously impossible place for me to get into, because I shouldn't get out again in a hurry. So I took a slow train, descended at a small station on the outskirts, prepared to make my way across country to Remiremont. This I achieved, very slowly, and with many difficulties, by means of peasants' carts and an occasional ride on horseback.

This brought me into the firing zone, and the region of snow. My danger was increased, and my mode of progress more difficult, because for the first time in my life I had to take to skis. So many people have told the story of their first attempts with these that I will content myself with saying that, after many tumbles, I became roughly accustomed to them, and that when sledge transport was not available, I was able to make my way on ski. I don't suppose anyone else has ever learned to ski under such queer conditions, with the roar of big guns rumbling round all the time, with my whole expedition trembling every moment in the balance.

The end of my journey to St. Die was the most dramatic part of the whole business. Tired out, I saw a cafe on the outskirts of the village, which I thought would serve me as a reconnoitring post, so I went in and ordered some coffee. I had not been there five minutes when some officers walked in, and drew themselves up sharply when they saw a stranger there, in a mud-stained costume that might have been a British army uniform. I decided to take the bold course. I rose, saluted them, and in my Anglo-French wished them good evening. They returned my greeting and sat down, conversing in an undertone, with an occasional side-flung glance at me. I saw that my attack would have to be pushed home, especially as I caught the word "_espion_," or my fevered imagination made me think I did.

I rose and crossed to their table, all smiles, and in my best French heartily agreed with them that one has to be very careful in war time about spies. In fact, I added, I had no doubt they took me for one.

This counter-attack--and possibly the very noticeable Britishness of my accent--rather confused them. Happily one of them spoke a little English, and, with that and my little French, satisfactory explanations were made.

I affected no secrecy about my object, and asked them frankly if it would be possible for pictures of their regiment to be taken. One of them promised to speak to the Commandant about it. I begged them not to trouble about it, however, as really all I wanted was a hint as to when and where an engagement was probable, and then I would manage to be there.

They shrugged their shoulders in a most grimly expressive way.

"If you do that it will be at your own risk," they said.

I gladly accepted the risk, and they then told me of one or two vantage points in the district from which I might manage to see something of the operations, taking my chance, of course, of anything happening near enough to be photographed, as they could not, and quite rightly would not, say anything as to the plans for the future.

It was not quite midday. I had at least four hours of daylight, and I determined not to lose them. It was obvious that my stay in St. Die would be very brief at the best. I hired a sledge and persuaded the driver to take me part of the way at least to the nearest point which the officers had mentioned.

But neither he nor his horse liked the way the sh.e.l.ls were coming around, and at last even his avarice refused to be stimulated further at the expense of his courage. So I strapped on my skis, thankful for my earlier experience with them, and sped towards a wood which French soldiers were clearing of German snipers. I managed to get one or two good incidents there, though occasional uncertainty about my skis spoiled other fine scenes, and in my haste to move from one spot to another, I once went head over heels into a snowdrift many feet deep.

The ludicrous spectacle that I must have cut only occurred to me afterwards, and the utterly inappropriate nature of such an incident within sight of men who were battling in life and death grip was a reflection for calmer moments. I do not mind confessing that my sole thought during the whole of that afternoon was my camera and my films.

The l.u.s.t of battle was in me too. I had overcome great difficulties to obtain not merely kinema-pictures, but actual vivid records of the Great War, scenes that posterity might look upon as true representations of the struggle their forefathers waged. Military experts may argue as to whether this move or that was really made in a battle: the tales of soldiers returned from the wars become, in pa.s.sing from mouth to mouth, fables of the most wondrous deeds of prowess. But the kinema film never alters. It does not argue. It depicts.