How I Filmed the War Part 32

A hundred yards further on I came upon a scene which afforded some relief to the tragedies of the day. A short bantam-like British Tommy was cursing and swearing volubly at a burly German sitting on the ground rubbing his head and groaning like a bull. Tommy, with a souvenir cigar in his mouth, was telling him in his best c.o.c.kney English to get a move on.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Well, sir, it's like this. This 'ere cove is my own prisoner and 'e's been giving me no end of trouble, tried to pinch my gun, sir, 'e did, so I 'it 'im on 'is head, but 'e ain't 'urt, sir, not a bit, are yer, Fritz? Come on." And Fritz, thinking discretion the better part of valour, got up, and Tommy strutted off with his big charge as happy as a peac.o.c.k.

CHAPTER XXIV

FIGHTING IN A SEA OF MUD

Inspecting a Tank that was _Hors de Combat_--All that was Left of Mouquet Farm--A German Underground Fortress--A Trip in the Bowels of the Earth--A Weird and Wonderful Experience.

After our successful attack and capture of Lesboeufs and Morval on September 25th, 1916, beyond consolidating our gains there was comparatively little done in the way of big offensives until the capture of Mouquet Farm and Thiepval and the capture of Beaumont Hamel--that fortress of fortresses--on November 13th, and I devoted the interval to recording the ground won.

One interesting incident occurred when I filmed Mouquet Farm situate between Pozieres and Thiepval. Looking at the Farm from the strategical point of view, I feel quite confident in saying that only British troops could have taken it. It was one of the most wonderful defensive points that could possibly be conceived, and chosen by men who made a special study of such positions. The whole place was thickly planted with machine-guns, so cunningly concealed that it was impossible to observe them until one was practically at the gun's mouth.

To get here it was necessary to go down a long steep glacis, then up another to the farm. The Germans, with their network of underground pa.s.sages and dug-outs, were able to concentrate at any threatened point with their machine-guns in such a manner that they would have our troops under a continual stream of lead for quite one thousand yards without a vestige of cover. The farm had been sh.e.l.led by our artillery time after time, until the whole ground for miles round was one huge ma.s.s of sh.e.l.l-craters, but the Germans, in their dug-outs forty and fifty feet underground, could not be reached by sh.e.l.l-fire. I will not go into details of how the place was eventually taken by the Midlanders--it will remain an epic of the war.

The weather was now breaking up. Cold winds and rain continually swept over the whole Somme district, invariably accompanied by thick mists. I wanted to obtain a film showing the fearful mud conditions, which we were working hard and fighting in and under. And such mud! You could not put the depth in inches. Nothing so ordinary; it was feet deep. I have known relief battalions take six hours to reach their allotted position in the front line, when, in the dry season, the same journey could be accomplished in an hour; and the energy expended in wading through such a mora.s.s can be imagined. Many times I have got stuck in the clayey slime well above my knees and have required the a.s.sistance of two, and sometimes three men to help me out. To turn oneself into a lump of mud, all one had to do was to walk down to the front line; you would undoubtedly be taken for a part of the parapet by the time you arrived.

I asked a Tommy once what he thought of it.

"Sir," he replied, "there ain't no blooming word to describe it!" And I think he was right.

On one journey, when filming the carrying of munitions by mule-back--as that was the only method by which our advanced field-guns could be supplied--while they were being loaded at a dump near ---- Wood, the mud was well above the mules' knees, and, in another instance, it was actually touching their bellies. In such conditions our men were fighting and winning battles, and not once did I hear of a single instance where it affected the morale of the men. We cursed and swore about it; who wouldn't? It r.e.t.a.r.ded our progress; we wallowed in it, we had to struggle through miles of it nearly up to our knees; we slept in it or tried to; we ate in it, it even got unavoidably mixed up with our food; and sometimes we drank it. And we tolerated it all, month after month. If it was bad for us, we knew it was far worse for the Bosche, for not only had he to live under these conditions, but he was subjected to our h.e.l.lish bombardment continually without rest or respite.

Thus it was I filmed Mouquet Farm and other scenes in the neighbourhood.

I went to Pozieres and then struck across country. On my way I pa.s.sed a Tank which, for the time being, was _hors de combat_. It naturally aroused my interest. I closely inspected it, both inside and out, and, while I stood regarding it, two whizz-bangs came over in quick succession, bursting about thirty feet away. The fact immediately occurred to me that the Tank was under observation by the Bosche and he, knowing the attraction it would have for enquiring natures, kept a gun continually trained upon it. I had just got behind the body of the thing when another sh.e.l.l dropped close by. I did not stop to judge the exact distance. I cursed the mud because it did not allow me to run fast enough, but really I ought to have blessed it. The fact that it was so muddy caused the sh.e.l.l to sink more deeply into the ground before exploding, its effective radius being also more confined.

When I got clear of the Tank, the firing ceased. I mentally vowed that, for the future, temporarily disabled Tanks near the firing-line would not interest me, unless I was sure they were under good cover.

I continued my journey to the farm, but kept well below the top of the ridge. At one section, to save my dying a sailor's death, duck-boards had been placed over the mud to facilitate easier travelling. It made me feel like going on for ever, after ploughing for hours through mud the consistency of treacle.

Eventually I arrived on the high ground near Mouquet. Many of our field-gun batteries had taken up their position near by: they had turned old sh.e.l.l-holes into gun-pits--occasionally a burst of firing rang out, and Bosche was doing his level best to find them with his 5.9 crump.

Here I managed to obtain several very interesting scenes.

The farm, as a farm, did not exist; a ma.s.s of jumbled-up brickwork here and there suggested that once upon a time, say 100 B.C., it might have been. In due time I reached the place. A machine-gun company were in possession, and I found an officer, who offered to show me over the Bosche's underground fortress. I entered a dug-out entrance, the usual type, and switching on my electric torch, proceeded with uncertain steps down into the bowels of the earth. The steps were thick with mud and water; water also was dripping through all the crevices in the roof, and the offensive smell of dead bodies reached me.

"Have you cleaned this place out?" I called to my friend in front.

"Yes," he said. His voice sounded very hollow in this noisome, cavernous shaft. And it was cold--heavens how cold! Ugh!

"There was one gallery section; where it leads to we cannot find out, but it was blown in by us and evidently quite a few Bosches with it; anyway, we are not going to disturb it. There is a possibility of the whole gallery collapsing about our ears."

"We are at the bottom now; be careful, turn sharp to the left."

"Why this place must be at least forty feet deep."

"Yes, about that. This gallery runs along to more exits and a veritable rabbit warren of living compartments. See these bullet-holes in the side here," pointing to the wooden planks lining the gallery. "When our men entered the other end the Bosche here had a machine-gun fixed up and so they played it upon anybody who came near; lit up only by the gun flashes it must have been a ghastly sight. It must have been the scene of devilish fighting judging by the number of bullet-holes all over the place. There are plenty of bloodstains about, somebody caught it pretty badly."

I followed my guide until eventually we came to a recessed compartment; it was illuminated by two German candles stuck in bottles, and a rough wooden table with two chairs, evidently looted from the farm when the Bosche arrived.

We made our exit from another shaft and came out at a spot about one hundred yards from the place we had entered.

This will give you some idea of the way the ground was interlaced with subterranean pa.s.sages, and this, mind you, was only one tunnel of many.

It was quite pleasant to breathe comparatively fresh air again after the foul atmosphere down below.

Bosche was more lively with his sh.e.l.l-fire and they were coming much too near to be pleasant. I fixed up my machine and filmed several very good bursts near some guns. He was evidently shooting blind, or by the map, for they dropped anywhere but near their objectives. Anyway it was his shoot and it was not up to us to correct him.

CHAPTER XXV

THE EVE OF GREAT EVENTS

A Choppy Cross-Channel Trip--I Indulge in a Reverie--And Try to Peer Into the Future--At Headquarters Again--Trying to Cross the River Somme on an Improvised Raft--In Peronne After the German Evacuation--A Specimen of Hunnish "Kultur."

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.s--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 b.u.t.toned 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 pa.s.sing along the deck stood underneath the Captain's bridge and gazed around. The men in the two boats ahead of us were singing l.u.s.tily, singing because they were going back to the land of bursting sh.e.l.ls 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 pa.s.sed 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.