How I Filmed the War Part 33

The frightful scenes in the great retreat through Belgium lived again; the final stand along the banks of the Ypres ca.n.a.l; the opening of the d.y.k.es, which saved the northern corner of France; the countless incidents of fighting I had filmed. Then my three months with the French in the Vosges mountains, the great strain and hardships encountered to obtain the films, and now, after eighteen months with the British army on the Western Front, I was again going back--to what?

How many had asked themselves that question! How many had tried as I was doing to peer into the future. They had laid down their lives fighting for the cause of freedom. "But, although buried on an alien soil, that spot shall be for ever called England."

I was quickly recalled to the present by the flashing of a light on the end of the harbour jetty. It was answered by a dull glare seawards; everybody was looking in that direction; and then....

A sudden clanging of bells, a slipping of ropes from the first boat, a final cheer from the men on the crowded decks, and, with its bow turned outwards from the quay, it nosed its way into the open sea beyond. The second boat quickly followed, and then, with more clanging of bells and curt orders to the helmsman, she slid through the water like a greyhound, and, with shouts of "good luck!" from the people on the quay, we were quickly swallowed up in the mist ahead.

The boats kept abreast for a considerable time and then, our vessel taking the lead, with a torpedo boat on either side and one ahead, the convoy headed for France.

The journey across was uneventful. It was quite dark when we backed into harbour at Boulogne; flares were lit and, as the boat drew alongside the quay, the old familiar A.M.O. with his huge megaphone shouted in stentorian tones that all officers and men returning on duty must report to him at his offices, fifty yards down the quay, etc., etc., etc. His oration finished, the gangway was pushed aboard and everybody landed as quickly as possible. _I_ had wired from the War Office earlier in the day to G.H.Q., asking them to send a car to meet the boat. Whether _they_ had received _my_ message in time I did not know--anyway I could not find it, so, that night, I stayed at Boulogne, and the following evening proceeded to G.H.Q. to receive instructions.

Here I collected my apparatus and stood by for instructions. News of our continued pressure on the German line of retreat was penetrating through. First one village, then another fell into our hands. The fall of Peronne was imminent. My instructions were to proceed to Peronne, or rather the nearest point that it was possible to operate from.

I journeyed that night as far as Amiens, and arriving there about midnight, dog tired, went to my previous billet in the Rue l'Amiral Cambet, and turned in. Early next morning I reported to a major of the Intelligence Department, who told me our troops had entered Peronne the previous night. Rather disappointed that I had not been there to obtain the entry, I made tracks for that town.

I took by-roads, thinking that they would be more negotiable than the main ones, and, reaching the outskirts of the village of Biaches, I left the car there and prepared to walk into Peronne. I could see in the distance that the place was still burning; columns of smoke were pouring upwards and splashing the sky with patches of villainous-looking black clouds.

Strapping my camera upon my back, and bidding my man follow with my tripod, I started off down the hill into Biaches. Then the signs of the German retreat began to fully reveal themselves. The ground was absolutely littered with the horrible wastage of war; roads were torn open, leaving great yawning gaps that looked for all the world like huge jagged wounds. On my right lay the Chateau of La Maisonnette. The ground there was a shambles, for numerous bodies in various stages of putrefaction lay about as they had fallen.

I left this section of blood-soaked earth, and, turning to my left, entered the village, or rather the site of what had once been Biaches. I will not attempt to describe it; my pen is not equal to the task of conveying even the merest idea of the state of the place. It was as if a human skeleton had been torn asunder, bone by bone, and then flung in all directions. Then, look around and say--this was once a man. You could say the same thing of Biaches--this was once a village. I stayed awhile and filmed various scenes, including the huge engineers' dump left by the Germans, but, as the light was getting rather bad, I hurried as fast as possible in the direction of Peronne.

I wandered down the path of duck-boards, over the swamp of the Somme, filthy in appearance, reeking in its stench, and littered with thousands of empty bottles, that showed the character of the drunken orgies to which the Huns had devoted themselves.

I reached the ca.n.a.l bank. Lying alongside was the blackened ribs of a barge. Only the stern was above water and it was still smouldering; even the ladders and foot-bridges were all destroyed; not a single thing that could be of any use whatsoever had been left. I trudged along the ca.n.a.l bank; bridge after bridge I tried, but it was no use, for each one in the centre for about ten or twelve feet was destroyed--and, stretched between the gap, I found a length of wire netting covered over with straw--a cunning trap set for the first one across. Not a bridge was pa.s.sable--they were all down!

Peronne lay on the other side and there I must get before the light failed and while the place was still burning; if I had to make a raft of old timber I made up my mind to get there.

Returning to the bank I placed my camera upon the ground and with the help of three men gathered up some rusty tin cylinders, which, earlier in the campaign, had been utilised as floats for rafts.

I had fished out of the river three planks, and laying them at equal distance upon the cylinders, I lashed them together and so made a raft of sorts. With care I might be able to balance myself upon it and so reach the other section of the bridge and then a rope at either end would enable my man and tripod to be pulled across.

The idea was excellent, but I found that my amateur lashing together with the strong current that was running made the whole plan quite impossible, so, after being nearly thrown into the river several times, and one of the floats coming adrift and washing away, and then doing a flying leap to save myself being hurled into the water upon a trestle which collapsed with my weight, I decided to give up the experiment and explore the river bank further down in the hope of getting across.

Eventually, after going for about two kilometres, I reached the ruins of the main bridge leading into the town. This, also, was blown up by the retreating Huns, but, by using the blocks of stone and twisted iron girders as "stepping-stones," I reached the other side.

The old gateway and drawbridge across the moat were destroyed; the huge blocks of masonry were tossed about, were playthings in the hands of the mighty force of high explosives which flung them there. These scenes I carefully filmed, together with several others in the vicinity of the ramparts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LORD KITCHENER'S LAST VISIT TO FRANCE. HE IS VERY INTERESTED IN THE CARE OF THE WOUNDED]

The town was the same as every other I had filmed--burnt and sh.e.l.l-riven. The place as a habitable town simply did not exist.

German names were everywhere; the names of the streets were altered, even a French washerwoman had put up a notice that "washing was done here," in German.

Street after street I pa.s.sed through and filmed. Many of the buildings were still burning and at one corner of the Grande Place flames were shooting out of the windows of the three remaining houses in Peronne. I hastily fitted up my camera and filmed the scene. When I had finished it was necessary to run the gauntlet, and pa.s.s directly under the burning buildings to get into the square.

Showers of sparks were flying about, pieces of the burning building were being blown in all directions by the strong wind. But I had to get by, so, b.u.t.toning up my collar tightly, fastening my steel shrapnel helmet on my head, and tucking the camera under my arm, I made a rush, yelling out to my man to follow with the tripod. As I pa.s.sed I felt several heavy pieces of something hit my helmet and another blazing piece hit my shoulder and stuck there, making me set up an unearthly yell as the flames caught my ear and singed my hair. But, quickly shooting past, I reached a place of safety, and setting up the camera I obtained some excellent views of the burning buildings.

Standing upon a heap of rubble, which once formed a branch of one of the largest banking concerns in France, I took a panoramic scene of the great square. The smoke clouds curling in and around the skeleton walls appeared for all the world like some loathsome reptile seeming to gloat upon its prey, loath to leave it, until it had made absolutely certain that not a single thing was left to be devoured.

With the exception of the crackling flames and the distant boom of the guns, it was like a city of the dead. The once beautiful church was totally destroyed. In the square was the base of a monument upon which, before the war, stood a memorial to France's glorious dead in the war of 1870. The "kultured" Germans had destroyed the figure and, in its place, had stuck up a dummy stuffed with straw in the uniform of a French Zouave. Could ever a greater insult be shown to France!

Not content with burning the whole town, the Huns had gone to the trouble of displaying a huge signboard on the side of a building in the square on which were these words: "Don't be vexed--just admire!"

Think of it! The devils!

CHAPTER XXVI

AN UNCANNY ADVENTURE

Exploring the Unknown--A Silence That Could be Felt--In the Village of Villers-Carbonel--A Cat and Its Kittens in an Odd Retreat--Brooks' Penchant for "Souvenirs"--The First Troops to Cross the Somme.

Lieutenant B----, the official "still" photographer, and I have been companions in a few strange enterprises in the war, but I doubt whether any have equalled in strangeness, and I might say almost uncanny, adventure that which I am about to record. In cold type it would be pardonable for anyone to disbelieve some of the facts set forth, but, as I have proved for myself the perfect application of the well-known saying that "truth is stranger than fiction," I merely relate the facts in simple language exactly as they happened, and leave them to speak for themselves.

It was early morning on March 17th, 1917, when the Germans began their headlong flight towards their Cambrai, St. Quentin, or "Hindenburg"

Line. When B---- and I hastened along the main St. Quentin Road, troops and transports were as usual everywhere. We pa.s.sed through the ruined villages of Foscaucourt and Estrees and brought our car to a standstill about two kilometres from the village of Villers-Carbonel, it being impossible owing to the fearful road conditions to proceed further.

We left the car and started off to explore the unknown. On either side of the road I noticed many troops in their trenches; they were looking down at us as if we were something out of the ordinary, until I turned to him and said:

"Is there anything funny about us? These chaps seem to be highly interested in our appearance, or something. What is it?"

"I don't know," he said, "let's enquire."

So, going up to an R.A.M.C. officer, who was standing outside his dug-out, I asked him if there was any news--in fact I enquired whether there was a war on up there, everything seemed to be so absolutely quiet.

"Well," he said, "there was up to about three hours ago; Bosche has fairly plastered us with 5.9 and whizz-bangs. These suddenly ceased, and, as a matter of fact, I began to wonder whether peace had been declared when your car came bounding up the road. How the devil did you manage it? Yesterday evening the act of putting one's head over the parapet was enough to draw a few sh.e.l.ls; but you come sailing up here in a car."

"This is about the most charming joy-ride I have had for many a day," I replied, "but let me introduce myself. I am Malins, the Official Kinematographer, and my friend here is the Official 'still' picture man.

We are here to get scenes of the German retreat, but it seems to me that one cannot see Bosche for dust. That is Villers-Carbonel, is it not?" I said, pointing up the road in the distance.

"Yes," he replied.

"Right," I said, "we are going there and on our way back we'll tell you all the news."

With a cheery wave of the hand he bade us adieu, and we started on our journey.

The once beautiful trees which lined the sides of the road were torn to shreds and, in some instances, were completely cut in half by sh.e.l.l-fire and the trunks were strewn across the road. These and the enormous sh.e.l.l-holes made it difficult to proceed at all, but, by clambering over the huge tree trunks, in and out of filthy slime-filled sh.e.l.l-holes, and nearly tearing oneself to pieces on the barbed wire intermingled with the broken branches, we managed at last to reach the village. Not a sound was to be heard. I turned to my companion.

"This is an extraordinary state of affairs, isn't it? In case there are any Bosche rearguard patrols, we'll keep this side of the ruins as much as possible."

The village was practically on the top of a ridge of hills. I stood under the shadow of some tree-stumps and gazed around. What a scene of desolation it was. I got my camera into action and took some excellent scenes, showing what was once a beautiful main road: broken trees flung over it in all directions like so many wisps of straw, and an unimaginable ma.s.s of barbed wire entanglements. Then, swinging my camera round, I obtained a panoramic view of the destroyed village. Dotted here and there were the dead bodies of horses and men: how long they had lain there Heaven knows!

While examining the ruins of a building which used to be a bakehouse I received a startling surprise. I was bending down and looking into an empty oven when, with a rush and a clatter, a fine black cat sprang at my legs with a frightened, piteous look in its eyes, and mewed in a strange manner. For a moment I was startled, for the animal clung to my breeches. The poor creature looked half-starved. In its frenzy, it might bite or scratch my leg or hand. Blood-poisoning would be likely to follow. I gently lowered my gloved hand and caressed its head. With a soft purr it relaxed its hold of my leg and dropped to the ground.

Feeling more comfortable I unfastened my satchel and, taking out some biscuits, gave them to the poor brute. It ravenously ate them up. My second surprise was to come. A faint scratching and mewing sound came from behind some bread bins in a corner and, as I looked, the black cat sprang forward with a biscuit in its mouth in the direction of the sound. I followed and gently moved the bin aside. The sight there almost brought tears into my eyes. Lying upon some old rags and straw were three tiny kittens. Two were struggling around the mother cat, mewing piteously and trying to nibble at the biscuit she had brought. The other was dead.

The mother cat looked up at me with eyes which were almost human in their expression of thanks. I took out some more biscuits, and breaking them up in an empty tin I picked up from the floor, I poured some water from my bottle on to them, placed it beside the starving group and, leaving a handful near the mother cat, I made their retreat as snug as possible.

Making our way again to the main road I stood by some ruins and looked away in the distance where the Germans had disappeared. What a difference. Here were green fields, gorgeous woods, hills, and dales with winding roads sweeping away out of sight. It reminded me of the feeling Moses must have experienced when he looked upon the Promised Land. Here were no sh.e.l.l-torn fields, no woods beaten out of all semblance to anything, no earth upon which thousands of men had poured out their blood; but, here in front of us, a veritable heaven.