A NIGHT ATTACK--AND A NARROW ESCAPE
A Very Lively Experience--Choosing a Position for the Camera
Under Fire--I Get a Taste of Gas--Witness a Night Attack by
the Germans--Surprise an Officer by My Appearance in the
Trenches--And Have One of the Narrowest Escapes--But
Fortunately Get Out with Nothing Worse than a Couple of
Bullets Through My Cap.
The weather was very fine when I left G.H.Q., but on reaching ----, to
interview Colonel ---- in reference to the mining section, rain fell
heavily. I arrived soon after midday, and went to the Intelligence
Department to report; the C.O. telephoned to the C. of M. for an
appointment. It was made for nine o'clock that night. Having plenty of
time at my disposal, I returned to ----, and passed a few hours with
some friends. In the evening I returned for my appointment at the hour
named. The Colonel was exceedingly interested in my project, and was
willing to do anything to help me. He gave me a letter of introduction
to the Corps Commander of the ---- Army, Brigadier-General ----; also
one to Captain ----, C.O. of the ---- Mining Section. I was to proceed
to General ---- first, and obtain the permission.
At eight o'clock the following morning I rushed off to the Company H.Q.
I met the General leaving his château. Having read my letter of
introduction, he promptly gave his consent. I was to report to Major
----, at H.Q., saying it was quite all right. Thanking the General, I
hastened to H.Q., and showing his letter and delivering his message, I
was given a note to Captain ----, asking him to give me every
assistance. Before leaving, the Major wished me success, and asked me
whether I was prepared to wait until a "blow" came off?
"Yes, sir," I replied, "for five or six days in the trenches, if
necessary."
The Colonel had made arrangements with several Companies that they were
to report immediately to ----th Company when they were going to "blow,"
in order to give me time to go immediately to the spot and film it.
Leaving the Company H.Q., I proceeded to ----, and duly presented the
Captain's letter.
"You have the Corps' permission," said the Colonel; "it will now be
necessary to obtain the Divisional C.O. permit."
This I eventually obtained. Now if by any chance a "blow" took place
opposite either of the other Companies, it would be necessary to obtain
their permission, as they were in another Division. Therefore, calling
upon a major of that Division, I secured the final permit.
Next morning I left for the front line trenches. Reaching ----, which
was smashed out of all recognition, we drew up under cover of some
ruined walls. Shells were falling and bursting among the ruins, but
these diversions were of such ordinary, everyday occurrence that hardly
any notice was taken of them. If they missed--well, they were gone. If
they hit--well, it was war!
The Miners, gathering near the "Birdcage" (a spot which derives its name
from a peculiar iron cage erection at the corner of the road), formed
up, and proceeded for about three hundred yards to the beginning of
"Quarry Ally," the ammunition trench leading to their particular part of
the front line. They filed in one by one; I filmed them meanwhile.
The journey of thirteen hundred yards to the front line was quite an
ordinary walk. It was interesting to note the different tones of the
heavy and light shells as they flew overhead, from the dull rush of a
9.2 to the shriek of the 18-pounder. I reached a Company dug-out. It was
certainly one of the best I have ever seen. Going down three steps, then
turning sharply at right angles, I disappeared through a four-foot
opening; down more steps to a depth of ten feet, then straight for three
paces. At the end was the main gallery, about twenty-five feet long,
five feet in width, and five feet six inches high. Half of it was used
for the telephone operator, and sleeping accommodation for the
orderlies, the other half was used as officers' quarters. Several
officers were busy discussing plans when I arrived. The conversation
might sound strange and callous to an ordinary listener.
"Well, what's the news? How's Brother Bosche?"
"Bosche reported quite near," was the reply. "Our shaft is practically
finished, and ready for charging. This morning you could distinctly hear
Bosche speaking. His gallery was getting nearer to ours. I told the
Sergeant to work only when Bosche was doing so."
"When are you going to 'blow' ----?"
"I am not sure of the date, but 'Dinkie' is going to 'poop' in a few
days. He's got two tons under Bosche. It will be a ---- fine show; right
under his trenches. Ought to snip a hundred or so."
"Well," said another, "I was down in C shaft, and could hear Bosche
working very hard, as if he had got all the world to himself."
At that moment a tunnelling-sergeant came in, and reported that the
Bosche was much nearer. The listener could distinctly hear talking
through the 'phone.
An officer immediately got up and went out with the sergeant, one of the
speakers meanwhile suggesting that Brother Bosche was certainly going
to visit realms of higher kultur than he had hitherto known.
Then came a close scrutinising of maps, showing shafts in the making and
mines ready for "blowing"; of sharp orders to the tunnelling-sergeants
and fatigue parties to bring charges from the magazine. The whole thing
was fascinating in the extreme. A new branch of His Majesty's Service,
and one of the most dangerous. To be on duty in a listening-post thirty
feet underground--in a narrow tunnel, scarcely daring to breathe,
listening to German miners making a counter-mine, and gradually picking
their way nearer and nearer, until at last you can hear their
conversation--would try the nerves of the strongest of men.
I went out, and made my way towards the well-known Quarries. Noting
several interesting scenes of our Scottish battalions at work, I filmed
them. A most pathetic touch was added to the scene, for a neat little
graveyard occupied the right-hand corner, and about one hundred small
crosses were there.
I was not allowed to remain very long. The Bosche sent over several
aerial torpedoes, which exploded with terrific force and split up the
ground as if a 12-inch H.E. shell had been at work. Naturally every one
rushed to obtain as much cover as possible. I crossed to the other side
of the Quarry, and entered a small tunnel, which led into a winding maze
of narrow communication trenches.
[Illustration: IN THE MAIN STREET OF CONTALMAISON THE DAY OF ITS
CAPTURE]
[Illustration: LAUNCHING A SMOKE BARRAGE AT THE BATTLE OF ST. ELOI]
"Be careful, sir," called a sentry. "Bosche is only thirty yards away,
and they are plugging this corner pretty thoroughly; they're fairly
whizzing through the sandbags, as if they warn't there, sir. They caught
my Captain this morning, clean through the head. I was a-talking to him,
sir, at the time; the finest gentleman that ever lived; and the swine
killed him. I'll get six of them for him, sir." The look in his eyes and
the tone of his voice told me he was in earnest. I passed on, keeping
as low as possible.
The crater, when I reached it, proved to be one of an enormous size. It
must have been quite 150 feet across. The place had been converted into
a miniature fort. I noticed how spongy the ground was. When walking it
seemed as if one was treading upon rubber. I casually enquired of an
officer the cause of it. "Dead bodies," said he; "the ground here is
literally choked with them; we dare not touch it with a spade; the
condition is awful. There are thousands of them for yards down, and when
a shell tears away any section of our parapets the sight is too ghastly
for words."
At that moment a man yelled out "cover," and, looking up, I saw several
Bosche rifle grenades falling. Shouting to my orderly to take cover with
the camera, he disappeared into what I thought was a dug-out but which I
afterwards discovered was an incline shaft to a mine. He made a running
dive, and slid down about four yards before he pulled himself up.
Luckily he went first, the camera butting up against him. He told us
afterwards he thought he was really going to the lower regions.
I dived under a sandbag emplacement, when the grenades went off with a
splitting crash, and after allowing a few seconds for the pieces to
drop, looked out. A tragic sight met my gaze. The officer with whom I
had been speaking a few moments before had, unfortunately, been too late
in taking cover. One of the grenades had struck him on the head, and
killed him on the spot. Within a few moments some Red Cross men
reverently covered the body with a mackintosh sheet and bore it away.
One more cross would be added to the little graveyard in the Quarry.
Shortly after I met an officer of the Mining Section. He was just going
down into the gallery to listen to Bosche working a counter-mine. Did I
care to accompany him? "Don't speak above a whisper," he said.
He disappeared through a hole about three feet square. I followed,
clinging to the muddy sides like a limpet, half sliding, half crawling,
in the impenetrable darkness. We went on, seemingly for a great
distance; in reality it was only about fifteen yards. Then we came to a
level gallery, and in the distance, by the aid of a glow-lamp, I could
see my companion crouching down, with a warning finger upon his lips to
assure silence. The other side of him was a man of the tunnelling
section, who had been at his post listening. The silence was uncanny
after the din outside. In a few moments I heard a queer, muffled
tap--tap--tap, coming through the earth on the left. I crept closer to
my companion, and with my mouth close to his ear enquired whether that
was the Bosche working.
"Yes," he said, "but listen with this," giving me an instrument very
similar to a doctor's stethoscope.
I put it to my ear and rested the other end upon a ledge of mud. The
effect was like some one speaking through a telephone. I could
distinctly hear the impact of the pickaxe wielded by the Bosche upon the
clay and chalk, and the falling of the débris.
I turned to him with a smile. "Brother Bosche will shortly have a rise
in life?"
"Yes," said he, "I think we shall 'blow' first. It's going to be a race,
though."
Final orders were given to the man in charge, then we crawled up again
into the din of the crashing shells. I was more at home in these
conditions. Down below the silence was too uncanny for me. When I
reached our dug-out once more a message was waiting for me to return to
H.Q., as important things were in prospect the following morning.
The message was urgent. Mines were to be blown at an early hour. I
therefore decided that the best thing to do was to go into the trenches
and stay the night, and so be prepared for anything that might happen.
Little did I dream what the next forty-eight hours were going to bring.
It's a good thing sometimes we don't know what the future has in store
for us. The stoutest heart might fail under the conditions created by
the abnormal atmosphere of a modern battlefield.
I prepared to depart at 8 p.m., and bidding adieu to my friends, I
started off in the car. The guns were crashing out continuously. Several
times I pulled the car up to shelter under some ruins. Then for a few
minutes there was a lull, and directing my chauffeur to go ahead at top
speed we reached our destination safely. I had barely entered this scene
of desolation when Bosche shells came hurtling overhead and fell with a
deafening explosion a short distance away. Here I had my first taste of
gas from the German weeping shells. The air was suddenly saturated with
an extraordinarily sweet smell. For the first few moments I quite
enjoyed it. Then my eyes began to water freely, and pain badly.
Realising at once that I was being "gassed," I bade the driver rush
through the village, and as far beyond as possible.
His eyes, poor fellow, were in the same state. The car rolled and
pitched its way through, smashing into shell-holes, bounding over fallen
masonry, scraping by within a hair's-breadth of a recently smashed
lorry. On and on, like a drunken thing. Still the air was thick with the
foul gas. My eyes were burning; at last it was quite impossible to keep
them open. But I had to get through, and so with a final effort looked
ahead, and to my great relief found we were beyond the village, and the
air smelt cleaner. I told the driver to pull up, and with a final roll
the car landed its front wheels into a ditch.
For two hours afterwards I was to all intents and purposes blind. My
eyes were burning, aching and weeping. The pain at last subsided, and
collecting the apparatus we trudged off along the communication trench
to the front line. Threading our way through seemed much more difficult
than previously. The sides of the trenches had been blown in by shells a
few minutes before, and this necessitated climbing over innumerable
mounds of rubble; but working parties were quickly on the scene clearing
a way through. At last I reached the dug-out previously referred to, and
believe me, I was very thankful. The officer there seemed rather
surprised to see me.
"Hullo!" he said. "What news? Anything doing?"
"Yes," I replied. "H.Q. says they are 'blowing' in the early morning, so
I decided to come along to-night and fix up a good position for the
camera, not desiring to attract the too earnest attentions of a Bosche
sniper."
"Whose mine are they blowing?" said he. "I suppose I shall hear any
moment." Just then a message came through on the 'phone. He picked up
the receiver and listened intently. An earnest conversation was taking
place. I could gather from the remarks that H.Q. was speaking. In a few
minutes he replaced the receiver, and turning to me, said: "D shaft is
going to blow; time, 7.15 a.m."
Soon after I turned in. Rolling myself in a blanket, I lay down on a
trestle-bed in the corner, and in doing so disturbed a couple of rats,
almost as large as rabbits, which had taken up their temporary quarters
there. Apparently there were plenty of them, for several times I felt
the brutes drop on my blanket from holes and crannies in the chalk.
Needless to say, I could not sleep a wink, tired out as I was, and as I
lay there, twenty feet underground, I could hear the rumble and roar of
the shells crashing their way through our parapets, tearing, killing and
maiming our brave lads, who throughout all these horrors held this
section of our line like a wall of steel.
I had been lying there for about half an hour. Then I got up and climbed
out of the incline into the open trench. I worked my way towards the
firing trench; bullets from Bosche machine-guns and snipers were
flattening themselves against the parapet. Several times I had to
squeeze myself close to the muddy sides to allow stretcher-bearers to
pass with their grim burdens; some for the corner of the Quarry, some
for good old "Blighty."
I stayed for a while alongside a sentry.
"Any news?" I asked.
"No, sir," said he, "but I feel as if something is going to happen."
"Come," said I, with a laugh, "this is not the time for dreaming."
"No, sir, I'm not dreaming, but I feel something--something that I can't
explain."
"Well, cheer up," I said. "Good night."
"Good night, sir!"
And as I wended my way along I could hear him softly whistling to
himself the refrain of an old song.
At last I came upon the section opposite which our mine was going up in
the morning, and cautiously looking over the parapet I surveyed the
ground in front. There were several sandbags that required shifting. If
they remained it would be necessary to place the camera higher above the
top than was safe or wise. Carefully pulling myself up, I lay along the
top of the parapet and pushed them aside. Several star-shells were fired
whilst I was so engaged, and I dare not stir--I scarcely dared
breathe--for fear the slightest movement would draw a stream of bullets
in my direction.
Undoubtedly this was the only place from which to film the mine
successfully. So marking the spot I slid down into the trench again, and
retraced my steps to the dug-out. I found the officer I had previously
seen enjoying a lovely, steaming tin of tea, and it wasn't many minutes
before I was keeping him company. We sat chatting and smoking for a
considerable time.
"Is everything ready?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "There is over three thousand pounds of it there"
(mentioning an explosive). "Brother Bosche will enjoy it."
"Let me see your map," I said, "and I'll point out the spot where I'm
working. It's about eighty yards away from Bosche. If we work out the
exact degree by the map of the 'blow,' I can obtain the right direction
by prismatic compass, and a few minutes before 'time' lift the camera up
and cover the spot direct. It'll save exposing myself unnecessarily
above the parapet to obtain the right point of view." The point of view
was accordingly settled. It was 124° from the spot chosen for the
"blow."
We had been so busy over our maps that we had not noticed how quiet
everything had become. Hardly a gun sounded; the silence was uncanny.
Save for the scurrying of the rats and the drip--drip--drip of water,
the silence was like that of the grave.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Bosche is up to no good when he drops silent so soon," he said. The
words of the sentry recurred to me. "I've a feeling, sir, that I cannot
describe." I was beginning to feel the same.
At length my companion broke the silence.
"As Bosche seems to be going easy, and our artillery has shut up shop,
let's lie down," and with that he threw himself on the bed. I sat on the
box, which served as a table, smoking.
Half an hour went by. Things were livening up a bit. We began to hum a
tune or two from the latest revue. Suddenly we were brought to our feet
by a crashing sound that was absolutely indescribable in its intensity.
I rushed up the incline into the trench. What a sight! The whole of our
front for the distance of a mile was one frightful inferno of fire. The
concentration of artillery fire was terrific! Scores of star-shells shot
into the air at the same moment, lighting the ground up like day,
showing up the smoking, blazing mass more vividly than ever. Hundreds of
shells, large and small, were bursting over our trenches simultaneously;
our guns were replying on the German front with redoubled fury; the air
was alive with whirling masses of metal. The noise was indescribable.
The explosions seemed to petrify one.
I made my way as near the front line as possible. A number of Scots
rushed by me with a load of hand grenades. The trenches were packed with
men rushing up to the fight. I asked an officer who raced by,
breathlessly, if Bosche was getting through.
"Yes," he yelled; "they are trying to get through in part of my section.
They have smashed our communication trenches so much that I have got to
take my men round on the right flank. It's hell there!"
It was impossible to get through. The place was choked with men, many of
them badly wounded; some of them, I'm afraid, destined as tenants of the
little cemetery near by.
The awful nightmare continued. Men were coming and going. Reserves were
being rushed forward; more bombs were being sent up. The Bosche
artillery quietened down a bit, but only, as I found out immediately
afterwards, to allow their bombers to attack. I could see the flash of
hundreds of bombs, each one possibly tearing the life out of some of our
brave boys. Nothing in the world could have withstood such a
concentrated artillery fire as the Germans put upon that five hundred
yards of ground. It was torn and torn again, riven to shreds. It was
like the vomiting of a volcano, a mass of earth soddened with the blood
of the heroes who had tried to hold it.
The Germans came on, bombing their way across to what was left of our
trench. They dug themselves in. Then with a whirl and a crash, our guns
spoke again. Our boys, who had been waiting like dogs on a leash, sprang
to the attack. Briton met Bosche. The battle swayed first this way then
that. Our men drove the Germans out twice during the night, and held on
to a section commanding the flank of the original position. Towards four
o'clock the fighting ceased. Daylight was breaking. The wounded were
still being passed to the rear.
I stopped and spoke to an officer. "How have you got on?" I asked.
"We occupy the left flank trench, and command the position. But, what a
fight; it was worse than Loos." Then suddenly, "What are _you_ doing
here?"
"I am taking kinema pictures!" I said.
The look of amazement on his face was eloquent of his thoughts.
"Doing _what_?" he asked.
"I am taking kinema pictures," I repeated.
"Well I'm damned," were his exact words. "I never thought you fellows
existed. I've always thought war pictures were fakes, but--well--now I
know different," and giving me a hearty shake of the hand he went on his
way.
Time was now drawing near for my work to begin. Taking the camera to
the selected point in the front line, which, luckily, was just on the
left of the fighting area, I took my bearings by the aid of a compass.
Fixing up a tripod in such close quarters was very difficult. I
stretched an empty sandbag on a piece of wire, cut a hole in it and hung
it on the front of the camera in such a position that the lens projected
through the hole. The sandbag stretched far enough on either side to
shelter my hands, especially the right one, which operated the machine.
I was now ready. I had to risk the attentions of the snipers; it was
unavoidable. Little by little I raised the camera. It was now high
enough up, and ramming some sand against the tripod legs, I waited.
Had the Bosche seen it?
Three more minutes, then the mine. One minute went by; no shots! Another
minute went by. A bullet flew over my head. Immediately afterwards
another buried itself in the parapet, then another. Surely they would
hit it! Heavens how that last minute dragged! To be absolutely sure of
getting the mine from the very beginning, I decided to start exposing a
minute before time. It had to be done; reaching up, I started to expose.
Another and another bullet flew by.
Then the thing happened which I had been dreading. The Bosche opened a
machine-gun on me.
At that moment there was a violent convulsion of the ground, and with a
tremendous explosion the mine went up. It seemed as if the whole earth
in front of us had been lifted bodily hundreds of feet in the air.
Showers of bombs exploded, showing that it had been well under the
German position. Then with a mighty roar the earth and débris fell back
upon itself, forming a crater about 150 feet across. Would our men rush
the crater and occupy it? On that chance, I kept turning the handle.
The smoke subsided; nothing else happened.
The show was over. No, not quite; for as I hurriedly took down the
camera, I evidently put my head up a little too high. There was a crack,
and a shriek near my head, and my service cap was whisked off. The whole
thing happened like a flash of lightning. I dropped into the bottom of
the trench and picked up my cap. There, through the soft part of it,
just above the peak, were two holes where a bullet had passed through.
One inch nearer and it would have been through my head.
Can you realise what my thoughts were at that precise moment?