FOURTEEN THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE GERMAN LINES
The First Kinematograph Film Taken of the Western Front--And
How I Took It Whilst Travelling Through the Air at Eighty
Miles an Hour--Under Shell-fire--Over Ypres--A Thrilling
Experience--And a Narrow Escape--A Five Thousand Foot Dive
Through Space.
"I feel confident I can manage it, and that the result will be both
instructive and unique, and provided the weather is clear and I get as
small a dose of 'Bosche' as possible, there is no reason why it
shouldn't be successful."
"Of course, I am quite aware of the atmospheric difficulties. The fact
that it is so thick and misty is entirely due to the heavy body of
moisture in the ground--but if I start off early in the morning I may
just escape it."
This conversation took place in the office of a certain British
aerodrome in France between the Flight Commander and myself. We had been
going into the pros and cons of an aerial expedition over the German
lines. I was anxious to film the whole line from an aeroplane.
"Well," said he, "what about the height? I think I had better call in
the Captain," and pressing a bell an orderly quickly appeared and was
sent off to inform the Captain that his presence was required.
"I say," said the Flight Commander, "this is Malins, the War Office
Kinematographer." He then explained my mission and requirements.
"Now," he said, after all preliminaries had been discussed, "the
question is about the height. What is a tolerably safe height over
'Bosche'?"
"About 8,000 feet, I should say, though of course if we go well over his
lines it will be necessary to rise higher. There are too many
'Archibalds' about to dodge any lower."
"Well," I replied, "I'll start taking my scenes when we arrive at the
coast-line. We can then follow it along and turn off inland towards
Ypres. I should very much like to film that place from above, then
follow down the lines, passing over St. Eloi, Ploegsteert,
Armentières, Neuve Chapelle, Richebourg, Festubert, Givenchy, Loos,
Hohenzollern Redoubt, and on to Arras. I am of course entirely in your
hands. I do not want to jeopardise the trip, nor wish you to run any
unnecessary risks, you understand, but I should like to get as low as
possible, and so obtain more detail. It will be the first kinematograph
film ever taken of the Western Front."
"Well," said the Flight Commander, rising, "you have full permission.
You can have the use of a BE 2C machine, with Captain ----. Do what you
like, but take care. Don't be rash. Good luck to you. I shall be as
anxious as you to see the result."
In the Captain's company I left the office, and together we went round
to make arrangements regarding the means of fixing my camera.
The machine was the usual type of passenger-carrying aero, numbered BE
2C, a very stable and reliable machine, but according to the Captain,
not very fast. Speed in this case was not an absolute necessity, unless
a Fokker favoured us with his attentions.
[Illustration: IN THE TRENCHES AT THE FAMOUS AND DEADLY HOHENZOLLERN
REDOUBT, AFTER A GERMAN ATTACK. SHORTLY AFTER THIS WAS TAKEN I WAS SHOT
THROUGH MY SERVICE CAP BY A GERMAN SNIPER]
I went aboard to find the best means of fixing and operating my camera.
I decided to use my debrie, not the aeroscope. The latter had jambed a
day or two previous, and I had not had an opportunity of repairing
it. The observer's seat was in the front, and just above, on the main
struts, was a cross-tube of metal. On each end was an upright socket,
for the purpose of dropping into it a Lewis gun. The pilot also had the
same in front of him.
I suggested that a metal fixing, which would fit the socket, and a
tilting arrangement, so that it would be possible to raise or lower the
camera to any angle, would suit admirably, and on the other side, in
case of attack, a Lewis gun could be fitted.
"It's well to be prepared for emergencies," said the Captain. "It's
quite possible we shall be attacked."
"Well," I said, "I will have a good shot at him if he does turn up. And
who knows--I may be able to get a picture of the Hun machine falling. By
Jove, what a thrill it would provide!"
Instructions were given to the excellent mechanics employed in the
R.F.C., and within an hour or so the metal tilting-top was made and
fixed on the plane.
"You will have to wrap up well," said the Captain. "It's jolly cold up
there. It looks rather misty, and that will make it all the worse. Now
then, all aboard."
Up I scrambled, or rather wriggled, between a network of wire stays, and
taking my seat the camera was handed to me. I fastened it on one side of
the gun-mounting and fixed a Lewis gun on the other, making sure I had
spare boxes of film ready, and spare drums of ammunition. I then
fastened the broad web belt round my waist, and fixed on my goggles.
I was ready for the ascent.
My companion was in his seat, and the machine was wheeled into position
for starting. The mechanics were turning the propeller round to suck
the gas into the many cylinders, to facilitate easier starting.
"All ready," shouted the Captain. "Right away, contact, let her go." And
with a jerk the motor started.
The whirl of the huge blades developed into a deafening roar. The
machine vibrated horribly. I clung to my camera, holding it tight to the
socket. I knew that once in the air the shake would be reduced to a
minimum. Faster and faster whirled the propeller as the Captain opened
the throttle. How sweet and perfect was the hum of the giant motor. Not
the slightest sound of a misfire. Being an ardent motorist, I could tell
that the engine was in perfect tune. The Captain leaned over and shouted
to me through the roar to fasten the telephone receiver against my ear
under my leather cap.
"That," said he, pointing to a mouthpiece attached to a small rubber
tube, "is the transmitter. If you want to give me any instructions shout
into that. I shall hear you. All fit?" he asked.
I nodded my head. He took his seat, and opened the throttle. The engine
leapt into new life. The roar was deafening. The whirring blades flung
the air back into my face, cutting it as if with a whip. He dropped his
arm. The men drew away the chocks from the wheels, and amid shouts of
"Good luck!" from the officers present, the machine sprang forward like
a greyhound, bounding over the grass, until at last it rose like a
gigantic bird into the air.
The earth gradually drew away. Higher and higher we rose, and began to
circle round and round to gain height.
"We will get up to three thousand feet before we strike towards the
coast," he shouted through the telephone.
The vibration, now we were in the air, was barely perceptible, at any
rate it was not sufficient to affect the taking of my scenes. In case
any moisture collected on my lens, I had brought a soft silk pad, to
wipe it with occasionally. Higher, still higher, we rose.
"What's the height now?" I asked.
"Very nearly three thousand feet," he said. "We are now going towards
the coast. That's Dunkirk over there."
I peered ahead. The port, with its shipping, was clearly discernible.
Over the sea hung a dense mist, looking for all the world like a
snowfield. Here and there, in clear patches, the sun gleamed upon the
water, throwing back its dazzling reflections.
As soon as we reached the coast-line, I shouted: "Proceed well along
this side, so that I can obtain an oblique view. It looks much better
than directly above the object. What's our speed?"
"Sixty miles," he said. "I shall keep it up until we reach the German
lines."
He turned sharp to the right. We are now following the coast-line
towards Ostend. How beautiful the sand dunes looked from above. The
heavy billows of sea-mist gave it a somewhat mystic appearance. How cold
it was. I huddled down close into my seat, my head only above the
fuselage. Keeping my eye upon the wonderful panorama unfolding itself
out beneath me, I glanced at my camera and tested the socket. Yes, it
was quite firm.
"We are nearing the lines now," my companion shouted. "Can you see them
on your right? That's the Belgium area. Our section, as you know, begins
just before Ypres. Will this height suit you? Shall I follow the
trenches directly overhead or a little to one side?"
"Keep this side, I'll begin taking now." Kneeling up in my seat, I
directed my camera downwards and started filming our lines and the
German position stretching away in the distance.
We were nearing Ypres, that shell-battered city of Flanders. White balls
of smoke here and there were bursting among the ruins, showing that the
Huns were still shelling it. What a frightful state the earth was in.
For miles and miles around it had the appearance of a sieve, with
hundreds of thousands of shell-holes, and like a beautiful green ribbon,
winding away as far as the eye could see, was that wonderful yet
terrible strip of ground between the lines, known as "No Man's Land."
We were now running into a bank of white fleecy clouds, which enveloped
us in its folds, blotting the whole earth from view. I held my
handkerchief over the lens of the camera to keep the moisture from
settling upon it. After a time several breaks appeared in the clouds
beneath, and the earth looked wonderful. It seemed miles--many
miles--away. Rivers looked like silver streaks, and houses mere specks
upon the landscape. Here and there a puff of white smoke told of a
bursting shell. But for that occasional, somewhat unpleasant reminder, I
might have been thousands of miles away from the greatest war in
history.
Who could imagine anything more wonderful, more fantastic? I had dreamed
of such things, I had read of them; I even remembered having read, years
ago, some of the wonderful stories in _Grimm's Fairy Tales_. To my
childish mind, they seemed very wonderful indeed. There were fairies,
goblins, mysterious figures, castles which floated in the air, wonderful
lands which shifted in a night, at the touch of a magic wand or the
sound of a magic word. Things which fired my youthful imagination and
set me longing to share in their adventures. But never in my wildest
dreams did I think I should live to do the same thing, to go where I
listed; to fly like a bird, high above the clouds. It was like an
adventure in fairyland to take this weird and wonderful creation of men,
called an aeroplane, through the home of the skylark.
Boom! Boom! I was suddenly brought back to--no, not to earth, but
to--things more material.
Looking down, I could discern several balls of smoke, which I
immediately recognised as shrapnel shells, or "Archibalds," that had
been fired at us by the Germans. They were well below. I looked round at
the Captain. He was smiling through his goggles, and humorously jerked
his thumb in the direction of the bursting "Archies."
"Too high, eh?" I shouted. But I had forgotten that in the fearful hum
of the rushing air and whirling motors my voice would not carry. It was
literally cut off as it left my lips. I picked up the 'phone and shouted
through it.
"Yes, they are pretty safe where they are," he said drily. Then a few
more burst underneath us.
By this time we were well out of the cloud bank. The atmosphere was much
clearer. I knelt up again on my seat and began to expose, and continued
turning the handle while we passed over St. Eloi and Hill 60. On certain
sections I could see that a considerable "strafe" was going on. Fritz
seemed to be having a very trying time. Near Messines my film suddenly
ran out. I had to reload. This was anything but an easy operation. I
unscrewed my camera from the gun socket, and in doing so had a near
escape from doing a head-dive to earth. Like an idiot, I had unfastened
my waist-strap, and in reaching over the fuselage my camera nearly
over-balanced, the aeroplane contributing to this result by making a
sudden dive in order to avoid an "Archibald."
For a second or two I had clear visions of flying through space on wings
other than those of an aeroplane. But fortunately I had the steel
crossbar to cling to, and this saved me.
Getting back to my seat, I asked the pilot to circle round the spot for
a few minutes. While changing my spool, I settled down in the bottom of
the car and reloaded my camera, eight thousand feet above the earth.
This operation occupied about ten minutes, and when I had finished I
gingerly raised myself on the seat and refixed the camera in its socket.
"Right away," I shouted. "Is it possible to go any lower?"
"It's very risky," he said, "but if you like I will try. Hold tight,
it's a dive."
I held tight. The nose of the machine tilted forward until it seemed as
if it was absolutely standing on end. The earth rushed up to meet us.
For the moment it seemed as if the aeroplane was out of control, but
with a graceful glide, which brought us level, we continued our journey
at a height of three thousand feet.
"Get what you want quickly," he shouted. "We can't stay here long."
I began to expose again. By now we were over line after line of
trenches. At times we were well over the Bosche lines. I continued to
film the scenes.
First came Ploegsteert, Fromelles, and Aubers Ridge. Then we crossed
to Neuve Chapelle, Festubert, La Bassée and Loos. Town after town,
village after village, were passed over, all of them in ruins. From
above the trenches, like a splash of white chalk dropped into the middle
of a patch of brown earth. The long winding trenches cut out of the
chalk twisted and wound along valley and dale like a serpent. Looking
down upon it all, it seemed so very insignificant. Man? What was he? His
works looked so small that it seemed one could, with a sweep of the
foot, crush him out of existence. How small he was, yet how great; how
powerful, yet how weak! We were now over La Bassée.
"We shall have to rise," shouted my companion. "Look up there." I looked
up, and thousands of feet above us was a small speck.
"Bosche plane," said he. "Hold tight!" And I did.