THE HORRORS OF TRONES WOOD
Three Times I Try and Fail to Reach this Stronghold of the
Dead--Which Has Been Described as "Hell on Earth"--At a
Dressing Station Under Fire--Smoking Two Cigarettes at a
Time to Keep Off the Flies--Some Amusing Trench
Conversations by Men who had Lost Their Way--I Turn in for
the Night--And Have a Dead Bosche for Company.
I have just come from England after seeing the Somme Film well on its
way to the public. It has caused a great sensation. I really thought
that some of the dead scenes would offend the British public. And yet
why should they? It is only a very mild touch of what is happening day
after day, week after week, on the bloody plains of France and Belgium.
Bloody? Yes, inevitably so. There never was such dearly bought land
since creation. The earth in the Somme district has been soaked with the
blood of men. Sit out on a field a mile or two from our front line any
morning early, when the mist is just rising. Sit out there on the ground
which our boys have fought for and won. The place reeks with the
horrible stench of countless decaying bodies, and every minute adds to
their number.
But the British public did not object to these realistic scenes in the
film. They realised that it was their duty to see for themselves. They
had been told by the press; they had been told by Parliament; they had
been told by lecturers what was happening, but to no purpose. They must
be shown; they must see with their own eyes. And the kinematograph
camera performed this service. Has it justified itself? I put that
question to all who have seen the film. What effect did it have upon
you? Did you realise till you saw it what this vast battle-front was
like? Did you realise what our Army was doing; how our wonderful
soldiers--your husbands, your sons, your brothers--were driving the Huns
back; how they were going to their death with a laugh upon their faces
and a cigarette between their lips, fighting and dying like true
Britons? That those who came back wounded and broken still had that
smile?
Yes: the truth has at last dawned upon you. With that knowledge new
resolutions were born within you; resolutions that bade you never to
slack for an instant in your endeavour to bring success to our arms.
Trones Wood! That name had been drummed into my ears for days. It seemed
to have a fascination for me. I asked several men to describe the place.
"Quite impossible, sir; there baint anything like it on earth, and if
hell is at all like it then I have been there. It's dead; just
dead--dead--dead! And the smell--awful."
"Is Fritz strafing there much?"
"Yes, sir, he's at it all day: there's not room for a cat to hide in, so
why Fritz is dropping his souvenirs there heaven knows; I don't."
From the description the place seemed rather satisfactory from a scenic
point of view, so I made up my mind to try and film it, as I wanted
scenes of heavy bombardment which I could get if Fritz was concentrating
upon the wood, for the Hun is a tolerably safe person to deal with if he
has a target to fire at; he is so methodical.
Going up by my car as far as the top of Camoy Valley, I left it there
near a dressing station.
[Illustration: FILMING THE KING DURING HIS VISIT TO FRANCE IN 1916. HE
IS ACCOMPANIED BY PRESIDENT POINCARÉ, SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, GENERAL JOFFRE
AND GENERAL FOCH]
"Strafing!" I was out for "strafing," and by all appearances I was
likely to get it hot and strong before long. I had only just stopped
when a shell came hurtling overhead, falling about one hundred and fifty
yards behind the dressing station. I went over to a doctor who was
tending some wounded men--our own and Germans.
"Has Fritz been sending you these souvenirs very often?" I enquired.
The doctor rose, and mopping his forehead, grinned and replied: "Yes;
the blighter won't let us alone. Why doesn't he play cricket? He must
know this is Red Cross. That sign there," pointing to a large Red Cross
lying on the ground, "is large enough to be seen by the men in Mars.
Only this morning he put one bang through the roof of our dug-out,
rewounding a lot of our chaps lying there. By the way, are you leaving
your car there?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, you had better say good-bye to it; several of our ambulances have
been strafed there."
"Well," I said, "can't be helped; it must take its chance. I'm going to
take a few scenes of you at work. Where did these Bosches come from?"
"This morning, from Guillemont; our boys had a bit of a stunt on and
landed a few of the beggars."
I filmed various incidents showing the treatment of wounded prisoners.
They received the same careful attention as our own men; whatever they
asked for they had. Several padres were kneeling down beside our boys,
taking down messages to be sent to their relatives.
Stretcher after stretcher with its human freight of Briton and Hun was
deposited on the ground. Immediately doctors and orderlies were upon
their knees tending to their wants with a gentleness that was
wonderful. While I was there several shells fell and exploded only a
short distance away.
I left the dressing station and paused upon a mound near a tree stump,
the top of which had been carefully split off by shell-fire. I stood
looking in the direction of Trones. The Bosches were "strafing" it
pretty thoroughly. Away across at Montaubon village the same thing was
happening. They were fairly watering the place with H.E. and shrapnel.
Our guns were rattling out as well, and I am glad to say that it sounded
to me as though ours were at least ten to their one.
Well, the scenes had to be obtained. I admit the job looked anything but
pleasant. "Well, here goes!" I said, and putting on a cigarette, I
trudged off with my apparatus across the open, making a bee-line midway
between Montaubon and Bernafay Wood. I gave both places a wide berth,
thereby steering clear of possible Bosche shells. How hot it was.
Perspiration was literally pouring from me. I kept on over the ground
captured from the Germans. The smell in places was almost unbearable. I
puffed away at my cigarette, thereby reducing the stench to a minimum.
Several shells came whizzing overhead in the direction of the dressing
station I had just left. With a grinding crash they exploded. "Shrapnel,
woolly bears," I said under my breath. They seemed to burst right on top
of them too. I thought of all those poor wounded Tommies lying helpless
on their stretchers. Another--then another--came hurtling over. The
splitting crash of the burst can only be appreciated by those who have
been in close proximity to a German H.E. Woolly Bear exploding. It gives
one rather a sickening sensation. Another came over. This time it burst
nearer. "Gee! they're dropping the range." I hastily grabbed my tripod
and hurried off at a tangent. Proceeding for a distance of about five
hundred yards I turned off again and made tracks for my original point.
In front, at a distance of about seven hundred yards, one of our forward
field batteries of 18-pounders opened fire. I at first thought they were
French 75 mm. owing to the extreme rapidity of fire. From my position I
could not see the guns, but stretching across the country a rough line
of brown earth was thrown up, which I afterwards found out was one of
the old German lines. The guns were cunningly concealed in the trench.
Thinking that it would make rather a good scene I decided to film it in
action.
I may add that I have previously been rather wary about having much to
do with forward artillery positions. On three previous occasions I have
been badly "strafed" by brother Fritz. He has the uncommonly irritating
habit of putting his whizz-bangs much too near to be pleasant, with the
result that I have more than once been compelled to take my camera and
self off to the more congenial quarters of a dug-out, from which place,
you will agree, one cannot obtain very interesting pictures.
Reaching the batteries I unlimbered myself of my gear and approaching
the C.O. in charge told him who I was and what I wanted. He was quite
pleased to see me and said that he was just about to give Fritz a good
dose of "iron rations," firing in salvos. Quickly fixing up my camera I
filmed the scenes from various points of view. The men were stripped to
the waist, jumping out the shells as fast as they could be handled.
While I was filming the scene brother Fritz replied with whizz-bangs
thick and fast. They are perfect devils, and it is practically
impossible to hear them coming until they burst. I turned my machine
round upon the spot near which they were dropping. Several times they
got within the range of my camera, and I continued to turn upon them
until two came much too close, so thinking discretion the better part of
valour, I hastily disappeared into the doubtful shelter of a broken-down
Hun trench. Then they came over, several smothering me in dust as they
exploded close by. Having obtained all the pictures I required I thanked
the C.O. and went on my way.
My clothes were absolutely saturated with perspiration as I shambled
away towards the top end of Bernafay Wood. I looked back at the battery.
Bosche was still "strafing." I vowed I would never go near any forward
guns again; but good resolutions are made to be broken, and my lust for
pictures is too strong within me.
Moving was now difficult. The weight of my camera outfit seemed to be
getting heavier. I could only get along at a very slow pace. The strap
around my chest seemed to squeeze the very breath out of my lungs. But
worse was to come. The Huns began shelling the section with shrapnel in
a searching manner, and several times I collapsed into a shell-hole, in
the hope of obtaining a little cover. But there is very little shelter
from shrapnel. On several occasions I felt like throwing away my steel
helmet; the weight seemed abnormal; but prudence warned me and I clung
to it.
The fire was now too bad to proceed in the open. If there were any
trenches or ditches I availed myself of their protection. The heat in
the trenches was terrific, and to add to the horrors of the stench and
heat there were millions of flies. Filthy brutes! They seemed to cling
to one like leeches, and, my arms being full, I could not keep them off
my face. Several times I almost decided to turn back, asking myself if
it was worth while. But when I looked at Trones Wood in the distance,
and the heavy shells bursting all round, I gritted my teeth and decided
to push on.
Thinking that more smoke might help to keep off the flies I lighted two
cigarettes and puffed away at them, one in each corner of my mouth. I'm
sure I must have looked a most extraordinary specimen of humanity at
this moment. Loaded with kit, perspiring like a bull; my steel helmet
cocked on one side of my head; puffing away like a chimney at two
cigarettes, and millions of flies buzzing all around me. Picture me if
you can.
I was proceeding like an automaton along the trench when suddenly I came
upon an officer who, I afterwards found out, was going up to fix his
next gun positions. He was sitting on a sandbag swearing like Hades, and
trying to disperse the clouds of flies which were settling upon him. He
looked up as I approached, then suddenly burst into a peal of laughter.
I stood still and grinned, not daring to open my mouth to laugh for fear
of losing my cigarettes. Then I dropped my tripod and leaned against the
trench side to rest. His laughter suddenly developed into a coughing and
spluttering, spitting and swearing, which in itself was strong enough to
drive all the flies in existence away.
"Bust the things!" he spluttered. "I got a mouthful of them! They might
have just come off some dirty Bosche. Got a drink on you?"
"Yes," I said, and handed him my water-bottle.
He rinsed out his mouth.
"I do believe it's worth risking shrapnel rather than tolerate these
vile things!" he remarked. "But excuse my laughter; you did look funny
coming along there."
"Yes, I expect I did," I said, still puffing away at my cigarettes. "I'd
smoke a dozen at once if I could. Anything to keep the flies away."
"Well," he said, "I'm stumped. Have you one to spare?"
I handed him my case. He lighted up and both of us, puffing as hard as
we could, made quite a healthy volume of smoke. From above it must have
looked as if a small fire was raging.
We had sat there alternately puffing and chatting and killing flies by
the hundreds for about ten minutes. I told him I wanted to get some
scenes of Trones. He politely told me I ought to have brought my keeper
out with me, but as he was going in that direction he would help me on
the way to being killed by carrying my tripod.
We started off. The shelling was getting unpleasantly near. Phoot-bang!
We both ducked, my head getting a nasty knock against the tripod top.
For the moment I thought I had been struck by the whizz-bang. Presently
we reached a junction in the trench, and as my friend's road lay in an
opposite direction we parted, and I trudged on alone.
I was brought to a standstill by a mound of earth which completely
blocked the way. By all appearances the shell that had caused it could
have only come over a few minutes before, for a thin wisp of smoke was
still curling up from the débris. "Well," I thought, placing my kit on
the ground, "it's got to be done; so over I go." Here the air was
completely free from flies. Evidently the gas from the bursting shell
had choked them off for a time. Jove! I was glad. It was like heaven;
and my tongue was beginning to burn rather badly through fiercely
smoking two cigarettes at once.
Cautiously I crept up to the top of the parapet! What a sight! Shells
were falling thick and fast over Trones and towards Baentin-le-Grand. I
must film this, Bosche or no Bosche! So hastily fixing up my tripod, I
fastened on the camera and began exposing. "Excellent," I thought;
"I've got it." Another shell came along. This time it was evidently a
5.9, and was right in the centre of my view, about one hundred and fifty
yards away! Another one. Rotten! Just out of my limits. Phut-bang!
Phut-bang! I grabbed my camera and fell with it on the opposite side of
the mound. I let it lie there, and dashing back into the other section
of trench grabbed my bags and returned. Whizz-bangs followed;
whizz-bangs in front and behind! I crouched as low as possible and
replacing the camera in its case hung it over my back and, still bending
low, hurried away dragging my tripod behind me.
The trench was blocked by a batch of men returning. They were crouching
down for cover. The officer in charge asked me what in the world I was
doing.
"Thunder," he said, "if I knew the 'movie' man had been here I would
have gone the other way. You've evidently drawn fire by that contraption
of yours. Where are you going?"
"To Trones Wood," I said.
The look of blank amazement on his face was amusing.
"My dear chap," he said, "are you serious?"
"Well," I replied, "I had intended going there till a moment ago, but
the strafing seems to get worse."
Shrapnel was now bursting overhead, a piece hitting one of the men close
by.
"Where's he hit?" enquired the officer. The poor fellow was lying down.
"In the shoulder, sir," one of the others shouted back. "Seems rather
bad."
"Two of you bring him through and get ahead to the dressing station as
quickly as possible. Keep your heads down." Then turning to me the
officer said: "Look here, I've just come from the Wood, and, by gad,
it's fair hell there! The place is a charnel-house. It's literally
choked with corpses; heaps of them; and we dare not bring them in. We've
tried even at night, but the shelling prevents us. The place reeks. And
the flies! They're awful. It's more than flesh and blood can stand! To
put your head up means certain death and--well, you see what your camera
did here. You can imagine what it would be like over there, can't you?"
"Yes, I see, but of course if I had known any men were about I wouldn't
have put my machine up. I know there is always the possibility of
drawing fire. It has happened quite a number of times to me!"
"If you respect your life don't go any further. The shell-fire is
impossible, and the sight over there is too ghastly for words."
So I decided to relinquish my visit for the time being.
A call was made to proceed. "Half a minute," I said, "the trench had
been blown in about fifty yards down, wouldn't it be better to clear it
away rather than take these men over the top?"
The officer decided that it was. The men worked away with a will, and
quickly replaced the earth in the hollow of the trench wall from which
it had been blown.
Again we trudged on. The flies were beginning to annoy us once more. I
put on a couple of cigarettes. All the men had ransacked odds and ends
from their pockets, and the result was a line of men smoking as hard as
they could, and enveloped in a haze of bluish white smoke. But the flies
refused to budge. Smoke had no effect on them, and I'm inclined to think
that nothing short of a 5.9 would do the trick. Not until we were out in
the open were we free from them.
On two further occasions I tried to enter Trones Wood, and both times
the conditions were if anything worse. The merest sign of a camera put
up over a parapet would have instantly brought a host of shells
clattering round; therefore, on the third try, I decided to abandon the
trip until a later date. But those attempts will always remain in my
memory as a ghastly nightmare. The essence of death and destruction, and
all that it means, was horribly visible everywhere.
I have been there since. I reached the place just before the final
cleansing, and brother Fritz, just to let us know that he existed, and
that he had a spite against us, persisted in flinging his shrapnel
around, thereby keeping me well on the run. He did not give me the
slightest chance to get pictures, nor to meditate on the surroundings;
in fact the only meditation I indulged in was to wonder whether the next
shrapnel bullet would strike my helmet plumb on the top or glance off
the rim. Then thinking of George Grave's remark, I called Fritz a "nasty
person," with a few extra additions culled from the "trench dictionary."
Being a fine night I decided to stay in the vicinity. An officer of a
pioneer battalion kindly offered me a share of his dug-out--one of
Fritz's cast-offs. I gladly accepted, and over a cup--or rather a
tin--of tea, we exchanged views on various subjects. About ten o'clock I
went above to terra firma and watched the shells bursting over the
German lines. Myriads of star-shells or Verey lights shot high in the
sky, lighting up the whole country-side like day. The sight was
wonderful, and silhouetted against the flashes I could see countless
bodies of men tramping on their way like silent phantoms.
Here and there I watched a shell burst. I could see and hear that it had
dropped into a section of those men, adding to the number of that great
army of heroes who had already "gone West." But into those gaps,
through which the blasting shells had torn their way, stepped other men.
A sharp word of command was rapped out, then on again to take up their
battle position, leaving the dead behind to be reverently buried on the
morrow. The wounded were brought away by the stretcher-bearers, and as
one lot passed me I heard a voice from the darkness murmur, "Bill, it's
a blighty."
I wandered on in the direction of our line. Near a junction of by-roads
I heard some funny remarks passed by ration parties trying to find the
way to their sections. To pick one's way in the dark over strange ground
littered with débris is not an easy task. The exact language I heard
would hardly bear repeating.
One party had evidently bumped into another. "D---- and ---- who are
you? Cawn't yer see, mate, I'm taking up company rations? Blimy, but 'ow
the 'ell I am going to find the way--blowed if I know. Do you know where
---- Company is? I'm taking up sandbags. Lost me ---- way. 'Ave yer
passed a dead 'orse? I knowed I passed it coming up. Good night, mate."
Both men went off into the darkness, swearing like troopers. Another man
came up. He was whistling a homely song, but it came to an abrupt
conclusion, for he evidently stumbled over some obstacle. Compliments
began to fly, and he told the Bosche in plain language what he thought
of him for leaving it there. His remarks were too pointed for expression
in cold print.
The next to come along was an engineering officer. He could faintly
discern me in the darkness.
"Hullo," he said. "Are you the ----?"
"No," I replied. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I haven't the least idea
where they are. What's wrong?"
"I have to run out some wires to-night, but bothered if I know where
they are. Missed my way near the wood. Some silly ass sent me wrong."
"Well," I said, "most of the troops I have seen have gone in that
direction," pointing the way. He disappeared.
Apparently he was held up a minute or two later by some one else, for in
the distance I heard a voice, "Do you know where ---- Company is, sir?"
"No, I don't," in a rather irritated tone. "I can't find my own blooming
way."
This sort of thing went on for over an hour; first one then another.
Whether all of them eventually found their various points Heaven only
knows!
I had wandered so far, owing to my interest in other people, that I had
some difficulty in retracing my steps to the dug-out. Eventually I
arrive there about one o'clock. I had been given up for lost.
I told ---- of my experiences.
"That kind of thing happens practically every night. They manage to find
their way somehow. Come along; let's turn in. Look out for your head as
you crawl through. Don't mind the rats. Cover your head well up. They
won't touch your face then."
I crawled in on to my bed. Then I noticed a peculiar and decidedly
unpleasant smell.
"Have you got any corpses here?" I asked him.
"Yes, I believe so," he said. "You see the other entrance has been blown
in. It's the other end of your bed, and I believe some Bosches were
buried in the débris. Never mind, stick it; they won't bite."
"Pleasant dreams," I mumbled as I drew my blanket well around my face;
in a few minutes the presence of dead Bosche ceased to trouble me. I
slept.