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 bloody 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 God 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
assumed 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 passed 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 class--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 buttoned 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 passing along the
deck stood underneath the Captain's bridge and gazed around. The men in
the two boats ahead of us were singing lustily, singing because they
were going back to the land of bursting shells 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
passed 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.
The frightful scenes in the great retreat through Belgium lived again;
the final stand along the banks of the Ypres canal; the opening of the
dykes, 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 Château 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 canal 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 canal
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
passable--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.
[Illustration: 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
shell-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 passed 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 pass 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, buttoning 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 passed 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!