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 passed through the ruined
villages of Foscaucourt and Estrées 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 shells; 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 shell-fire
and the trunks were strewn across the road. These and the enormous
shell-holes made it difficult to proceed at all, but, by clambering
over the huge tree trunks, in and out of filthy slime-filled
shell-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 mass 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 shell-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.
"Come along," I said, "let's explore. If there are any Bosches about
they'll soon let us know of their presence. Let's get on to that other
ridge; the Somme river should be there somewhere."
We left the village and cautiously followed the road down one hill and
up the next. The Germans had disappeared as completely as if the earth
had swallowed them up. Not a soul was to be seen; we might have been
strolling on the Surrey hills!
I gradually reached the brow of the next ridge. The sight which met my
eyes was the most stimulating one I had ever seen from a picture point
of view. There, in front of us, at a distance of six hundred yards, was
the river Somme--the name which will go down to history as the most
momentous in this the bloodiest war the world has ever known.
There it glistened, winding its way north and south like a silver snake.
"Come along," I said, "I shall get the first picture of the Somme," and
we raced away down the road.
In calmer moments at home I have admitted that we were mad. Nobody in
their right senses would have done such a thing as to rush headlong into
country which might have been thick with enemy snipers and machine-guns.
But the quietness of the grave reigned--not a rifle-shot disturbed the
silence.
Evidence of the German retreat met our gaze as we ran down the road. On
either side were discarded material and, in a quarry on the left, a
German Red Cross sign was stuck up on a post, and several dug-outs were
burning--smoke was pouring up from below, showing that the Hun was
destroying everything.
I was brought to a standstill at the sight of a mass of wreckage near
the river. Smoke was issuing from it. I looked on my map and saw that it
was the village of Brie; a small section was this side of the river, but
the main part was on the other side. The whole place had been completely
destroyed, partly, I ultimately found out, by our gun-fire, and the
remainder burnt or blown up by the Germans.
The river had developed into a swampy marsh; in fact it was very
difficult to say precisely where the river and canal finished and the
marshes began.
I again got my camera into action and filmed, for the first time, the
Somme river which was directly in our line of advance.
The bridges were blown up; huge masses of stone and iron, twisted and
torn and flung into the morass of weeds and mud and water, forming small
dams, thus diverting the river in all directions. Several scenes on this
historic spot I filmed, then, wishing to push forward, I attempted to
cross the broken bridges. By careful manoeuvring I managed to cross
the first, then the second, but a large gap blown in the roadway about
forty feet across, through which the water rushed in a torrent, brought
me to a standstill, so reluctantly I had to retrace my steps.
Except for the sound of rushing water the quietness was almost
uncanny--the excitement of the chase was over. Then I began to realise
our position.
We were in a section of ground which the enemy had occupied only a few
hours before and had apparently abandoned--vanished into thin air! We
were at least two kilometres in _front_ of our infantry, in fact we had,
of our own accord--keen on obtaining live scenes for the people at
home--constituted ourselves an advance patrol, armed, not with
machine-guns, swords, or lances, but with cameras. There was every
possibility of our being taken for Germans ourselves by our men from a
distance; the real advance guard coming up would undoubtedly open fire
and enquire into credentials afterwards. The ruins across the bridge
might hide enemy rifles; they might open fire any moment. I explained
the situation to my companion, who had also presumably reached a
decision very similar to my own, which was to return to the village of
Villers-Carbonel as quickly and as carefully as possible.
Keeping to the side of the road we trudged back, and half-way up the
hill we ran into one of the things I expected--an advance party. An
officer came forward and said in astonished tones:
"Where the devil have you fellows come from?"
"We've been getting photographs of the German retreat," I replied.
"We're the official photographers and have been half-way across the
Somme, but owing to the bridge being blown up we have come back. The
Germans seem to have vanished entirely, not a sign of one about
anywhere."
"Well, I'm ----," he said, "this is the funniest thing I've ever known.
Will our advance patrols constitute the official photographers for the
future? If so, it will save us any amount of trouble."
"Well?" I said, "you can go on--devil a Bosche is over there anyway."
"Well," he said, "these troops I am taking down will be the first across
the Somme."
"Right," I said, seeing immediately the scoop it would be for my film.
"I will come back and film your men going over; it will make a unique
picture."
With that we retraced our steps, and laughing and chatting about our
adventure, we once again reached the Somme river.
I fixed up my camera, and, when all was ready, a rough bridge was
hastily made of several planks lashed together to bridge gaps in the
fallen stonework, and I filmed the first troops to cross the Somme
during the great German retreat.
The light was now failing, so, packing up my apparatus, and waving
farewells to the C.O., I turned back again. B---- joined me; the day had
been a great one for us, and we mutually agreed that it was a fitting
sequel to the first British battle that had ever been filmed which I
took at Beaumont Hamel on July 1st, 1916.
Weary in body, but very much alive mentally, we returned via
Villers-Carbonel to our car.
On my way back I wondered how the cat and her kittens were getting on.
The black cat had certainly brought me luck.