THE STORY OF AN "ARMOURED CAR" ABOUT WHICH I COULD A TALE UNFOLD
Possibilities--Food for Famished Villagers--Meeting the
Mayoress of Bovincourt--Who Presides at a Wonderful
Impromptu Ceremony--A Scrap Outside Vraignes--A Church Full
of Refugees--A True Pal--A Meal with the Mayor of Bierne.
To keep hard upon the heels of the retreating Germans and so obtain
scenes, the character of which had never been presented before to the
British public, was my chief aim. I had no time for sleep. I arrived at
my base wet through, the rain had continued throughout the whole of my
return journey. Changing into dry underwear, I refilled my exposed
spool-boxes and packed up a good surplus supply, sufficient to last for
several days, then packing my knapsack with the usual rations, bully and
bread, condensed milk and slabs of chocolate, I was ready to start out
once more. My clothes had by this time dried. Daylight was breaking, the
car arrived and, with all kit aboard, I started out again for the Somme,
wondering what the day would bring forth.
I stopped on the way to pick up the "still" photographer.
"Where for to-day?" he asked.
"Bovincourt and Vraignes," I replied, "and, if possible, one or two of
the villages near by. I must get into them before our troops, so as to
be able to film their entry. Does that suggest possibilities to you?" I
said, with a smile, knowing that he, like myself, would go through
anything to obtain pictures.
"Possibilities," he said, "don't, you make my mouth water. How about
food? Shall we take some to the villages?"
"Excellent idea," I said.
We stopped on the way and purchased a good supply of white bread and
French sausages, thinking that these two commodities would be most
useful.
Through Foucacourt Estrées and Villers-Carbonel the roads were lined
with troops, guns, and transport of every description, all making their
way forward. Engineers were hard at work on the roads; shell-holes were
filled in and road trenches bridged. Work was being pushed forward with
an energy and skill which reflected great credit upon those in charge;
traffic controls were at cross roads which forty-eight hours before had
been "No Man's Land." Hun signboards were taken down and familiar
British names took their place. The sight was wonderful. En route I
stopped and filmed various scenes. Arriving again at Brie on the Somme
the change in affairs was astounding. The place was alive with men; it
was a veritable hive of industry; new lines were being laid to replace
the torn and twisted rails left by the Germans; bridges were being
strengthened, roads on both sides were widened, and, to make it possible
to continue the work throughout the night, a searchlight was being
mounted upon a platform.
Crossing the bridges of Brie we mounted the hill and were once again
upon the ridge. Great gaps had been made by our men in the huge line of
barbed wire entanglements which the Huns had spent months of laborious
work to construct. It stretched away over hill and dale on both sides as
far as the eye could see.
To pick up further information I stopped a cyclist officer coming from
the direction of Mons.
"Any news?" I enquired. "Where is Bosche?"
"We were in touch with his rearguards all last night," he said. "They
have made several strong points round the villages of Vraignes,
Haucourt, and Bierne. They were scouting around Vraignes, but we quickly
put the wind up them," he said, with a smile. "Several villages were
seen burning during the night and the enemy put a little shrapnel around
some patrols near Pouilly, but no damage was done."
"Vraignes, of course, is quite clear?"
"Yes, as far as we know. Our patrols reported it clear late last
evening, but possibly Bosche returned during the night. We captured
three Bosches and they have an extraordinary tale of seeing two armoured
cars yesterday evening near Bovincourt, and they insist upon it although
I am quite aware there were none at all near there. They say that about
six o'clock they were on the outskirts of Bovincourt when two armoured
cars came in sight. Not having a machine-gun with them they decided to
hide and so took cover in the ruins of a house. Later on they say they
saw only one car leave in the direction of the main road. That's their
tale and they seem quite serious about it."
"Well," I said, with a grin, "do you think this car of mine would look
like an armoured car at a distance?"
"Well, yes, possibly, in a failing light. Why?"
"Well, this must be one of your excellent prisoner's so-called armoured
cars, because I was in Bovincourt with ---- of the Corps Intelligence,
hence the two cars. I missed him through getting stuck in the mud, and
entered Bovincourt about six o'clock and left by myself later as a
skirmish was taking place somewhere near by, and not being armed with
anything more dangerous than a camera, I decided to quit. I am much
obliged to the Bosche for taking this bus of mine for an armoured car."
With a laugh and a cheery adieu the officer bade me good luck and
pedalled off.
I could not help thinking that I had had a lucky escape.
On again, and reaching the first mine, the scene of the previous night's
adventure, I put the car to the field at a rush and by some
extraordinary means got her round.
I was just entering the village when, with a shriek and a crash, a shell
burst near the church. I stopped the car and, under cover of the ruins,
reached a distance of about three hundred yards from where it fell. If
any more were coming over I intended, if possible, to film them
bursting.
Carefully taking cover behind a wall, I fitted up my camera. Another
shell came hurtling over and dropped and burst quite near the previous
spot. Showers of bricks flew in all directions, liberally splattering
the wall behind which I was concealed. The débris cleared, up went my
camera, and, standing by the handle, I awaited the next.
It came soon enough, I heard the shriek nearer and nearer. I turned the
handle and put my head close behind the camera with my eye to the
view-finder. Crash came the shell, and, with a terrific report, it
exploded. The whole side of a house disappeared, and bricks, wood, and
metal flew in all directions. I continued to turn when, with an ugly
little whistle, a small piece of something struck my view-finder and
another my tripod. Luckily nothing touched the lens. I awaited the next.
It was longer this time, but it came, and nearer to me than the previous
one. I was satisfied. I thought if they elevated another fifty yards I
might get a much too close view of a shell-burst, so scrambled aboard
the car, and made a detour round the mine on to the road beyond.
"Those scenes ought to be very fine," I said. "It's one of those lucky
chances where one has to take the risk of obtaining a thrilling scene."
By the balls of white smoke I could see that shrapnel was bursting in
the near distance.
"That's near Pouilly," I said. "We are turning up on the left, let's
hope the Huns don't plaster us there."
Reaching the village of Bovincourt, the villagers were there eagerly
awaiting our arrival. They again crowded around the car, and it was with
difficulty that I persuaded them to let us pass into the village.
Cheering, shouting, and laughing they followed close behind. I stopped
the car and asked an old man who, by his ribbons, had been through the
1870 war:
"Where is the Mayor?"
"There is no Mayor, monsieur, but a mayoress, and she is there,"
pointing to a buxom French peasant woman about fifty years of age.
I went up to her and explained in my best French that I had brought
bread and sausages for the people, would she share them out?
"Oui, oui, monsieur."
"I would like you to do it here, I will then take a kinematograph film
of the proceeding, so that the people in England can see it."
"Ah, monsieur, it is the first white bread and good French sausage we
have seen since the Bosches came. They took everything from us,
everything, and if it had not been for the American relief we should
have starved. They are brutes, pig-brutes, monsieur, they kill
everything." And, with tears in her eyes, she told me how the Huns shot
her beautiful dog because, in its joyfulness, it used to play with and
bark at the children. "They did not like being disturbed, monsieur, so
they shot him--poor Jacques! They have not left one single animal;
everything has gone. Mon Dieu, but they shall suffer!"
I changed the painful subject by saying that now the British had driven
back the Bosche everything would be quite all right. With a wan smile
she agreed.
I set up my camera, and telling my man to hand over the food, the
Mayoress shared it out. One sausage and a piece of white bread to each
person, men, women, and children. The joy on their faces was wonderful
to behold. As they received their share they ran off to the shelter of
some ruins, or up into the church, to cook their wonderful gifts. I
filmed the scene, and I shall never forget it.
The last of the batch had disappeared when up the road came hobbling a
woman whose age I should say was somewhere about forty-five. I could see
she was on the point of exhaustion. She had a huge bundle upon her back
and a child in her arms, another about seven years clinging to her
skirts. They halted outside the ruins of a cottage, the woman dropped
her bundle, and crouching down upon it clung convulsively to the babe in
her arms and burst into tears.
I went up to her and gently asked her the cause.
"This, monsieur, was my house. Two days past the Germans drove me away
with my children. My husband has already been killed at the front. They
drove me away, and I come back to-day and now my home, all that I had in
the world, monsieur, is gone. They have burnt it. What can I do,
monsieur? And we are starving."
The babe in her arms began to send forth a thin lifeless wail. I helped
the poor woman to her feet and told her to go to the church, and that I
would bring her bundle and some food for her.
God above, what despair! The grim track of war in all its damnable
nakedness was epitomised in this little French hamlet. Houses burnt,
horses taken away, agricultural implements wilfully smashed, fruit trees
and bushes cut down, even the hedges around their little gardens, their
cemetery violated and the remains of their dead strewn to the four winds
of heaven. Their wells polluted with garbage and filth; in some cases
deliberately poisoned, in others totally destroyed by dynamite. Their
churches used as stables for horses and for drunken orgies. All the
younger men deported, and the prettiest of the girls. In some cases
their clothes had been forcibly taken away from them and sacks had been
given in exchange to clothe themselves with. They were robbed of every
penny they possessed.
But when the wonderful sound of the British guns and the tramp of our
soldiers crept nearer and nearer, terrifying, relentless, and
irresistible, the Germans left, fleeing with their ill-gotten spoil like
demons of darkness before the angels of light, leaving in their trail
the picture I have unfolded to you.
Wishing to push on further I scouted round the outskirts of the village.
In a wood a short distance away it was evident that our patrols were in
contact with the Huns. Volley after volley of rifle-fire rang out, and
now and then a burst from the machine-guns. A horseman was heading
straight for me. Was he British or Hun? In a few minutes I could see he
was one of our men--evidently a dispatch-rider. He swept down into a
hollow, then up the road into the village. He was riding hard; his horse
stumbled, but by a great effort the rider recovered himself. He dashed
past me and, clattering over the fallen masonry, disappeared from sight.
I looked around. Not a sign of life anywhere, so I decided to make for
Vraignes about a kilometre distant south-east of Bovincourt. I had
previously heard from one of the villagers that there were about one
thousand people left there.
Strapping my camera on my back I tramped away, my man following in the
rear. The "still" man, who had left me after feeding the villagers, had
been prowling around getting pictures. Accidentally he ran into me, so
together we trekked off.
Taking advantage of every bit of cover possible, as German snipers were
none too careful as to where they put their bullets, we eventually
reached the outskirts of Vraignes. Not a sign of Germans, but crowds of
civilians. Things here were the same as at Bovincourt, but a few more
houses were left standing owing to the fire not completely doing its
work. The people were in the same state. We had just got into the
village, and near the Mairie, when a commotion round the corner by the
church attracted my attention. The men and women who had crowded around
us shouting with joy, turned and rushed up the road.
"Vive les Anglais! Vive les Anglais!" The cry was taken up by every one.
Hands and handkerchiefs were waving in all directions. "Vive les
Anglais! Vive les Anglais!"
"Our boys are there," I said.
My camera was up and turned on to the corner where the crowd stood and,
at that moment, a troop of our cyclists entered, riding very slowly
through the exultant people--the first British troops to enter the
village. I turned the handle. The scene was inspiring. Cheer after cheer
rent the air. Old men and women were crying with joy. Others were
holding their babies up to kiss our boys. Children were clinging and
hugging around their legs, until it was impossible for them to proceed
further. The order was given by the officer in charge to halt. The men
tumbled off their machines, the people surged round them. To say the
men were embarrassed would be to put it mildly. They were absolutely
overcome. I filmed them with the crowd around. And then an order was
given to take up billets. Patrols were thrown out, sentries posted, the
men parked their cycles and rested.
On a large double door of a barn the Huns had gone to the trouble of
painting in huge letters the hackneyed phrase "Gott strafe England," and
immediately our men saw it one of them, with a piece of chalk, improved
upon it.
They gathered the children round them and formed a group beneath the
letters with German trophies upon their heads; I filmed them there, one
of the happiest groups possible to conceive.
I left them and went to find the officer in charge, and asked him for
the latest news from other sections.
"I couldn't say," he replied, "but my men were well in touch with them
early this morning, but you seem to know more about it here than anyone
else. When on earth did you arrive in the village?"
"Just before you," I replied. "I came from Bovincourt."
"Well, you have got some job. I certainly didn't expect to find anyone
so harmless as a photographer awaiting our arrival."
The conversation was abruptly stopped by a warning shout from one of the
observers on a house-top close by.
"Germans, sir."
The officer and I rushed to a gap in the buildings and looked through
our glasses, and there, on a small ridge a thousand yards off, a body of
horsemen were seen approaching, riding hard, as if their very lives
depended upon it.
An order was immediately given to the machine-gun company who had taken
up a most advantageous position and one that commanded most of the
country near by.
I placed my camera in such a position by the side of a wall that I could
see all that was taking place and if seen myself I could easily pull it
under cover.
Nearer and nearer they came. They were too far away to photograph.
Excitement was intense. Were they coming into the village? If they did,
I thought, in all conscience they would get a warm reception, knowing as
I did the arrangements for its defence. My eyes were fixed upon them.
The officer close by was on the point of giving the order to fire when a
burst of machine-gun fire rang out in the distance.
"Our cavalry have got them," said the officer. "We have some strong
posts just here, Bosche has fairly run into them. Look! They have their
tails up."
And they had, for they were running back for all they were worth in the
direction of Bierne.
Our men were positively disappointed, and I can honestly say I was
myself, for the possibilities of a wonderful scene had disappeared.
The tension relaxed; most of the men returned to their billets and
quickly made themselves at home with the people.
Noticing people going into church, I went up the hill to investigate. As
I entered the outer gate an officer clattered up on horseback, swung
himself off and walked up to me.
"Hullo," he said, "I am the doctor. Anything doing here?"
"Well," I said, "there might have been just now."
I related the happenings of the last ten minutes.
"Have you been to Bovincourt?"
"Yes, but the poor devils are too ill for me. I haven't sufficient stuff
with me to go round."
Another officer ran up, "I say, Doctor, for Heaven's sake look in the
church here. The place is packed and half of them are ill, God knows
what with, and one or two are dead."
"Well, I will look, but I can do nothing until this evening. I have no
stuff with me."
We went into the church. Heavens! what a sight met our eyes; the
atmosphere was choking. It was like a charnel-house. Crowds of old men,
women, and children of all ages were crowded together with their
belongings. They had been evacuated from dozens of other villages by the
Huns. Women were hugging their children to them. In one corner an old
woman was bathing the head of a child with an old stocking dipped in
water. The child, I could see, was in a high fever. There must have been
at least three hundred people lying about in all directions, wheezing
and coughing, moaning and crying.
The doctor spoke to one old woman, who had hobbled forward and sank down
near a pillar. The doctor bent down and told her that he would bring
medicine in the evening. Everybody there seemed to hear that magic word,
and scrambled forward begging for medicine for themselves, but mostly
for the children. The scene was pitiable in the extreme.
I asked one women where they had come from. She told me from many
villages. The Bosche had turned them all out of their homes, then burnt
their houses and their belongings. They had walked miles exposed to the
freezing cold rains and winds, they had been packed into this church
like a lot of sheep without covering, without fires. She was begging for
medicine for her three-months-old babe.
"She will die, monsieur, she will die!" And the poor woman burst into a
flood of tears.
I calmed her as much as possible by telling her that everything would be
done for them without delay, and that medicine, food, and comfort would
be given them.
I turned and left the building, for the air was nearly choking me.
Outside I met the doctor, who was arranging to send a cyclist back for
an ambulance.
"They cannot be treated here, it's impossible. I've never seen such a
sight."
I left him and went into the house where the cyclist C.O. had made his
temporary headquarters.
"I want to get on further, is there any other village near by?"
"Yes," he said, "there is Haucourt, but I believe Bosche is in part of
it, or he was this morning. It's about two kilos from here. I shouldn't
go if I were you unless you get further information; I am expecting
another patrol in from there. If you care to wait a few minutes you may
learn something."
I agreed to wait, the "still" man came in just then, and he agreed to
come with me.
"We may as well risk it," I said. "I will take my old bus into the
place. If Bosche sees it he may mistake it again for an armoured car."
So, packing the cameras aboard, I waited for the expected patrol to turn
up. Half an hour passed; no sign. Daylight was waning.
"I am going on," I said to the "still" man, "we cannot wait for the
patrol, there's not time. Will you come?"
"Yes," he said.
I told the C.O. of my intention.
"It's thundering risky," he said. "You're going into new ground again."
I left Vraignes and advanced at a cautious pace in the direction of
Haucourt. Rifle-fire was proceeding in the distance, which I judged was
the other side of the village. A destroyed sugar refinery on the left
was still smoking. It had been blown up by the Huns and the mass of
machinery was flung and twisted about in all directions.
In the village I stopped the car close by a crucifix, which was still
standing.
"Turn the car round," I said to my driver, "and keep the engine going,
we may have to bolt for it."
Then, shouldering the camera, I made my way up the main street. The
place was a mass of smoking ruins; absolutely nothing was left. A huge
mine had been blown up at a cross-road; all trees and bushes had been
cut down. A piano, curiously enough, was lying in the roadway; the front
had been smashed, and no doubt all the wires were hacked through by some
sharp instrument, and the keys had all been broken. The Huns had
evidently tried to take it away with their other loot, but finding it
too heavy for quick transport had abandoned, then wilfully destroyed it
to prevent its being used by others.
The place was as silent as the grave. I filmed a few scenes which
appealed to me, and was on the move towards the further end of the road
when two of our cyclists suddenly came into view. I hurried up to them.
"Any news?" I asked. "Where's Bosche?"
The men were half dead with fatigue. Their legs were caked inches thick
in mud, and it was only by a tremendous effort that they were able to
lift their feet as they walked. They were pushing their cycles; the mud
was caked thick between the wheels and the mudguards forming in itself a
brake on the tyres. Fagged out as they obviously were they tried to
smile at the reply one made.
"Yes, the Bosche is about here outside the village," said one. "We had a
small strong point last night over there," pointing in the distance,
"myself and two pals. We were sitting in the hole smoking when nine
Bosches jumped in on us. Well, sir, they managed to send my pal West,
but that's all. Then we started and six Fritzes are lying out there now.
The other three escaped. It made my blood boil, sir, when they did in my
pal. I'm going to make a wooden cross, and then bury him. We had been
together for a long time, sir, and--well--I miss my pal, but we got six
for him and more to come, sir, more to come before we've finished."
I thanked the man and sympathised with him over his loss and
complimented him on his fight.
"But it's not enough yet, sir, not enough."
The two then struggled away, bent on their errand of making a cross for
a pal. And as they disappeared among the ruins I wondered how many men
in the world could boast of such a true friend. Very few, worse luck!
* * * * *
The sharp crack of a rifle quickly brought me back to earth. A bullet
struck the wall close by. I dived under cover of some bricks dragging my
camera after me. Another came over seeming to strike the spot I had just
vacated. I decided to keep the ruins between myself and the gentle
Bosche. Scenes were very scarce, no matter where one looked it was just
ruins, ruins, ruins.
I wandered on until I came to a long black building, evidently put up by
the Huns. It was quite intact, which to me seemed suspicious. It might
hide a German sniper. I put my camera behind a wall then quietly edged
near the building. Not a sound was audible. In case anyone was there I
thought of a little ruse. The door was close to me and it opened
outwards, so picking up a stone I flung it over the roof, intending it
to fall the other end and so create a diversion. With a sudden pull I
opened the door alongside me, but with no result. I peered round the
door; nobody there. I entered and found the building had been used as a
stable. Straw was lying all over the place; feed-bags had been hastily
thrown down, halters were dotted here and there, and a Uhlan lance was
lying on the ground, which, needless to say, I retained as a souvenir.
The rearguard of the enemy had evidently taken shelter there during the
previous night and had made a hasty exit owing to the close proximity of
our boys.
Evening was drawing on apace, so I decided to make my way back to the
car. The "still" man was awaiting my return.
At Bovincourt I met an Intelligence Officer and told him of my
experiences. He seemed highly amused and thanked me for the information
brought. I told him that wishing to be on the spot if anything
interesting happened during the night or early next morning I had
decided to sleep in my car in the village. I was going to hunt up a
place to cook some food.
"I will take you somewhere," he said. "There is the old Mayor of Bierne
here. He has been evacuated by the Bosche. He's an interesting old
fellow and you might have a chat with him. He is in a house close by
with his wife. Come along."
We found the old man in one of the half-dozen remaining houses left
intact by the Huns.
We entered the kitchen and my friend introduced us to Paul Andrew, a
tall stately French farmer of a type one rarely sees. He had dark curly
hair, a shaggy moustache and beard, blue eyes and sunken cheeks, sallow
complexion and a look of despair upon his face, which seemed to brighten
up on our entrance.
I asked him if his good wife would cook a little food for us, as we
wished to stay the night in the village.
"Monsieur," he said, "what we have is yours. God knows it's little
enough--the Bosche has taken it all. But whatever monsieur wishes he
has only to ask. Will monsieur sit down?"
I bade adieu to the officer who had brought us there, had the car run
into the yard, and then returned to the cosy kitchen, and sat by the
fire whilst the old lady prepared some hot coffee.
"These are more comfortable quarters than we expected to-night," I said.
"I must make a note of all my scenes taken to-day. Have you a light,
Monsieur Andrew?"
"Oui, Monsieur, I have only one lamp left and I hid that as the Bosche
took everything that was made of brass or copper, even the door
handles."
He brought in the lamp, a small brass one with a candle stuck in it. I
proceeded with my record, then we supped on bread, sardines, and bully,
sharing our white bread with Andrew and his wife. They had not seen or
tasted such wonderful stuff since the Bosche occupation, and their eyes
sparkled with pleasure on tasting it again. I had brought copies of the
_Echo de Paris_, _Journal_, _Matin_ and other French papers, and these
were the first they had seen for two years. The farmer declared it was
like a man awakening from a long sleep.
"We'll turn in," I said.
Gathering up my coat I opened the door. The freezing cold seemed to
chill me to the bone, and it was snowing hard. I flashed on my torch and
we found our way to the car. Quickly getting inside, I unfolded the
seats which formed two bunks, and struggling inside our sleeping-bags we
were soon asleep.
[Illustration: THE QUARRY FROM WHICH I CRAWLED TO FILM THE GERMAN
TRENCHES IN FRONT OF ST. QUENTIN, 1917. IT WAS ALSO THE POINT OF LIAISON
BETWEEN THE BRITISH AND FRENCH ARMIES]
I awoke with a start. It was pitch dark. I rubbed the steam from the
door window and looked out; it was still snowing. I had an extraordinary
feeling that something was happening, that some danger was near. If
anybody had been there near the car I should have seen them; the snow
made that possible. But there was not a sign of movement. I got out
of my sleeping-bag, thinking that if any prowling Bosche patrol ventured
near I should be able to do something. Nothing happened, and for quite
half an hour I was on the alert. Several rifle-shots rang out quite
near, then quietness reigned again, and, as nothing else happened, I
wriggled into my bag again and dozed.
In the morning I told one of our patrol officers of my experience.
"You were right," he said. "Uhlan rearguard patrols sneaked in near the
village, and must have passed quite close to your place. My men had some
shots at them and gave chase, but owing to the confounded snow they got
away."
I decided that if I slept there again that night it would be with a
rifle by my side.