With the British flag flying at the front, we sped away next morning
on the road to Termonde. At Melle we came upon the blazing cottages
we had seen pictured the night before. Here we encountered a roving
band of Belgian soldiers who were in a free and careless mood and
evinced a ready willingness to put themselves at our disposal. Under
the command of the photographers, they charged across the fields with
fixed bayonets, wriggled up through the grass, or, standing behind the
trenches, blazed away with their guns at an imaginary enemy. They did
some good acting, grim and serious as death. All except one.
This youth couldn't suppress his sense of humor. He could not, or would
not, keep from laughing, even when he was supposed to be blowing the
head off a Boche. He was properly disciplined and put out of the game,
and we went on with our manoeuvers to the accompaniment of the clicking
cameras until the photographers had gathered in a fine lot of realistic
fighting-line pictures.
One of the photographers sat stolidly in the automobile smoking his
cigarette while the others were reaping their harvest.
"Why don't you take these too?" I asked.
"Oh," he replied, "I've been sending in so much of that stuff that I
just got a telegram from my paper saying, 'Pension off that Belgian
regiment which is doing stunts in the trenches.'"
While his little army rested from their manoeuvers the
Director-in-Chief turned to me and said:
"Wouldn't you like to have a photograph of yourself in these
war-surroundings, just to take home as a souvenir?"
That appealed to me. After rejecting some commonplace suggestions, he
exclaimed: "I have it. Shot as a German Spy. There's the wall to stand
up against; and we'll pick a crack firing-squad out of these Belgians.
A little bit of all right, eh?"
I acquiesced in the plan and was led over to the wall while a movie-man
whipped out a handkerchief and tied it over my eyes. The director
then took a firing squad in hand. He had but recently witnessed
the execution of a spy where he had almost burst with a desire to
photograph the scene. It had been excruciating torture to restrain
himself. But the experience had made him feel conversant with the
etiquette of shooting a spy, as it was being done amongst the very best
firing-squads. He made it now stand him in good stead.
"Aim right across the bandage," the director coached them. I could hear
one of the soldiers laughing excitedly as he was warming up to the
rehearsal. It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot of confidence
in a stray band of soldiers. Some one of those Belgians, gifted with a
lively imagination, might get carried away with the suggestion and act
as if I really were a German spy.
"Shoot the blooming blighter in the eye," said one movie man playfully.
"Bally good idea!" exclaimed the other one approvingly, while one eager
actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer. That was altogether too
much. I tore the bandage from my eyes, exclaiming:
"It would be a bally good idea to take those cartridges out first."
Some fellow might think his cartridge was blank or try to fire wild,
just as a joke in order to see me jump. I wasn't going to take any risk
and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges were ejected.
Even when the bandage was readjusted "Didn't-know-it-was-loaded"
stories still were haunting me. In a moment, however, it was over and
I was promised my picture within a fortnight.
A week later I picked up the London _Daily Mirror_ from a news-stand.
It had the caption:
BELGIAN SOLDIERS SHOOT A GERMAN SPY CAUGHT AT
TERMONDE ... PICTURE
I opened up the paper and what was my surprise to see a big spread
picture of myself, lined up against that row of Melle cottages and
being shot for the delectation of the British public. There is the same
long raincoat that runs as a _motif_ through all the other pictures.
Underneath it were the words:
"The Belgians have a short, sharp method of dealing with the Kaiser's
rat-hole spies. This one was caught near Termonde and, after being
blindfolded, the firing-squad soon put an end to his inglorious career."
One would not call it fame exactly, even though I played the star-rôle.
But it is a source of some satisfaction to have helped a royal lot
of fellows to a first-class scoop. As the "authentic spy-picture
of the war," it has had a broadcast circulation. I have seen it in
publications ranging all the way from _The Police Gazette to Collier's
Photographic History of the European War_. In a university club I once
chanced upon a group gathered around this identical picture. They were
discussing the psychology of this "poor devil" in the moments before
he was shot. It was a further source of satisfaction to step in and
arbitrarily contradict all their conclusions and, having shown them how
totally mistaken they were, proceed to tell them exactly how the victim
felt. This high-handed manner nettled one fellow terribly:
"Not so arbitrary, my friend!" he said. "You haven't any right to be so
devilish cock-sure."
"Haven't I?" I replied. "Who has any better right? I happen to be that
identical man!"
But that little episode has been of real value to me. It is said that
if one goes through the motions he gets the emotions. I believe that I
have an inkling of how a man feels when he momentarily expects a volley
of cold lead to turn his skull into a sieve.