How I Filmed the War Part 38

"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 pus.h.i.+ng their cycles; the mud was caked thick between the wheels and the mudguards forming in itself a brake on the tyres. f.a.gged 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; n.o.body 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.a.ggy 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. G.o.d 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 bra.s.s or copper, even the door handles."

He brought in the lamp, a small bra.s.s 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XXIX

BEFORE ST. QUENTIN

The "Hindenburg" Line--A Diabolical Piece of Vandalism--Brigadier H.Q. in a Cellar--A Fight in Mid-air--Waiting for the Taking of St. Quentin--_L'Envoi_.

Still the great German retreat continued. Village after village fell into our hands; mile after mile the enemy was relentlessly pursued by our cavalry and cyclist corps. Still the Germans burnt and devastated everything in their path although, in some instances, there was evidence that they were s.h.i.+fted from their lines of defence with far more force and prompt.i.tude than they imagined we would put up against them in this particular section. The enemy had arranged his operations, as usual, by timetable, but he had failed to take into consideration the character of the British soldier, with the result his schemes had "gone agley." To save men the German high command gave orders for a further retirement to their Hindenburg defences, a fortified line of such strength as had never been equalled.

If this line was not impregnable, nothing could be. It was the last word in defence system and it had taken something like two years to perfect.

The barbed wire, of a special kind, was formidable in its ma.s.s; three belts fifty feet deep wound about it in an inextricable ma.s.s in the form of a series of triangles and other geometric designs. The trenches themselves were constructional works of art; switch lines were thrown out as an extra precaution; in front of the most important strategical positions, machine-gun posts and strong points abounded in unlimited quant.i.ties. It was the Hun's last and most powerful line of defence this side of the Franco-German frontier. This "Hindenburg" line stretched from a point between Lens and Arras where it joined the northern trench system, which had been occupied for the past two years, down to St.

Quentin, pa.s.sing behind the town at a distance of about five kilos, with a switch line in front to take the first shock of the Allies' blow when it came.

Behind this trench the Huns thought they could safely rest and hold up the Allies' advance. But, with their wonderful and elaborate system of barbed-wire defence which they antic.i.p.ated would keep us out, they probably forgot one point--it would certainly keep them in--tightly bolted and barred. Therefore, under such conditions, it was the side which had the predominance in guns and munitions that could smash their way through by sheer weight of metal, and force a pa.s.sage through which to pour their troops, taking section by section by a series of flanking and encircling movements, threaten their line of communication, finally cracking up the whole line and compel a further extensive falling back to save their armies.

Against the front portion of this line we thrust ourselves early in March, 1917, and our ma.s.sed guns poured in the most terrible fire the world had ever known. Lens was practically encircled--the Vimy ridge was taken by a.s.sault, and dozens of villages captured, resulting in the capture of eighteen thousand prisoners and over two hundred guns.

Hindenburg threw in his divisions with reckless extravagance; he knew that if this section gave way all hope of holding on to Northern France was gone. Time and again he sent forward his "cannon fodder" in ma.s.sed formation--targets which our guns could not possibly miss--and they were mown down in countless numbers; his losses were appalling. In certain places his attacking forces succeeded for a time in retaking small sections of ground we had gained, only to be driven out by a strong counter-attack. His losses were terribly disproportionate to his temporary advantage.

I moved down to the extreme right of the British line; St. Quentin was the goal upon which I had set my mind. In my opinion the taking of that place by a combined Franco-British offensive with the triumphant entry of the troops would make a film second to none. In the first place the preliminary operations pictorially would differ from all previous issues of war films, and in the second place it would be the first film actually showing the point of "liaison" with the French and their subsequent advance--making it, from an historical, public, and sentimental point of view, a film _par excellence_. Therefore in this section of the British line I made my stand.

I left my H.Q. early in April, 1917. I intended to live at the line in one of the cellars of a small village situated near the Bois de Holnon, which had been totally destroyed.

I proceeded by the main St. Quentin road, through Pouilly into Caulaincourt. The same desolation and wanton destruction was everywhere in evidence; but the most diabolical piece of vandalism was typified by the once beautiful Chateau of Caulaincourt, which was an awful heap of ruins. The Chateau had been blown into the Somme, with the object of damming the river, and so flooding the country-side; partially it succeeded, but our engineers were quickly upon the scene and, soon, the river was again running its normal course. The flooded park made an excellent watering-place for horses. The wonderful paintings and tapestries in the library on the Chateau had been destroyed. As I wandered among the ruins, filming various scenes of our engineers at work sorting out the debris, I noticed many things which must have been of inestimable value. Every statue and ornamentation about the grounds was wilfully smashed to atoms; the flower-pots which lined the edges of the once beautiful floral walks had been deliberately crushed--in fact a more complete specimen of purposeless, wanton destruction it would be impossible to find.

I filmed the most interesting sections; then continued my way through Bouvais on to see the General of a Division. This Division was working near the French left. After a very interesting conversation this officer recommended me to call on a Brigadier-General.

"He is stationed at ----," he said. "I will ring him up and tell him you are on the way. He will give you all the map references of the O.P.'s in the neighbourhood. Anyway, you can make your own arrangements, I suppose, about views?"

"Oh, yes, sir, certainly, so long as I can get very near to the place."

"Right. You go into all these details with General ----."

Thanking him I hurried away. I found the mines which Bosche had exploded at all cross-roads very troublesome, and on one occasion, in endeavouring to cross by way of the field alongside, I got badly stuck; so I had to borrow a couple of horses to get me out on to the road again.

I duly arrived and reported to Brigadier H.Q. It was the cellar of a once decent house by the appearance of the garden. I went down six steps into a chamber reeking with dampness about six feet high by ten feet square; a candle was burning in a bottle on a roughly made table, and, sitting at it, was the General closely studying details on a map.

He looked up as I entered.