Geoffrey H. Malins

The General's Speech to the Fusiliers Before Going Into Action—Filming the 15-inch Howitzers—A Miniature Earthquake—"The Day" is Postponed—Keeping Within "The Limits"—A Surprise Meeting in the Trenches—A Reminder of Other Days—I Get Into a Tight Corner—And Have An Unpleasantly Hot Experience—I Interview a Trench Mortar—Have a Lively Quarter of an Hour—And Then Get Off.

Rain, rain, rain. It was like a dull, dismal December night. Owing to the tramping of hundreds of feet up and down the trenches, they became like a quagmire. We slipped and slid, clutching to the sticky, clay walls, and floundering up to our knees in holes, and, to make matters worse, Bosche, who knew that this was the time we brought up fresh munitions, crumped the Fifth Avenue as hard as he could. One or two shells crashed into the trench on the way up, and I had to pass over two working parties (by the aid of a candle-light, screened) searching for, and placing the remains of their comrades in sacks.

Good God! it's a hellish game; and the terror of war gripped one's heartstrings that night. The momentary flash of the exploding shells lighted up the faces of the men with ghastly vividness, some grinding out curses then groping blindly on. I was glad when the journey was ended, and I turned into a dug-out in the village to rest for the night.

Next morning a misty, drizzly pall still hung over everything. I wondered how in the world our men were going to attack under such conditions, and to-morrow was "The Day." I pitied them with all my heart and soul. And then I thought of myself, and my own particular job. I couldn't possibly "take" in such disgusting weather. The result would be an absolute failure. I controlled my feelings, and hoped for the best.

The time arrived for the General's speech. Reaching the field, I found all the men mustered up. The General had just arrived. I started to film the scenes as they presented themselves to me. Jove! The speech was the most impressive that I had ever heard. I will give it as it was spoken, as near as I can. I do not think that it has been published before:

The faces of the men shone with a new light. It seemed as if they had seen a sight which other mortals were not allowed to look upon. As upright as poplars, chests well forward and heads thrown back, their souls seemed to speak out of their inflexible determination to win. They marched away, going to that stretch of land from which many have never returned—giving their lives for freedom and the honour of England.

I turned and gave a parting wave of the hand to a group of officers standing by.

"See you to-night," I said, "at the 'White City.' We will drink to the health of 'The Day,'" and with a parting laugh I moved a way.

I found out through H.Q. that some of our 15-inch howitzers were in the vicinity, so I decided to film them without delay, to work them into the story of the battle. I discovered their position on my map. I reached the battery. The state of the ground was indescribable. It was more like a "sea of mud," and standing in the middle of this morass was the giant gun, for all the world like a horrible frog squatting on its haunches. Each time it breathed it belched out flame and smoke with the most unearthly crash that could possibly be produced, and with each breath there flew with it a mass of metal and high explosive weighing fourteen hundred pounds, scattering death and destruction for hundreds of yards round the point of impact in the German defences, so that our boys might find it easier to force their way through.

I filmed the firing several times, from various points of view, and when standing only about fifteen yards away the concussion shook the ground like a miniature earthquake. On one occasion, indeed, it lifted my camera and tripod in the air, driving it crashing into my chest. I had unknowingly placed myself in the danger zone which forms a semi-circle on either side of the muzzle when fired, the force being at times so great as to tear trees up by the roots and send them crashing to the ground.

The prospects for "The Day" were certainly bad. As one burly Lancashire lad said to me: "the Devil was looking after his own; but we are going to beat them, sir." That was the spirit of all the men I met there.

I went direct to B.H.Q. to get a full supply of film stock before going to the front line. I wished to get there early, to have a final look round and a discussion with the officers.

A man I knew was there, looking for all the world like a man down and out. He had a face as long as a fiddle, and several other officers were looking just as glum. "You're a cheerful lot," I said. "What's up? Anything wrong?"

"Yes, rather," they replied, "the —— day is postponed for forty-eight hours."

"Great Scott! Why?" I asked.

"The weather," he answered laconically. "It's quite impossible for our chaps to go over the top in such sticky stuff. They wouldn't stand an earthly. As I said before, it's doing its best to upset the whole affair. I know the men will be awfully disappointed. We can hardly hold them back now—but there, I suppose the Commander-in-Chief knows best. Undoubtedly it's a wise decision. The weather may break—God knows it couldn't be worse!"

At that moment the Brigade-General came in. He was looking quite bright.

"I hear 'The Day' has been postponed, sir," I said. "Is that official?"

"Yes," he said. "If the weather improves ever such a little it will pay us for waiting, and of course it will suit you much better?"

"Rather," I replied. "It also gives me more time to film the preliminary scenes. I shall, however, keep to my programme, and go to the trenches this afternoon."

I packed all my apparatus together, put some bully and biscuits in my bag, and started off once more for the trenches. I admit that on the journey thoughts crept into my mind, and I wondered whether I should return. Outwardly I was merry and bright, but inwardly—well, I admit I felt a bit nervous. And yet, I had an instinctive feeling that all would be well, that I need not worry. Such is the complex mystery of the human mind, battling within itself against its own knowledge, its own decisions, its own instincts. And yet there is a predominating force which seems to shuffle itself out of the midst of that chaotic state of mind, and holds itself up as a beacon-light, saying "Follow me, believe in me, let me guide you, all will be well." And it is the man who allows himself to be guided by that mysterious something, which for the want of a better name we may call "instinct," who benefits, both spiritually and materially, by it.

The usual big gun duel was proceeding with its usual intensity, but we were putting over about fifty shells to the Huns' one. "Crump" fell both ahead and behind me, compelling me, as before, to fall flat upon the ground. I reached the "Fifth Avenue." The trench was full of men taking down munitions. The news of the postponement had by some means reached them; they also were looking rather glum.

Ye Gods, I thought, it's very nearly worth while to risk walking along the top. In places there was quite two feet of mud and water to wallow through.

"Fritz is crumping down the bottom of the Avenue, sir," said a Tommy to me; "just caught several of our lads—dirty blighters: right in the trench, sir."

"Thanks," I replied.

Thinking there might be an opportunity of getting some scenes of shell-bursts, I hurried on as fast as conditions would permit. With men coming up, and myself and others going down, with full packs on, it was most difficult to squeeze past each other. At times it was impossible, so climbing up on to the parapet, I crawled into another traverse further along.

Just then another shell burst lower down, but well away from the trench, hurting no one. I eventually reached the "White City" without mishap, and was greeted enthusiastically by the officers present.

"What's the programme now?"

"I am waiting for the final kick-off," I said. "Are you going to give me a good show? And don't forget," I said, "hold back some of your bayonet-work on Fritz until I get there with my machine."

"But you're not coming after us with that affair, are you?"

"Yes, certainly; bet your life I shan't be far behind. As soon as you get into Bosche trenches I shall be there; so don't forget—get there."

From the corner some one shouted: "Tell brother Fritz if he gets out of 'the limits,' won't you?" This remark caused much laughter.

"Where have you heard that term used?" I enquired. "'Limits' is a technical term."

"Yes, I heard it used once, a year or two ago. I was staying at a small place called Steyning, near Brighton. A Film Company was taking scenes in the village and on the downs. They had about two hundred horsemen and an immense crowd, and were rehearsing a scene for what I was told was a representation of the Battle of Worcester. It was some fight. The camera man was continually shouting out to them to keep in 'the limits' (I assumed he meant the angle of view). As I say, it was some fight. Everything went well until a section of the men, who were supposed to run away, got a few genuine knocks on the head and, wishing to get their own back, they continued fighting. It was the funniest thing in the world. Of course the camera was stopped, and the scene retaken."

"That's extraordinary," I replied. "Do you know that I was the chap who filmed that scene? it was for a film play called 'King Charles.' It's very peculiar how one meets. I remember that incident quite well."

I again filmed various scenes of the Germans "strafing" our lines. Our guns, as usual, were crashing out. They were pouring concentrated fire on the Hawthorn Redoubt, a stronghold of the Germans, and thinking it would yield an excellent picture, I made my way to a point of vantage, whence I could get an unobstructed field of view. There was only one place, and that was a point directly opposite. To get there it was necessary to cross a sunken road about twenty-five feet wide. But it was under continual fire from German machine guns, and being broad daylight it was absolutely asking for trouble, thick and unadulterated, to attempt to cross it. I was advised not to do so, and I admit I ought to have taken the advice. Anyway, the opportunity of getting such a fine scene of a barrage of fire was too strong, and for once my cautionary instincts were at fault.

To reach the sunken road was comparatively easy. You had only to walk along our front line trench, and fall down flat on the ground when a German shell burst near you, then proceed. I reached the junction where the road ran across at right angles, and from the shelter of our parapet the road looked the quietest place on earth. It appeared easy enough to me to jump up quickly, run across and drop on the further side in our trench.

"Ridiculously easy! I'm going across," I said to my man. "When I'm over I'll throw a cord across for you to tie my tripod on to; then I'll pull it across. It will save you attempting it."

I tied the camera on my shoulders, so as to have my arms quite free. I was now ready. The firing was renewed with redoubled vigour. Shells I could see were falling on the Hun lines like hailstones. "Jove!" I said to myself, "I shall miss it. Here goes."

Clambering up to the road level, I sprawled out flat and lay perfectly still for a few seconds, with my heart jumping like a steam engine. Nothing happened. I gradually drew up my leg, dug the toe of my boot in the ground, and pushed myself forward bit by bit. So far, so good: I was half-way across. I was congratulating myself on my easy task. "What in the world am I lying here for?" I asked myself; "why shouldn't I run the remaining distance?" And suiting the action to the word, I got up—and found trouble! I had barely raised myself to my hands and knees when, with a rattle and a rush, a stream of bullets came swishing by, some striking the ground on my left, about nine feet away.

I took the whole situation in in a flash. To lie there was almost certain death; to stand up was worse; to go back was as bad as going forward. What happened afterwards I don't know. I could hear the bullets whizzing by my head with an ugly hiss. The next moment, with a jump and a spring, I landed head first in the trench on the opposite side. For the moment I did not know whether I was hit or not. I unstrapped my camera, to see if it had caught any bullets, but, thank Heaven, they had cleared it. Some of our men were standing looking aghast at me, and wondering what the devil it was that had made such a sudden dive into their midst. The look on their faces was just too funny for words; I had to roar with laughter, and, realising that I was safe, they also joined in.

But I was not out of the wood yet, for brother Fritz immediately turned "whizz-bangs" on to us. "Phut-bang," "phut-bang," they came. Every one scampered for cover. Needless to say, I did so too. Five minutes went by. All the time these souvenirs dropped around us, but luckily none of them got any direct hits on our trench.

I thought I would wait another five minutes, to see if Bosche would cease fire. But not he. He was rather cross about my crossing the road safely.

Time went by. Still the firing continued. I decided to risk throwing the cord and pulling over my tripod. Keeping low, I yelled to my man: he, like a sage, had also taken cover, but hearing my shouts came out.

"The rope is coming," I yelled. "Tug it as a signal, when you have it."

"Right," came the reply.

Three times I threw it before I received the welcome tug at the other end. Then a voice shouted: "Pull away, sir."

I pulled. I had to do it gently, otherwise the broken nature of the ground might damage the head. At last it was safely over, but Bosche had seen something moving across; then he turned his typewriter on again. More bullets flew by, but with the exception of one which struck the metal revolving top and sliced out a piece as evenly as if it had been done by machine, no harm was caused.

I bade one of the men shoulder my tripod. We rushed up the trench as fast as possible, and I thanked Heaven for my escape. When I reached the section where I judged it best to fit up my camera, I gently peeped over the parapet. What a sight. Never in my life had I seen such a hurricane of fire. It was inconceivable that any living thing could exist anywhere near it. The shells were coming over so fast and furious that it seemed as if they must be touching each other on their journey through the air.

To get my camera up was the work of a few seconds. I had no time to put any covering material over it. The risk had to be run, the picture was worth it. Up went my camera well above the parapet and, quickly sighting my object, I started to expose. Swinging the machine first one way then the other, I turned the handle continuously. Pieces of shell were flying and ripping past close overhead. They seemed to get nearer every time. Whether they were splinters from the bursting shells or bullets from machine guns I could not tell, but it got so hot at last that I judged it wise to take cover. I had exposed sufficient film for my purpose, so quickly unscrewing the camera, my man taking the tripod, I hurried into a dug-out for cover. "Jove!" I thought, mopping the perspiration from my head, "quite near enough to be healthy!"

Although the men were all taking cover, they were as happy as crickets over this "strafe." There is nothing a Tommy likes more than to see our artillery plastering Bosche trenches into "Potsdam."

"Well, what's the next move?" I was asked.

"Trench Mortars," I said. "Both 'Flying Pigs' and 'Plum Puddings' ought to make topping scenes."

"Yes," the Captain said. "They are in action this afternoon, and I am in charge of H.T.M. I'll give you a good show. I have only one pit available, as Fritz dropped a 'crump' in the other yesterday, and blew the whole show to smithereens. My sergeant was sitting smoking at the time, and when she blew up it lifted him clean out of the trench, without even so much as scratching him. He turned round to me, and cursed Bosche for spoiling his smoke. He's promised to get his own back on 'Brother Fritz.' Bet your life he will too."

He had hardly ceased speaking, when our dug-out shook as if a mine had gone up close by. I tumbled out, followed by the others. Lumps of earth fell on our heads; I certainly thought the roof was coming in on us. Getting into the trench, the bombardment was still going strong, and looking on my left I saw a dense cloud of smoke in our own firing trench.

"What in the world's up?" I enquired of a man close by.

"Dunno, sir," he said. "I believe it's a Bosche mine. It made enough fuss to be one, yet it seems in such an extraordinary position."

"How about getting round to have a look at it?" I said to ——.

"Right-o," he said; "but you know we can't cross the road there. I think if we back well down, about one hundred yards, we may nip across into No. 2 Avenue. That'll bring us out near 'Jacob's Ladder.'"

"Lead on," I said. "I wish I had known. I came in across the road there," pointing down our firing trench.

"You've got more pluck than I have," he said. "You can congratulate yourself that you are alive. Anyway, come on."

Eventually I reached "Jacob's Ladder," and asked an officer what had happened.

"I don't know," he said; "but whatever it was, it's smashed our front trench for about eighty yards: it's absolutely impassable."

Another officer came running up at that moment. "I say," he said, "there's a scene up there for you. A trench mortar gun had a premature burst, and exploded all the munition in the pit; blew the whole lot—men and all—to pieces. It's made a crater thirty yards across. It's a beastly wreck. Can't use that section of the front line. And to make matters worse, Fritz is pumping over tear-shells. Everybody is tickled to death with the fumes."

"Don't cheer me up, will you?" I remarked. "I'm going to film the trench mortar this afternoon, both the H.T.M. and the 2-inch Gee. I can thank my lucky stars I didn't decide to do them earlier. Anyway, here goes; the light is getting rather poor."

The officer with whom I was talking kindly offered to guide me to the spot. Crumps were still falling, and so was the rain. "We'll go through 'Lanwick Street,' then bear to the left, and don't forget to keep your head down."

There are two things I detest more than anything else in the trenches: they are "whizz-bangs" and rats. The latter got mixed up in my feet as I was walking through the trench, and one, more impudent than the rest, when I crouched down to avoid a burst, jumped on to my back and sprang away into the mud.

"We will turn back and go by way of 'White City,' then up King Street. It may be cooler there." It certainly was not healthy in this neighbourhood.

Turning back, I bade my man follow close behind. Entering the main trench, I hurried along, and was quite near the King Street turning when a Hun "crump" came tearing overhead. I yelled out to my man to take cover, and crushed into the entrance of a dug-out myself. In doing so, I upset a canteen of tea over a bucket-fire which one of our lads was preparing to drink. His remarks were drowned in the explosion of the shell, which landed barely twenty-five feet away.

"Now then," I called to my man, "run for it into King Street," and I got there just in time to crouch down and escape another "crump" which came hurtling over. In a flash I knew it was coming very near: I crouched lower. It burst with a sickening sound. It seemed just overhead. Dirt and rubble poured over me as I lay there. I rushed to the corner to see where it had struck. It had landed only twelve feet from the dug-out entrance which I had left only a few seconds before, and it had killed the two men whom I had crushed against, and for the loss of whose tea I was responsible.

It was not the time or place to hang about, so I hurried to the trench-mortar pit to finish my scenes whilst daylight lasted.

I met the officer in charge of the T.M.

"Keep your head down," he shouted, as I turned round a traverse. "Our parapet has been practically wiped out, and there is a sniper in the far corner of the village. He has been dropping his pellets into my show all day, and Fritz has been splashing me with his 'Minnies' to try and find my gun, but he will never get it. Just look at the mess around."

I was looking. It would have beaten the finest Indian scout to try and distinguish the trench from the dÉbris and honeycomb of shell-holes.

"Where the deuce is your outfit?" I said, looking round.

"You follow me, but don't show an inch of head above. Look out." Phut-bang came a pip-squeak. It struck and burst about five yards in front of us. "Brother Fritz is confoundedly inconsiderate," he said. "He seems to want all the earth to himself. Come on; we'll get there this time, and run for it."

After clambering, crawling, running and jumping, we reached a hole in the ground, into which the head and shoulders of a man were just disappearing.

"This is my abode of love," said my guide. "How do you like it?"

I looked down, and at the depth of about twelve feet was a trench mortar. The hole itself was, of course, boarded round with timber, and was about seven feet square. There was a gallery leading back under our parapet for the distance of about eighty feet, and in this were stored the bombs. The men also sheltered there.

I let myself down with my camera and threaded by the numerous "plum puddings" lying there: I fixed my camera up and awaited the order for the men to commence firing.

"Are you ready?" came a voice from above.

"Right, sir," replied the sergeant. I began exposing my film.

"Fire!" the T.M. officer shouted down.

Fire they did, and the concussion nearly knocked me head over heels. I was quite unprepared for such a backblast. Before they fired again, I got a man to hold down the front leg of my tripod. The gun was recharged; the order to fire was given, the lanyard was pulled, but no explosion.

"Hullo, another——"

"Misfire," was the polite remark of the sergeant. "Those fuses are giving us more trouble than enough."

Another detonator was put on, everything was ready again. Another tug was given. Again no explosion.

Remembering the happenings of the morning in another pit, when a premature burst occurred, I felt anything but comfortable. Sitting in the middle of about one hundred trench mortar bombs, visions of the whole show going up came to me.

Another detonator was put in. "Fire," came the order. Again it failed.

"Look here, sergeant," I said, "if that bally thing happens again I'm off."

"The blessed thing has never been so bad before, sir. Let's have one more try."

Still another detonator was put in. I began turning the handle of my camera. This time it was successful.

"That's all I want," I said. "I'm off. Hand me up my camera. And with due respect to your gun," I said to the T.M. officer, "you might cease fire until I am about fifty yards away. I don't mind risking Brother Fritz's 'strafe,' but I do object to the possibility of being scattered to the four winds of heaven by our own shells." And with a laugh and good wishes, I left him.

"I say," he called out, "come into my dug-out to-night, will you? It's just in front of Fifth Avenue. I shall be there in about half an hour; I have got to give Fritz a few more souvenirs to go on with. There is a little more wire left over there, and the C.O. wants it all 'strafed' away. Do come, won't you? So long. See you later. Keep your head down."

"Right-o!" I said, with a laugh. "Physician, heal thyself. A little higher, and you might as well be sitting on the parapet." He turned round sharply, then dropped on his knees.

"Strafe that bally parapet. I forgot all about it. Fire!" he yelled, and I laughed at the pleasure he was getting out of blowing up Fritz.

I scrambled and slithered back into the recognised trench again, and on my way back filmed the H.T.M., or "Flying Pig," in action. By this time it was getting rather dull, so going to a dug-out, I dropped my apparatus, and had another final look at the position from which I was going to film the great attack in the morning.