Geoffrey H. Malins

A Firework Display Heralds the Arrival of "The Day"—How the Boys Spent Their Last Few Hours in the Trenches—Rats as Bedfellows—I Make an Early Start—And Get Through a Mine-shaft into "No Man's Land"—The Great Event Draws Near—Anxious Moments—The Men Fix Bayonets—And Wait the Word of Command to "Go Over the Top."

Darkness came, and with it a host of star-shells, or Verey lights, which were shot up high in the air from both the German and our own trenches. They looked for all the world like a huge firework display at the Crystal Palace.

Rain had ceased. The heavens were studded with countless millions of stars. "Great prospects for to-morrow," said one. "I hope it's fine, for the sake of the boys. They are as keen as mustard to go over the top."

As we talked, batch after batch of men came gliding by in their full kit, smoking and chatting. While I was standing there hundreds must have passed me in that narrow trench, quietly going to their allotted positions. Now and again sharp orders were given by their officers.

"How's your section, sergeant? Are you fitted up?"

"Yes, sir," came a voice from the blackness.

"Now, lads, come along: get through as quickly as possible. Post your sentries at once, and be sharp."

It was not long before little red fires were gleaming out of the dug-out entrances, and crowds of men were crouching round, heating their canteens of water, some frying pieces of meat, others heating soup, and all the time laughing and carrying on a most animated conversation. From other groups came the subdued humming of favourite songs. Some were cursing and swearing, but with such a bluntness that, if I may say so, it seemed to take all the profanity from the words.

And these men knew they were going "over the top" in the morning. The day which they had dreamed of was about to materialise. They knew that many would not be alive to-morrow night, yet I never saw a sad face nor heard a word of complaint. My feeling whilst watching these men in the glow of the firelight was almost indescribable. I was filled with awe at their behaviour. I reverenced them more than I had ever done before; and I felt like going down on my knees and thanking God I was an Englishman. No words of mine can fitly describe this wonderful scene. And all the time more men, and still more men, were pouring into the trenches, and munitions of all descriptions were being served out.

The bursting German shells, and the shrieks overhead of the missiles from our own guns, were for the moment forgotten in the immensity of the sights around me. I turned and groped the way back to my shelter and, as I did so, our fire increased in intensity. This was the prelude to the greatest attack ever made in the history of the world, and ere the sun set on the morrow many of these heroes—the Lancashire Fusiliers, Royal Fusiliers, Middlesex, etc.—would be lying dead on the field of battle, their lives sacrificed that civilisation might live.

At last I found a friend, and sitting down to our box-table we had a meal together. Afterwards I wandered out, and entered several other dug-outs, where friends were resting. They all seemed anxious for the morning to come. I met the mining officer.

"I say; let me check my watch by yours," I said. "As the mine is going up at 7.20 I shall want to start my machine about half a minute beforehand."

"Right-o!" he said. We then checked watches.

I bade him good night, and also the others, and the best of luck.

"Same to you," they cried in general chorus. "I hope to heavens you get through with it, and show them all at home in England how the boys fight. They will then realise what war really means. Good night, old man."

"Good night," I replied, and then found my way back to the shelter. I rolled myself in a blanket, and tried to sleep.

The night was very cold. I lay shivering in my blanket and could not get warm. The guns were continually crashing out. Shells were bursting just outside with appalling regularity. Suddenly they seemed to quieten down, as if by some means the Germans had got to know of our great plans and were preparing for the blow. Presently everything was comparatively quiet, except for the scurrying of countless rats, running and jumping over my body, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I expect I must have dozed off to sleep, for when I awoke day was breaking, and the din of the gun-fire was terrific. Innumerable worlds seemed to be crashing together, and it sounded as if thousands of peals of thunder had concentrated themselves into one soul-terrifying roar.

An officer looked in at the entrance at that moment.

"Hullo!" he said. "Are you the 'movie-man'?"

"Yes," I said, sitting up. "What's up?"

"Well, I'm hanged; I'm glad I've found you. Do you know, I asked several Johnnies down the line if you were in the trenches and they laughed at me; asked me if I had been drinking; they thought I was pulling their leg. 'A movie man in the trenches,' they said, in tones of amazement; 'not likely!' I told them that you were here last night, and that you are here to film the attack. Well, anyway, this is what I have come for. The Colonel sent me—you know him—to see if you would film a company of our men in occupation of Sunken Road. They occupied it during the night without a single casualty, by tunnelling for about fifty yards through the parapet, under 'No Man's Land'; then sapped up and into the road. It's a fine piece of work," he said, "and would make a good picture."

"Rather," I said; "I'll come. It will be splendid from the historical point of view. Can you let me have a guide, to show me the quickest and best way?"

"Yes, I will send one of our pioneers; he will guide you," he said. "Let me know how you get on, won't you? And, if possible, when you return call in and see the Colonel. He will be frightfully bucked."

"Right-o!" I said. "By Gad! it's bally cold. My teeth won't hold still. Push that man along, and I'll get off."

"Au revoir," he called out as he left. "See you later."

The guide turned up a few minutes afterwards; he took the tripod, I the camera. I started off and entered King Street, making my way towards the firing trench. I have described in previous chapters what it was like to be under an intense bombardment. I have attempted to analyse my feelings when lying in the trenches with shells bursting directly overhead. I have been in all sorts of places, under heavy shell-fire, but for intensity and nearness—nothing—absolutely nothing—compared with the frightful and demoralising nature of the shell-fire which I experienced during that journey.

I had only just reached King Street, when it started on that section. Bosche was fairly plastering the whole trench, and smashing down our parapets in the most methodical manner. Four men passed me, with horrible wounds; another was being carried on the shoulders of his comrades, one arm being blown clean off, leaving flesh and remnants of cloth hanging down in a horrible manner. The shells fell in front, overhead and behind us.

I bent low and rushed through traverse after traverse, halting when a shell burst in the trench itself round the next bend, sending a ghastly blast of flame and choking fumes full in my face. At one point I halted, hardly knowing which way to go; my guide was crouching as low as possible on the ground. The further I went, the worse it got; shrieking, splitting shells seemed to envelop us. I looked back. The same. In front, another burst; the flames swept right into my face. If I had been standing up it would have killed me without a doubt. To go back was as dangerous as to advance, and to stay where I was—well, it was worse, if anything. Truth to tell, I had gone so far now that I did not like turning back; the picture of our men in Sunken Road attracted me like a magnet.

"Go on," I shouted to the guide. "We'll get through somehow. Are you game?"

"Yes, sir," said he.

We ran round the next traverse, and had to scramble over a heap of dÉbris caused by a shell a few moments before.

"Look out, sir! There are some dead men here, and the parapet has practically disappeared. Get down on your stomach and crawl along."

Phut-bang! The shells crashed on the parapet with the rapidity of machine-gun fire.

I went down, and crawled along over the dead bodies of some of our lads killed only a few minutes before. It couldn't be helped. Purgatory, in all its hideous shapes and forms, could not possibly be worse than this journey. It seemed years getting through that hellish fire.

"How much more?" I yelled out.

"We are quite near now, sir; about twenty yards."

"Rush for it, then—rush."

I did, and my guide pulled up quickly at the entrance of what seemed like a mine.

"Incline in here, sir," he said, and disappeared. I followed. Never in all my experience had I welcomed cover as I did at that moment.

"Hold on a bit," I said, "for five minutes' breathing space."

The tunnel was no more than two feet six inches wide and five feet high. Men inside were passing ammunition from one to the other in an endless chain and disappearing into the bowels of the earth.

The shaft took a downward trend. It was only by squeezing past the munition bearers that we were able to proceed at all, and in some places it was impossible for more than one to crush through at a time. By the light of an electric torch, stuck in the mud, I was able to see the men. They were wet with perspiration, steaming, in fact; stripped to the waist; working like Trojans, each doing the work of six men.

The journey seemed endless. I could tell by the position that I was climbing. My guide was still in front, and letting me know of his whereabouts by shouting: "Straight ahead, sir! Mind this hole!"

The latter part of the shaft seemed practically upright. I dragged my camera along by the strap attached to the case. It was impossible to carry it.

We were nearing daylight. I could see a gleam only a few feet away. At last we came to the exit. My guide was there.

"Keep down low, sir. This sap is only four feet deep. It's been done during the night, about fifty yards of it. We are in 'No Man's Land' now, and if the Germans had any idea we were here, the place would soon be an inferno."

"Go ahead," I said. It was difficult to imagine we were midway between the Hun lines and our own. It was practically inconceivable. The shell-fire seemed just as bad as ever behind in the trenches, but here it was simply heavenly. The only thing one had to do was to keep as low as possible and wriggle along. The ground sloped downwards. The end of the sap came in sight. My guide was crouching there, and in front of him, about thirty feet away, running at right angles on both sides, was a roadway, overgrown with grass and pitted with shell-holes. The bank immediately in front was lined with the stumps of trees and a rough hedge, and there lined up, crouching as close to the bank as possible, were some of our men. They were the Lancashire Fusiliers, with bayonets fixed, and ready to spring forward.

"Keep low as you run across the road, sir. The Bosche can see right along it; make straight for the other side." With that he ran across, and I followed. Then I set my camera up and filmed the scene. I had to take every precaution in getting my machine in position, keeping it close to the bank, as a false step would have exposed the position to the Bosche, who would have immediately turned on H.E. shrapnel, and might have enfiladed the whole road from either flank.

I filmed the waiting Fusiliers. Some of them looked happy and gay, others sat with stern, set faces, realising the great task in front of them.

I had finished taking my scenes, and asked an officer if the Colonel was there.

"No, but you may find him in 'White City.' He was there about an hour ago. Great heavens," he said, "who would have believed that a 'movie-man' would be here, the nearest point to Bosche lines on the whole front. You must like your job. Hanged if I envy you. Anyway, hope to see you after the show, if I haven't 'gone West.' Cheero," and with that he left me.

Packing up my camera, I prepared to return. Time was getting on. It was now 6.30 a.m. The attack was timed for 7.20. As I wanted to obtain some scenes of our men taking up their final positions, I told my guide to start.

"Duck as low as possible," I said, "when you cross the road."

"We can't go yet, sir; munitions are being brought through, and, as you know, there isn't room to pass one another."

I waited until the last man had come in from the sap, then, practically on hands and knees, made for the sap mouth.

"Cheer up, boys," I shouted to the men as I parted from them, "best of luck; hope to see you in the village."

"Hope so, sir," came a general chorus in reply. Again I struggled through the narrow slit, then down the shaft and finally into the tunnel. We groped our way along as best we could. The place was full of men. It was only possible to get my tripod and camera along by passing it from one to another. Then as the men stooped low I stepped over them, eventually reaching the other end—and daylight.

The "strafe" was still on, but not quite so violent. Our parapets were in a sorry condition, battered out of all shape.

Returning through King Street, I was just in time to film some of the men fixing bayonets before being sent to their respective stations in the firing trench. The great moment was drawing near. I admit I was feeling a wee bit nervous. The mental and nervous excitement under such conditions was very great. Every one was in a state of suppressed excitement. On the way I passed an officer I knew.

"Are you going over?" I said.

"Rather," he replied, "the whole lot of us. Some stunt, eh!"

"Don't forget," I said, "the camera will be on you; good luck!"

Bidding my man collect the tripod and camera, I made for the position on Jacob's Ladder. But I was to receive a rude shock. The shelling of the morning had practically blown it all down. But there was sufficient for a clearance all around for my purpose, and sufficient shelter against stray bits of shrapnel. I prepared to put up my camera. Not quite satisfied, I left it about thirty yards away, to view the situation quickly, as there were only twenty minutes to go. Hardly had I left the machine than a "whizz-bang" fell and struck the parapet immediately above the ladder, tumbling the whole lot of sandbags down like a pack of cards.

It was a lucky escape for me. The position was absolutely no use now, and I had to choose another. Time was short. I hastily fixed my camera on the side of the small bank, this side of our firing trench, with my lens pointing towards the Hawthorn Redoubt, where the mine—the largest "blown" on the British Front—was going up. It was loaded with twenty tons of a new explosive of tremendous destructive power, and it had taken seven months to build.

Gee, what an awakening for Bosche!

My camera was now set ready to start exposing. I looked along the trench. The men were ready and waiting the great moment.

One little group was discussing the prospects of a race across "No Man's Land."

"Bet you, Jim, I'll get there first."

"Right-o! How much?"

"A day's pay," was the reply.

"Take me on, too, will you?" said another hero.

"Yes. Same terms, eh? Good enough."

"Say Bill," he called to his pal, "pay up from my cash if I 'go West.'"

"Shut up, fathead; we have to kill Huns, 'strafe' them."

I turned away to speak to an officer as to the prospects.

"Very good," he said. "I hope they don't plaster our trenches before all the men get out. They are as keen as mustard. Never known them so bright. Look at them now; all smoking."

Our guns were still pounding heavily, and the din and concussion was awful. To hear oneself speak it was absolutely necessary to shout.

"You are in a pretty rocky position," some one said to me. "Fritz will be sure to plaster this front pretty well as soon as our men 'get over.'"

"Can't help it," I said; "my machine must have a clear view. I must take the risk. How's the time going?"

"It's 'seven-ten' now," he said.

"I am going to stand by. Cheero; best of luck!" I left him, and stood by my machine. The minutes dragged on. Still the guns crashed out. The German fire had died down a bit during the last half-hour. I glanced down our trenches. The officers were giving final instructions. Every man was in his place. The first to go over would be the engineers, to wire the crater. They were all ready, crouching down, with their implements in their hands.

Time: 7.15 a.m.!

Heavens! how the minutes dragged. It seemed like a lifetime waiting there. My nerves were strung up to a high pitch; my heart was thumping like a steam-hammer. I gave a quick glance at an officer close by. He was mopping the perspiration from his brow, and clutching his stick, first in one hand then in the other—quite unconsciously, I am sure. He looked at his watch. Another three minutes went by.

Would nothing ever happen?