Geoffrey H. Malins

Looking for "Thrills"—And How I Got Them—I Pass Through "Sausage Valley," on the Way to PoziÈres—You May and you Might—What a Tommy Found in a German Dug-out—How Fritz Got "Some of His Own" Back—Taking Pictures in What Was Once PoziÈres—"Proofs Ready To-morrow."

Things, from my point of view, were slackening down. Plenty of preparatory action was taking place, and here and there small local engagements, but the fact that they were local made it very difficult for me to get to hear of them. None of the Corps Commanders knew exactly when or where the nibble would develop, or, if they did know, they were naturally chary of giving me the information. On occasions too when I did know I had not sufficient time to make my arrangements, I had to be content with scenes which unfolded themselves after the action had taken place.

This was getting rather monotonous. The aftermath of one attack was to all intents and purposes an exact replica of the previous one, except that the surroundings were different. There was the return of the attackers; the bringing in of prisoners, the wounded, the dead; and to vary these scenes to make my pictures generally interesting required a lot of thought and a careful choice of view point.

In the course of the "push," which began in July, there were hundreds, I might almost say thousands, of incidents that to the eye were of enthralling interest, but to have filmed them with the idea of conveying that interest on the screen would have been so much wasted effort. Even the kinematograph has its limitations.

Over my head all the time, like a huge sword, hung the thought of British public opinion, and the opinion of neutral countries. They would accept nothing unless there was great excitement in it; unless the pictures contained such "thrills" as they had never seen before, and had never dreamed possible. Once I had secured that thrill I could then—and only then—take the preparatory scenes, depicting the ordinary life and action of the men and the organisation which are necessary to run the war. Such scenes—interesting as they undoubtedly are—without that "thrill" would have fallen flat, would have been of no use, from the exhibition point of view, and I had always to bear that fact in mind.

I have spent many sleepless nights wondering how and where I was to obtain that magnetic thrill, that minute incident, probably only ten per cent of which would carry the remaining ninety per cent to success. One that would positively satisfy the public.

I had been filming a lot of stuff lately, but when I looked through my list, excellent as the scenes were—many of which I would probably never be able to get again—they struck me as lacking "thrill." That was what I required. So I set out to get it.

The Australians had just captured PoziÈres, and hearing that the Bosche were continually "strafing" it I decided to make for that quarter with the object of getting a good bombardment. If possible, I would also get into the village itself where there ought to be some very good pictures, for the capture had only taken place two days previously.

PoziÈres then it should be. Leaving my base early in the morning I made my way through Becourt Wood and beyond, up "Sausage Valley"—why that name I don't know. The whole area was crowded with men of the Australian division.

As there was no road I took my car over the grass, or rather all that was left of it. The place was covered with shell-holes. Driving between, and more often than not into them, was rather a tiresome job, but it saved several miles of tramping with heavy stuff. "Sausage Valley" during this period was anything but healthy. I was warned about it as I left an Australian battery where I had stayed to make a few enquiries. A major told me the place was "strafed" every day, and I soon found that this was so when I arrived. Several "crumps" fell in the wood behind me, and two on the hill-side among some horses, killing several. If I saw one dead horse I must have seen dozens; they were all over the place. But everyone was much too busy to bury them at the moment. The stench was decidedly unpleasant, and the flies buzzed around in swarms. I soon had a couple of cigarettes alight. What a boon they were at times.

After much dodging and twisting I halted the car close to a forward dressing station. While I was there several shells dropped unpleasantly near, and I could not restrain my admiration for the medical staff who tended the wounded, quite oblivious of the dangers by which they were surrounded in so exposed a position. I obtained several very interesting scenes of the wounded arriving.

I waited awhile to watch the Bosche shelling before going over the ridge to PoziÈres. I could then tell the sections he "strafed" most. I would be able to avoid them as much as possible. I watched for fully an hour; the variation in his target was barely perceptible. On one or two occasions he "swept" the ridge. I decided to make a start after the next dose.

Strapping the camera on my back, my man taking the tripod, we started off. There was a light railway running towards Contalmaison. I followed this until I got near the spot brother Fritz was aiming at, hugging a trench at the side of a by-road. The bank was lined with funk-holes, which came in very useful during the journey, and I had to seek their shelter several times, but the nearest shell fell at a junction between that road and a communication trench. Just this side lay a very much dead horse. The shell came over. Down I went flat on my stomach. My man dived into a hole. The shell exploded, and the next thing I remember was a feeling as if a ton of bricks had fallen on top of me. I managed to struggle up and make quickly for the trench, my man following; and you may be quite sure I took care that I was well out of line of the next before I eased up. Beyond a few scratches on the camera-case and a torn coat, I was quite sound.

I was told of a Hun battery of 77 mm. guns on the left-hand side of the valley leading to PoziÈres, so I decided to make for that spot. I enquired of a man as to the whereabouts of them.

"Well, sir," he said, "you may come to them if you keep straight on, but I shouldn't advise you to do so as you have to cross the open. Bosche has a pretty sharp eye on anyone there; he knows the lay of the battery and he just plasters it. You might get round at 'Dead Man's Corner,' on the Contalmaison Road. It's pretty bad there, but I think it's the best place to try, and once you are round the corner you may be all right."

"Well, which way do I take?"

"Down this way, then turn to your left at the corner; the battery is about two hundred yards along on the hill-side."

"But, man alive," I said, "they're strafing it like blazes. Look!"

They were, too, and 8-inch shells were dropping wholesale.

"No, I think I will take the risk and run over the open. Are there any dug-outs at the battery?"

"Yes, sir, jolly good ones; forty feet deep; regular beauties. Evidently made up their minds to stay the winter. Electric light, libraries, and beds with real spring mattresses. My, sir, but they were comfortable. And what do you think I found there, sir?"

"Heaven knows," I replied.

"Well, sir, several ladies' fringe nets and hair-pins."

"The devil you did. Well, Fritz knows how to make himself cosy."

With that remark we parted, Tommy having a broad grin on his face.

"You will see the place where you get out of this ditch, sir," he called out; "a shell has blown it in; strike off on your left straight ahead. You'll see them in front of you."

The shelling was getting very unpleasant, and I had to keep low in the trench the whole of the time. At length we reached the point where we had to get over the top.

"Well, come on, let's chance it," I said to my man. I saw the battery in the distance before getting over.

Up we went and bending low raced for the spot. On the way I passed several dead bodies, all Bosche, and numbers of pieces blown to bits by our shell fire. A whizz-bang came over whilst we were crossing. Down we went into a shell-hole. Another, and another came over. Murderous little brutes they were too. Seven of them. Then they ceased. We immediately jumped up again and reached our objective. Then getting under cover of some twisted ironwork, which once formed the roofing of the emplacement, I took breath. "Anyway," I thought, "here I am."

In a few minutes I had a look round. What an excellent view of PoziÈres, about eight hundred yards away on my left. On the right was Contalmaison, which had only been taken a short time previously. The Bosches were shelling the place pretty frequently. I set up the camera and waited. Away on the opposite hill shells were falling thickly. I started filming them and got some interesting bursts, both high explosive and H.E. shrapnel.

Now for PoziÈres. The enemy must have been putting 9-inch and 12-inch stuff in there, for they were sending up huge clouds of smoke and dÉbris. I secured some excellent scenes. First PoziÈres, then Contalmaison. My camera was first on one then on the other. For a change Bosche whizz-banged the battery. I could see now why he was so anxious to crump it, for lying all around me in their carriers, were hundreds of gas shells. I was in fact standing on them. They were all unused, and if Fritz got a good one home, well good-bye to everything.

One time I thought I would seek the shelter of a dug-out, but the fire swept away in the opposite direction. By careful manoeuvring I managed to film the German guns there. Every one of the four was quite smashed up. An excellent example of artillery fire, and by the date upon them they were of the latest pattern.

In all there were three batteries in that small area, making twelve guns. But out of the twelve sufficient parts were found intact to make one good one, so that Fritz would get "some of his own" back in a way that he least expected; for there were thousands of rounds of ammunition found in the dug-outs beneath the gun pits.

How to get into PoziÈres was the next problem. I had, while filming, been making mental notes as to the section which Fritz did not "strafe," and that place, by all that's wonderful, was the actual thing he was undoubtedly trying for—the road.

By hugging the bank-side, along which here and there I could spot a few funk-holes, I managed to get into the chalk-pit. Here I filmed various scenes, but Bosche, as usual, kept me on the jump with his shrapnel, forcing me to take hurried shelter from time to time.

There is one thing I shall always thank Fritz for, and that is his dug-outs. If he only knew how useful they had been to me on many occasions I am sure he would feel flattered.

From the chalk-pit to PoziÈres was no great distance. The ground was littered with every description of equipment, just as it had been left by the flying Huns, and dead bodies were everywhere. The place looked a veritable shambles. Believe me, I went along that road very gingerly, picking my way between the shell bursts. Just before I reached the place the firing suddenly ceased. The deadly silence was uncanny in the extreme; in fact I seemed to fear it more than the bombardment. It seemed to me too quiet to be healthy. What was Bosche up to? There must be some reason for it. I took cover in a shallow trench at the roadside. Along the bottom were lying several dead Bosches, and a short distance away fragments of human remains were strewn around.

The place was desolate in the extreme. The village was absolutely non-existent. There was not a vestige of buildings remaining, with one exception, and that was a place called by the Germans "Gibraltar," a reinforced concrete emplacement he had used for machine-guns. The few trees that had survived the terrible blasting were just stumps, no more.

Fritz's sudden silence seemed uncanny, but taking advantage of his spell of inactivity I hastily rigged up the camera and began exposing. In a few minutes I had taken sufficient, and packing up I hurried down the road as fast as I could.

I reached the chalk-pit safely and then, cutting across direct to the gun pits, I took up my original position and awaited Fritz's good pleasure to send a few more crump to provide me with scenes. But not a shell came over.

Before leaving this section I thought I would film Contalmaison, a name immortalised by such fighting as has rarely been equalled even in this great war. To get there it was necessary to go to "Dead Man's Corner." The road was pitted with shell-holes, and dead horses lay about on both sides. Bosche was still uncannily quiet. I was beginning to think I should just manage to get my scenes before he interfered with me. But no! Either he had finished his lunch or had some more ammunition, for he started again. One came over and burst in the village in front of me, with a noise like the crashing of ten thousand bottles. I took shelter behind a smashed-up limber, and waited to see where the next would fall. It burst a little further away. Good enough, I thought. Here goes before he alters his range.

Jumping up I ran and scrambled on to the ruins of a house, and took some fine panoramic views of the village, first from one position then from another. Some of the scenes included a few of our men in possession. Altogether a most interesting series, including as it did both PoziÈres and Contalmaison. It was the first time they had been filmed since their capture.

At that moment I heard another crump coming over. It seemed to be unpleasantly near, so I made a running dive for a dug-out entrance, from which poked the grinning face of an officer.

"Look out," I yelled.

Crash came the crump.

"Near enough anyhow," I said, as a piece flew shrieking past close overhead.

"Are you the 'movie' man? I'm pleased to meet you," he said. "Did you get me in that last scene?"

"Yes," I said. "Proofs ready to-morrow." And with a laugh I hurried down the road.