Geoffrey H. Malins

A Choppy Cross-Channel Trip—I Indulge in a Reverie—And Try to Peer Into the Future—At Headquarters Again—Trying to Cross the River Somme on an Improvised Raft—In Peronne After the German Evacuation—A Specimen of Hunnish "Kultur."

Since I left France in December many changes had taken place; tremendous preparations for the next great offensive were in progress. We shall now see the results of all our hard and bloody work, which began on the Somme on July 1st, 1916. I think I can safely say that we have never relaxed our offensive for a single day. Granted the great pressure has not been kept up, but in proportion to the weather conditions the push has been driven home relentlessly and ground won foot by foot, yard by yard, until, in February, 1917, the Germans retired behind their Bapaume defences.

Just how far they are going back one cannot decide. The fact remains that the enemy is falling back, not for strategical reasons, as he is so anxious for his people and neutrals to believe, but because he is forced to by the superiority of our troops and our dominating gun-power. The beginning of the end is at hand, the eve of great events is here; the results of this year's fighting will decide the future peace of the world, the triumph of Christianity over barbarity, of God over the devil.

I received instructions to proceed again to France. "The capture of Bapaume is imminent, you must certainly obtain that," I was told, "and add another to your list of successes." So I left by the midday boat-train; the usual crowds were there to see their friends off. A descriptive writer could fill a volume with impressions gathered on the station platform an hour before the train starts. Scenes of pathos and assumed joy; of strong men and women stifling their emotions with a stubbornness that would do justice to the martyrdom of the Early Christians in the arenas of Rome.

I arrived at Folkestone; the weather was very cold and a mist hung over the sea, blotting everything out of view beyond the end of the breakwater. The train drew up alongside and it emptied itself of its human khaki freight, who, with one accord, made their way to the waiting steamboats, painted a dull green-grey. All aboard: quickly and methodically we passed up the gangway, giving up our embarkation tickets at the end and receiving another card to fill up, with personal particulars, as we stepped on board. This card was to be given up upon one's arrival at Boulogne.

Gradually the boat filled with officers and men; kits and cars were hoisted aboard, life-belts were served out; everybody was compelled to put them on in case of an accident.

Everything was aboard; the three boats were ready to leave; the two in front, one an old cross-Channel paddle boat, the other one of the later turbine class—but still no sign of leaving.

"What are we waiting for?" I asked a seaman near by.

"We must wait until we get permission; the mist is very thick, sir—going to be a cold journey." With that he left. I buttoned my warm great-coat well round my throat, pulled my cap firmly down over my ears and went to the upper deck and peered out into the thickening sea-mist towards the harbour entrance.

I went to the deck-rail and leaned over. Crowds of sea-gulls cawed and wheeled round, seemingly hung suspended in the air by an invisible wire. The gulls fascinated me; one second they were in the air motionless on their huge outstretched wings, then suddenly, seeing either the shape of a fish coming to the surface, or a crumb of bread floating, one of the birds would dart down, make a grab with its beak at the object, skim the surface of the water, then gracefully wing its way upwards and join its fellows.

I turned my gaze again seawards: the mist was drawing nearer, threatening to envelop our boats in its embrace. How cold it was! The upper deck was now full of officers, busily putting on their life-belts—I had secured mine to my kit-bag, ready to put it on when required. At that moment an officer came up to me.

"Have you a life-belt?" he said, "if so would you mind putting it on? I have to go all round the boat and see that everybody has one."

"Right," I said, and so I donned my life-belt, and passing along the deck stood underneath the Captain's bridge and gazed around. The men in the two boats ahead of us were singing lustily, singing because they were going back to the land of bursting shells and flying death, laughing and singing because they were going again out to fight for the Empire.

As I stood there, gazing into the mist and hearing the continuous roar of the sea beating upon the rocks behind me, a review of the events passed through my mind which have happened to me, and the countless scenes of tragedy and bloodshed, of defeat and victory that I had witnessed since I first crossed over to France in October, 1914. I recalled my arrival in Belgium; the wonderful rearguard actions of the Belgian troops; the holding up of the then most perfect (and devilish) fighting machine the world had ever known, by a handful of volunteers. The frightful scenes in the great retreat through Belgium lived again; the final stand along the banks of the Ypres canal; the opening of the dykes, which saved the northern corner of France; the countless incidents of fighting I had filmed. Then my three months with the French in the Vosges mountains, the great strain and hardships encountered to obtain the films, and now, after eighteen months with the British army on the Western Front, I was again going back—to what?

How many had asked themselves that question! How many had tried as I was doing to peer into the future. They had laid down their lives fighting for the cause of freedom. "But, although buried on an alien soil, that spot shall be for ever called England."

I was quickly recalled to the present by the flashing of a light on the end of the harbour jetty. It was answered by a dull glare seawards; everybody was looking in that direction; and then....

A sudden clanging of bells, a slipping of ropes from the first boat, a final cheer from the men on the crowded decks, and, with its bow turned outwards from the quay, it nosed its way into the open sea beyond. The second boat quickly followed, and then, with more clanging of bells and curt orders to the helmsman, she slid through the water like a greyhound, and, with shouts of "good luck!" from the people on the quay, we were quickly swallowed up in the mist ahead.

The boats kept abreast for a considerable time and then, our vessel taking the lead, with a torpedo boat on either side and one ahead, the convoy headed for France.

The journey across was uneventful. It was quite dark when we backed into harbour at Boulogne; flares were lit and, as the boat drew alongside the quay, the old familiar A.M.O. with his huge megaphone shouted in stentorian tones that all officers and men returning on duty must report to him at his offices, fifty yards down the quay, etc., etc., etc. His oration finished, the gangway was pushed aboard and everybody landed as quickly as possible. I had wired from the War Office earlier in the day to G.H.Q., asking them to send a car to meet the boat. Whether they had received my message in time I did not know—anyway I could not find it, so, that night, I stayed at Boulogne, and the following evening proceeded to G.H.Q. to receive instructions.

Here I collected my apparatus and stood by for instructions. News of our continued pressure on the German line of retreat was penetrating through. First one village, then another fell into our hands. The fall of Peronne was imminent. My instructions were to proceed to Peronne, or rather the nearest point that it was possible to operate from.

I journeyed that night as far as Amiens, and arriving there about midnight, dog tired, went to my previous billet in the Rue l'Amiral Cambet, and turned in. Early next morning I reported to a major of the Intelligence Department, who told me our troops had entered Peronne the previous night. Rather disappointed that I had not been there to obtain the entry, I made tracks for that town.

I took by-roads, thinking that they would be more negotiable than the main ones, and, reaching the outskirts of the village of Biaches, I left the car there and prepared to walk into Peronne. I could see in the distance that the place was still burning; columns of smoke were pouring upwards and splashing the sky with patches of villainous-looking black clouds.

Strapping my camera upon my back, and bidding my man follow with my tripod, I started off down the hill into Biaches. Then the signs of the German retreat began to fully reveal themselves. The ground was absolutely littered with the horrible wastage of war; roads were torn open, leaving great yawning gaps that looked for all the world like huge jagged wounds. On my right lay the ChÂteau of La Maisonnette. The ground there was a shambles, for numerous bodies in various stages of putrefaction lay about as they had fallen.

I left this section of blood-soaked earth, and, turning to my left, entered the village, or rather the site of what had once been Biaches. I will not attempt to describe it; my pen is not equal to the task of conveying even the merest idea of the state of the place. It was as if a human skeleton had been torn asunder, bone by bone, and then flung in all directions. Then, look around and say—this was once a man. You could say the same thing of Biaches—this was once a village. I stayed awhile and filmed various scenes, including the huge engineers' dump left by the Germans, but, as the light was getting rather bad, I hurried as fast as possible in the direction of Peronne.

I wandered down the path of duck-boards, over the swamp of the Somme, filthy in appearance, reeking in its stench, and littered with thousands of empty bottles, that showed the character of the drunken orgies to which the Huns had devoted themselves.

I reached the canal bank. Lying alongside was the blackened ribs of a barge. Only the stern was above water and it was still smouldering; even the ladders and foot-bridges were all destroyed; not a single thing that could be of any use whatsoever had been left. I trudged along the canal bank; bridge after bridge I tried, but it was no use, for each one in the centre for about ten or twelve feet was destroyed—and, stretched between the gap, I found a length of wire netting covered over with straw—a cunning trap set for the first one across. Not a bridge was passable—they were all down!

Peronne lay on the other side and there I must get before the light failed and while the place was still burning; if I had to make a raft of old timber I made up my mind to get there.

Returning to the bank I placed my camera upon the ground and with the help of three men gathered up some rusty tin cylinders, which, earlier in the campaign, had been utilised as floats for rafts.

I had fished out of the river three planks, and laying them at equal distance upon the cylinders, I lashed them together and so made a raft of sorts. With care I might be able to balance myself upon it and so reach the other section of the bridge and then a rope at either end would enable my man and tripod to be pulled across.

The idea was excellent, but I found that my amateur lashing together with the strong current that was running made the whole plan quite impossible, so, after being nearly thrown into the river several times, and one of the floats coming adrift and washing away, and then doing a flying leap to save myself being hurled into the water upon a trestle which collapsed with my weight, I decided to give up the experiment and explore the river bank further down in the hope of getting across. Eventually, after going for about two kilometres, I reached the ruins of the main bridge leading into the town. This, also, was blown up by the retreating Huns, but, by using the blocks of stone and twisted iron girders as "stepping-stones," I reached the other side.

The old gateway and drawbridge across the moat were destroyed; the huge blocks of masonry were tossed about, were playthings in the hands of the mighty force of high explosives which flung them there. These scenes I carefully filmed, together with several others in the vicinity of the ramparts.

The town was the same as every other I had filmed—burnt and shell-riven. The place as a habitable town simply did not exist. German names were everywhere; the names of the streets were altered, even a French washerwoman had put up a notice that "washing was done here," in German.

Street after street I passed through and filmed. Many of the buildings were still burning and at one corner of the Grande Place flames were shooting out of the windows of the three remaining houses in Peronne. I hastily fitted up my camera and filmed the scene. When I had finished it was necessary to run the gauntlet, and pass directly under the burning buildings to get into the square.

Showers of sparks were flying about, pieces of the burning building were being blown in all directions by the strong wind. But I had to get by, so, buttoning up my collar tightly, fastening my steel shrapnel helmet on my head, and tucking the camera under my arm, I made a rush, yelling out to my man to follow with the tripod. As I passed I felt several heavy pieces of something hit my helmet and another blazing piece hit my shoulder and stuck there, making me set up an unearthly yell as the flames caught my ear and singed my hair. But, quickly shooting past, I reached a place of safety, and setting up the camera I obtained some excellent views of the burning buildings.

Standing upon a heap of rubble, which once formed a branch of one of the largest banking concerns in France, I took a panoramic scene of the great square. The smoke clouds curling in and around the skeleton walls appeared for all the world like some loathsome reptile seeming to gloat upon its prey, loath to leave it, until it had made absolutely certain that not a single thing was left to be devoured.

With the exception of the crackling flames and the distant boom of the guns, it was like a city of the dead. The once beautiful church was totally destroyed. In the square was the base of a monument upon which, before the war, stood a memorial to France's glorious dead in the war of 1870. The "kultured" Germans had destroyed the figure and, in its place, had stuck up a dummy stuffed with straw in the uniform of a French Zouave. Could ever a greater insult be shown to France!

Not content with burning the whole town, the Huns had gone to the trouble of displaying a huge signboard on the side of a building in the square on which were these words: "Don't be vexed—just admire!"

Think of it! The devils!