fourteen thousand feet above the german lines
The First Kinematograph Film Taken of the Western Front—And How I Took It Whilst Travelling Through the Air at Eighty Miles an Hour—Under Shell-fire—Over Ypres—A Thrilling Experience—And a Narrow Escape—A Five Thousand Foot Dive Through Space.
"I feel confident I can manage it, and that the result will be both instructive and unique, and provided the weather is clear and I get as small a dose of 'Bosche' as possible, there is no reason why it shouldn't be successful."
"Of course, I am quite aware of the atmospheric difficulties. The fact that it is so thick and misty is entirely due to the heavy body of moisture in the ground—but if I start off early in the morning I may just escape it."
This conversation took place in the office of a certain British aerodrome in France between the Flight Commander and myself. We had been going into the pros and cons of an aerial expedition over the German lines. I was anxious to film the whole line from an aeroplane.
"Well," said he, "what about the height? I think I had better call in the Captain," and pressing a bell an orderly quickly appeared and was sent off to inform the Captain that his presence was required.
"I say," said the Flight Commander, "this is Malins, the War Office Kinematographer." He then explained my mission and requirements.
"Now," he said, after all preliminaries had been discussed, "the question is about the height. What is a tolerably safe height over 'Bosche'?"
"About 8,000 feet, I should say, though of course if we go well over his lines it will be necessary to rise higher. There are too many 'Archibalds' about to dodge any lower."
"Well," I replied, "I'll start taking my scenes when we arrive at the coast-line. We can then follow it along and turn off inland towards Ypres. I should very much like to film that place from above, then follow down the lines, passing over St. Eloi, Plœgsteert, Armentières, Neuve Chapelle, Richebourg, Festubert, Givenchy, Loos, Hohenzollern Redoubt, and on to Arras. I am of course entirely in your hands. I do not want to jeopardise the trip, nor wish you to run any unnecessary risks, you understand, but I should like to get as low as possible, and so obtain more detail. It will be the first kinematograph film ever taken of the Western Front."
"Well," said the Flight Commander, rising, "you have full permission. You can have the use of a BE 2C machine, with Captain ——. Do what you like, but take care. Don't be rash. Good luck to you. I shall be as anxious as you to see the result."
In the Captain's company I left the office, and together we went round to make arrangements regarding the means of fixing my camera.
The machine was the usual type of passenger-carrying aero, numbered BE 2C, a very stable and reliable machine, but according to the Captain, not very fast. Speed in this case was not an absolute necessity, unless a Fokker favoured us with his attentions.
I went aboard to find the best means of fixing and operating my camera. I decided to use my debrie, not the aeroscope. The latter had jambed a day or two previous, and I had not had an opportunity of repairing it. The observer's seat was in the front, and just above, on the main struts, was a cross-tube of metal. On each end was an upright socket, for the purpose of dropping into it a Lewis gun. The pilot also had the same in front of him.
I suggested that a metal fixing, which would fit the socket, and a tilting arrangement, so that it would be possible to raise or lower the camera to any angle, would suit admirably, and on the other side, in case of attack, a Lewis gun could be fitted.
"It's well to be prepared for emergencies," said the Captain. "It's quite possible we shall be attacked."
"Well," I said, "I will have a good shot at him if he does turn up. And who knows—I may be able to get a picture of the Hun machine falling. By Jove, what a thrill it would provide!"
Instructions were given to the excellent mechanics employed in the R.F.C., and within an hour or so the metal tilting-top was made and fixed on the plane.
"You will have to wrap up well," said the Captain. "It's jolly cold up there. It looks rather misty, and that will make it all the worse. Now then, all aboard."
Up I scrambled, or rather wriggled, between a network of wire stays, and taking my seat the camera was handed to me. I fastened it on one side of the gun-mounting and fixed a Lewis gun on the other, making sure I had spare boxes of film ready, and spare drums of ammunition. I then fastened the broad web belt round my waist, and fixed on my goggles.
I was ready for the ascent.
My companion was in his seat, and the machine was wheeled into position for starting. The mechanics were turning the propeller round to suck the gas into the many cylinders, to facilitate easier starting.
"All ready," shouted the Captain. "Right away, contact, let her go." And with a jerk the motor started.
The whirl of the huge blades developed into a deafening roar. The machine vibrated horribly. I clung to my camera, holding it tight to the socket. I knew that once in the air the shake would be reduced to a minimum. Faster and faster whirled the propeller as the Captain opened the throttle. How sweet and perfect was the hum of the giant motor. Not the slightest sound of a misfire. Being an ardent motorist, I could tell that the engine was in perfect tune. The Captain leaned over and shouted to me through the roar to fasten the telephone receiver against my ear under my leather cap.
"That," said he, pointing to a mouthpiece attached to a small rubber tube, "is the transmitter. If you want to give me any instructions shout into that. I shall hear you. All fit?" he asked.
I nodded my head. He took his seat, and opened the throttle. The engine leapt into new life. The roar was deafening. The whirring blades flung the air back into my face, cutting it as if with a whip. He dropped his arm. The men drew away the chocks from the wheels, and amid shouts of "Good luck!" from the officers present, the machine sprang forward like a greyhound, bounding over the grass, until at last it rose like a gigantic bird into the air.
The earth gradually drew away. Higher and higher we rose, and began to circle round and round to gain height.
"We will get up to three thousand feet before we strike towards the coast," he shouted through the telephone.
The vibration, now we were in the air, was barely perceptible, at any rate it was not sufficient to affect the taking of my scenes. In case any moisture collected on my lens, I had brought a soft silk pad, to wipe it with occasionally. Higher, still higher, we rose.
"What's the height now?" I asked.
"Very nearly three thousand feet," he said. "We are now going towards the coast. That's Dunkirk over there."
I peered ahead. The port, with its shipping, was clearly discernible. Over the sea hung a dense mist, looking for all the world like a snowfield. Here and there, in clear patches, the sun gleamed upon the water, throwing back its dazzling reflections.
As soon as we reached the coast-line, I shouted: "Proceed well along this side, so that I can obtain an oblique view. It looks much better than directly above the object. What's our speed?"
"Sixty miles," he said. "I shall keep it up until we reach the German lines."
He turned sharp to the right. We are now following the coast-line towards Ostend. How beautiful the sand dunes looked from above. The heavy billows of sea-mist gave it a somewhat mystic appearance. How cold it was. I huddled down close into my seat, my head only above the fuselage. Keeping my eye upon the wonderful panorama unfolding itself out beneath me, I glanced at my camera and tested the socket. Yes, it was quite firm.
"We are nearing the lines now," my companion shouted. "Can you see them on your right? That's the Belgium area. Our section, as you know, begins just before Ypres. Will this height suit you? Shall I follow the trenches directly overhead or a little to one side?"
"Keep this side, I'll begin taking now." Kneeling up in my seat, I directed my camera downwards and started filming our lines and the German position stretching away in the distance.
We were nearing Ypres, that shell-battered city of Flanders. White balls of smoke here and there were bursting among the ruins, showing that the Huns were still shelling it. What a frightful state the earth was in. For miles and miles around it had the appearance of a sieve, with hundreds of thousands of shell-holes, and like a beautiful green ribbon, winding away as far as the eye could see, was that wonderful yet terrible strip of ground between the lines, known as "No Man's Land."
We were now running into a bank of white fleecy clouds, which enveloped us in its folds, blotting the whole earth from view. I held my handkerchief over the lens of the camera to keep the moisture from settling upon it. After a time several breaks appeared in the clouds beneath, and the earth looked wonderful. It seemed miles—many miles—away. Rivers looked like silver streaks, and houses mere specks upon the landscape. Here and there a puff of white smoke told of a bursting shell. But for that occasional, somewhat unpleasant reminder, I might have been thousands of miles away from the greatest war in history.
Who could imagine anything more wonderful, more fantastic? I had dreamed of such things, I had read of them; I even remembered having read, years ago, some of the wonderful stories in Grimm's Fairy Tales. To my childish mind, they seemed very wonderful indeed. There were fairies, goblins, mysterious figures, castles which floated in the air, wonderful lands which shifted in a night, at the touch of a magic wand or the sound of a magic word. Things which fired my youthful imagination and set me longing to share in their adventures. But never in my wildest dreams did I think I should live to do the same thing, to go where I listed; to fly like a bird, high above the clouds. It was like an adventure in fairyland to take this weird and wonderful creation of men, called an aeroplane, through the home of the skylark.
Boom! Boom! I was suddenly brought back to—no, not to earth, but to—things more material.
Looking down, I could discern several balls of smoke, which I immediately recognised as shrapnel shells, or "Archibalds," that had been fired at us by the Germans. They were well below. I looked round at the Captain. He was smiling through his goggles, and humorously jerked his thumb in the direction of the bursting "Archies."
"Too high, eh?" I shouted. But I had forgotten that in the fearful hum of the rushing air and whirling motors my voice would not carry. It was literally cut off as it left my lips. I picked up the 'phone and shouted through it.
"Yes, they are pretty safe where they are," he said drily. Then a few more burst underneath us.
By this time we were well out of the cloud bank. The atmosphere was much clearer. I knelt up again on my seat and began to expose, and continued turning the handle while we passed over St. Eloi and Hill 60. On certain sections I could see that a considerable "strafe" was going on. Fritz seemed to be having a very trying time. Near Messines my film suddenly ran out. I had to reload. This was anything but an easy operation. I unscrewed my camera from the gun socket, and in doing so had a near escape from doing a head-dive to earth. Like an idiot, I had unfastened my waist-strap, and in reaching over the fuselage my camera nearly over-balanced, the aeroplane contributing to this result by making a sudden dive in order to avoid an "Archibald."
For a second or two I had clear visions of flying through space on wings other than those of an aeroplane. But fortunately I had the steel crossbar to cling to, and this saved me.
Getting back to my seat, I asked the pilot to circle round the spot for a few minutes. While changing my spool, I settled down in the bottom of the car and reloaded my camera, eight thousand feet above the earth. This operation occupied about ten minutes, and when I had finished I gingerly raised myself on the seat and refixed the camera in its socket.
"Right away," I shouted. "Is it possible to go any lower?"
"It's very risky," he said, "but if you like I will try. Hold tight, it's a dive."
I held tight. The nose of the machine tilted forward until it seemed as if it was absolutely standing on end. The earth rushed up to meet us. For the moment it seemed as if the aeroplane was out of control, but with a graceful glide, which brought us level, we continued our journey at a height of three thousand feet.
"Get what you want quickly," he shouted. "We can't stay here long."
I began to expose again. By now we were over line after line of trenches. At times we were well over the Bosche lines. I continued to film the scenes.
First came Plœgsteert, Fromelles, and Aubers Ridge. Then we crossed to Neuve Chapelle, Festubert, La Bassée and Loos. Town after town, village after village, were passed over, all of them in ruins. From above the trenches, like a splash of white chalk dropped into the middle of a patch of brown earth. The long winding trenches cut out of the chalk twisted and wound along valley and dale like a serpent. Looking down upon it all, it seemed so very insignificant. Man? What was he? His works looked so small that it seemed one could, with a sweep of the foot, crush him out of existence. How small he was, yet how great; how powerful, yet how weak! We were now over La Bassée.
"We shall have to rise," shouted my companion. "Look up there." I looked up, and thousands of feet above us was a small speck.
"Bosche plane," said he. "Hold tight!" And I did.