Several shells came whizzing overhead in the direction of the dressing station I had just left. With a grinding crash they exploded. "Shrapnel, woolly bears," I said under my breath. They seemed to burst right on top of them too. I thought of all those poor wounded Tommies lying helpless on their stretchers. Another—then another—came hurtling over. The splitting crash of the burst can only be appreciated by those who have been in close proximity to a German H.E. Woolly Bear exploding. It gives one rather a sickening sensation. Another came over. This time it burst nearer. "Gee! they're dropping the range." I hastily grabbed my tripod and hurried off at a tangent. Proceeding for a distance of about five hundred yards I turned off again and made tracks for my original point.
In front, at a distance of about seven hundred yards, one of our forward field batteries of 18-pounders opened fire. I at first thought they were French 75 mm. owing to the extreme rapidity of fire. From my position I could not see the guns, but stretching across the country a rough line of brown earth was thrown up, which I afterwards found out was one of the old German lines. The guns were cunningly concealed in the trench. Thinking that it would make rather a good scene I decided to film it in action.
I may add that I have previously been rather wary about having much to do with forward artillery positions. On three previous occasions I have been badly "strafed" by brother Fritz. He has the uncommonly irritating habit of putting his whizz-bangs much too near to be pleasant, with the result that I have more than once been compelled to take my camera and self off to the more congenial quarters of a dug-out, from which place, you will agree, one cannot obtain very interesting pictures.
Reaching the batteries I unlimbered myself of my gear and approaching the C.O. in charge told him who I was and what I wanted. He was quite pleased to see me and said that he was just about to give Fritz a good dose of "iron rations," firing in salvos. Quickly fixing up my camera I filmed the scenes from various points of view. The men were stripped to the waist, jumping out the shells as fast as they could be handled. While I was filming the scene brother Fritz replied with whizz-bangs thick and fast. They are perfect devils, and it is practically impossible to hear them coming until they burst. I turned my machine round upon the spot near which they were dropping. Several times they got within the range of my camera, and I continued to turn upon them until two came much too close, so thinking discretion the better part of valour, I hastily disappeared into the doubtful shelter of a broken-down Hun trench. Then they came over, several smothering me in dust as they exploded close by. Having obtained all the pictures I required I thanked the C.O. and went on my way.
My clothes were absolutely saturated with perspiration as I shambled away towards the top end of Bernafay Wood. I looked back at the battery. Bosche was still "strafing." I vowed I would never go near any forward guns again; but good resolutions are made to be broken, and my lust for pictures is too strong within me.
Moving was now difficult. The weight of my camera outfit seemed to be getting heavier. I could only get along at a very slow pace. The strap around my chest seemed to squeeze the very breath out of my lungs. But worse was to come. The Huns began shelling the section with shrapnel in a searching manner, and several times I collapsed into a shell-hole, in the hope of obtaining a little cover. But there is very little shelter from shrapnel. On several occasions I felt like throwing away my steel helmet; the weight seemed abnormal; but prudence warned me and I clung to it.
The fire was now too bad to proceed in the open. If there were any trenches or ditches I availed myself of their protection. The heat in the trenches was terrific, and to add to the horrors of the stench and heat there were millions of flies. Filthy brutes! They seemed to cling to one like leeches, and, my arms being full, I could not keep them off my face. Several times I almost decided to turn back, asking myself if it was worth while. But when I looked at Trones Wood in the distance, and the heavy shells bursting all round, I gritted my teeth and decided to push on.
Thinking that more smoke might help to keep off the flies I lighted two cigarettes and puffed away at them, one in each corner of my mouth. I'm sure I must have looked a most extraordinary specimen of humanity at this moment. Loaded with kit, perspiring like a bull; my steel helmet cocked on one side of my head; puffing away like a chimney at two cigarettes, and millions of flies buzzing all around me. Picture me if you can.
I was proceeding like an automaton along the trench when suddenly I came upon an officer who, I afterwards found out, was going up to fix his next gun positions. He was sitting on a sandbag swearing like Hades, and trying to disperse the clouds of flies which were settling upon him. He looked up as I approached, then suddenly burst into a peal of laughter. I stood still and grinned, not daring to open my mouth to laugh for fear of losing my cigarettes. Then I dropped my tripod and leaned against the trench side to rest. His laughter suddenly developed into a coughing and spluttering, spitting and swearing, which in itself was strong enough to drive all the flies in existence away.
"Bust the things!" he spluttered. "I got a mouthful of them! They might have just come off some dirty Bosche. Got a drink on you?"