The trench was blocked by a batch of men returning. They were crouching down for cover. The officer in charge asked me what in the world I was doing.
"Thunder," he said, "if I knew the 'movie' man had been here I would have gone the other way. You've evidently drawn fire by that contraption of yours. Where are you going?"
"To Trones Wood," I said.
The look of blank amazement on his face was amusing.
"My dear chap," he said, "are you serious?"
"Well," I replied, "I had intended going there till a moment ago, but the strafing seems to get worse."
Shrapnel was now bursting overhead, a piece hitting one of the men close by.
"Where's he hit?" enquired the officer. The poor fellow was lying down.
"In the shoulder, sir," one of the others shouted back. "Seems rather bad."
"Two of you bring him through and get ahead to the dressing station as quickly as possible. Keep your heads down." Then turning to me the officer said: "Look here, I've just come from the Wood, and, by gad, it's fair hell there! The place is a charnel-house. It's literally choked with corpses; heaps of them; and we dare not bring them in. We've tried even at night, but the shelling prevents us. The place reeks. And the flies! They're awful. It's more than flesh and blood can stand! To put your head up means certain death and—well, you see what your camera did here. You can imagine what it would be like over there, can't you?"