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.
