It came soon enough, I heard the shriek nearer and nearer. I turned the handle and put my head close behind the camera with my eye to the view-finder. Crash came the shell, and, with a terrific report, it exploded. The whole side of a house disappeared, and bricks, wood, and metal flew in all directions. I continued to turn when, with an ugly little whistle, a small piece of something struck my view-finder and another my tripod. Luckily nothing touched the lens. I awaited the next. It was longer this time, but it came, and nearer to me than the previous one. I was satisfied. I thought if they elevated another fifty yards I might get a much too close view of a shell-burst, so scrambled aboard the car, and made a detour round the mine on to the road beyond.
"Those scenes ought to be very fine," I said. "It's one of those lucky chances where one has to take the risk of obtaining a thrilling scene."
By the balls of white smoke I could see that shrapnel was bursting in the near distance.
"That's near Pouilly," I said. "We are turning up on the left, let's hope the Huns don't plaster us there."
Reaching the village of Bovincourt, the villagers were there eagerly awaiting our arrival. They again crowded around the car, and it was with difficulty that I persuaded them to let us pass into the village. Cheering, shouting, and laughing they followed close behind. I stopped the car and asked an old man who, by his ribbons, had been through the 1870 war:
"Where is the Mayor?"
"There is no Mayor, monsieur, but a mayoress, and she is there," pointing to a buxom French peasant woman about fifty years of age.
I went up to her and explained in my best French that I had brought bread and sausages for the people, would she share them out?
"Oui, oui, monsieur."
"I would like you to do it here, I will then take a kinematograph film of the proceeding, so that the people in England can see it."