With a hearty shake of the hand and best wishes we parted, and, keeping under cover of the ruined buildings as much as possible, I made my way through Ramscapelle. Hardened as I was by now to sights of devastation, I could not help a lump rising in my throat when I came upon children's toys, babies' cots, and suchlike things, peeping out from among the ruins caused by the German guns.
These scenes caused me to wander on in deep thought, quite oblivious to my immediate surroundings. This momentary lapse nearly proved disastrous. By some means I had passed the sentries, and wandered practically on top of a Belgian concealed heavy gun battery. I was quickly brought to my senses by being dragged into a gun trench, absolutely invisible both from the front and above.
Compelled to go on hands and knees into the dug-out, I was confronted by a rather irate Belgian officer, who demanded why I was there walking about and not taking cover. Did I know that I had drawn the enemy's fire, which was very nearly an unpardonable offence?
Quickly realising the seriousness of my position, I thought the best thing to do was to tell him my mission, and so I explained to the officer that I had unconsciously wandered there.
"There, monsieur," he said, "that is what you have done," and at that moment I heard two shells explode fifteen yards behind us. "We dare not reply, monsieur," he said, "because this is a secret battery. Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, "I hope they cease firing, or they may destroy our defences." Fortunately, the Germans seeing no further sign of life, evidently thought it was a case of an isolated soldier, and so ceased their fire. Imagine my thankfulness.
I enquired if there was anyone there who could speak English. A messenger was sent out and returned with a Belgian, who before the war broke out was a teacher of languages in England. With his aid I gave the chief officer full explanation, and pledged my word of honour that neither names, districts, nor details of positions should ever be mentioned.
Wishing to film some scenes of big guns in action, I enquired whether he was going to fire. He was expecting orders any minute, so making myself as comfortable as possible in the dug-out, I waited. But nothing happened, and that night, and the one following, I slept there.
Early next morning (about 3 a.m.) I was awakened by the noise of a terrific cannonading. Together with the officer I crawled out on to the top of our embankment and viewed the scene. The Germans had started a night attack, the Belgian guns had caught them in the act and were shelling them for all they were worth.
As soon as it was daylight I strapped my camera on my back, and, lying flat in the mud, I edged away in the direction of the battery. Before leaving, the officer gave me a final warning about drawing the Germans' fire. Alternately crawling and working my way on hands and knees, and taking advantage of any little bit of cover, I drew nearer to the guns. While I was lying here, there crashed out a regular inferno of rifle-fire from the German trenches. The bullets sang overhead like a flight of hornets. This certainly was a warm corner. If I had filmed this scene, all that would have been shown was a dreary waste of mud-heaps, caused by the explosion of the shells, and the graves of fallen soldiers dotted all over the place. As far as the eye could see the country was absolutely devoid of any living thing.
Thousands of people in England, comfortably seated in the picture theatre, would have passed this scene by as quite uninteresting except for its memories. But if the sounds I heard, and the flying bullets that whizzed by me, could have been photographed, they might take a different view of it.