It was impossible to get through. The place was choked with men, many of them badly wounded; some of them, I'm afraid, destined as tenants of the little cemetery near by.
The awful nightmare continued. Men were coming and going. Reserves were being rushed forward; more bombs were being sent up. The Bosche artillery quietened down a bit, but only, as I found out immediately afterwards, to allow their bombers to attack. I could see the flash of hundreds of bombs, each one possibly tearing the life out of some of our brave boys. Nothing in the world could have withstood such a concentrated artillery fire as the Germans put upon that five hundred yards of ground. It was torn and torn again, riven to shreds. It was like the vomiting of a volcano, a mass of earth soddened with the blood of the heroes who had tried to hold it.
The Germans came on, bombing their way across to what was left of our trench. They dug themselves in. Then with a whirl and a crash, our guns spoke again. Our boys, who had been waiting like dogs on a leash, sprang to the attack. Briton met Bosche. The battle swayed first this way then that. Our men drove the Germans out twice during the night, and held on to a section commanding the flank of the original position. Towards four o'clock the fighting ceased. Daylight was breaking. The wounded were still being passed to the rear.
I stopped and spoke to an officer. "How have you got on?" I asked.
"We occupy the left flank trench, and command the position. But, what a fight; it was worse than Loos." Then suddenly, "What are you doing here?"
"I am taking kinema pictures!" I said.
The look of amazement on his face was eloquent of his thoughts.
"Doing what?" he asked.
"I am taking kinema pictures," I repeated.
"Well I'm damned," were his exact words. "I never thought you fellows existed. I've always thought war pictures were fakes, but—well—now I know different," and giving me a hearty shake of the hand he went on his way.