"Granted, but—well!—it's your shoot. Will you let us introduce the doctor? You'll need him."
"Gentlemen," I said, with mock gravity, "I assure you it would be most difficult for me to receive a more cordial welcome." This remark caused some laughter. Turning to the Captain, I said: "Will you give me an orderly? One who knows the trenches, as I wish to go there this afternoon to film the 'strafe' at 4 o'clock. I shall stay down there for the next few days, to be on the spot for 'The Day,' and ready for anything that follows."
"Certainly," he said. "Have you got a trench map? What about blankets and grub?"
"I have my blanket and some provisions, but if I can draw some bully and biscuits, I shall manage quite well."
Having secured supplies and filled my knapsack, I strapped it on my shoulder, fixed the camera-case on my back and, handing the tripod to another man, started off. I had hardly got more than two hundred yards when the Captain ran up to me and said that he had just had a 'phone message from D.H.Q., saying that the General was going to address the men on the following day, before proceeding to battle. Would I like to film the scene? It would take place about 10 a.m. Naturally, I was delighted at the prospect of such a picture, and agreed to be on the field at the time mentioned. Then with a final adieu we parted.
The weather was still vile. A nasty, drizzly mist hung over everything. The appearance of the whole country was much like it is on a bad November day at home. Everything was clammy and cold. The roads were covered to a depth of several inches with slimy, clayey mud. Loads of munitions were passing up to the Front. On all sides were guns, large and small. The place bristled with them, and they were so cunningly hidden that one might pass within six feet of them without being aware of their existence. But you could not get away from the sounds. The horrible dinning continued, from the sharp rat-tat-tat-tat of the French 75mm., of which we had several batteries in close proximity, and from the bark of the 18-pounders to the crunching roar of the 15-inch howitzer. The air was literally humming with shells. It seemed like a race of shrieking devils, each trying to catch up with the one in front before it reached its objective.
Salvo after salvo; crash after crash; and in the rare moments of stillness, in this nerve-shattering prelude to the Great Push, I could hear the sweet warblings of a lark, as it rose higher and higher in the murky, misty sky.
At one place I had to pass through a narrow lane, and on either side were hidden batteries, sending round upon round into the German trenches, always under keen observation from enemy-spotting balloons and aeroplanes. The recent shell-holes in the roadway made me pause before proceeding further. I noticed a sergeant of the Lancashire Fusiliers at the entrance to a thickly sand-bagged shelter, and asked him if there was another way to the section of the front line I sought.
"No, sir," he said, "that is the only way; but it's mighty unhealthy just now. The Hun is crumpling it with his 5·9-inch H.E., and making a tidy mess of the road. But he don't hit our guns, sir. He just improves their appearance by making a nice little frill of earth around them, he does, and—look out, sir; come in here.
"Here she comes!"