With the exception of the usual heavy shelling, getting down to the front trench was quite uneventful. My objective was a place called "The White City," so called because it is cut out of the chalk-bank of our position facing Beaumont Hamel. Getting there through the communication trenches was as difficult as in the winter. In places the mud and water reached my knees, and when you had come to the end of your journey you were as much like dirty plaster-cast as anything possibly could be.
After three-quarters of an hour's trudging and splashing I reached "The White City," and turned down a trench called "Tenderloin Street." About one hundred yards on my right, at the junction of "King Street" and "St. Helena Street," my guide pointed me out the Brigade dug-out. Depositing my camera and outfit close to some sandbags I went inside and introduced myself. Four officers were present.
"By Jove!" said one, "you are welcome. Have a drink. Here's a cigarette."
"Here you are," said another, "have a match. Now tell us all the news from home. My word, we haven't heard a blessed thing for days. Have you really come to photograph 'The Day'?"
"Yes," I replied. "But I have come this afternoon to look round, and to film the 'strafe' at Beaumont Hamel. You know the trenches round here: where can I see the village to the best advantage?"
"Well," said one, "there are several places, but Bosche is 'hating' us rather this afternoon, and the firing trench is anything but healthy. He's been properly dosing us with 'whizz-bangs,' but you know he will have his bit of fun. You see, when Fritz starts we let off a few 'flying pigs' in return, which undoubtedly disturbs his peace of mind."
"By my map, a spot called 'Lanwick Street' seems likely," I said. "It's bang opposite the village, and they are putting the 15-inch on the eastern corner. If you will be good enough to guide me, I will have a look now; it will take me some time to fix up my camera in reasonable safety."
"You won't find much safety there," he replied. "We have practically to rebuild the parapet every night, but only for a few more days, thank Heaven! Anyway, come along."
We proceeded by way of "King Street" to "Lanwick Street," and several times we had to fall flat in the trench bottom to escape being hit by shells. They seemed at times to burst almost overhead. The "whizz-bangs" which Fritz puts over are rather little beggars; you have no time to dodge them. They come with a "phut" and a bang that for sheer speed knocks spots off a flash of lightning. One only thinks to duck when the beastly thing has gone off.
"Lanwick Street" was the usual sort of trench. At one end was an artillery observation officer, correcting the range of his guns.