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I will, however, accompany you a short distance." We started out, keeping as much to the seashore as possible. "Keep low," the Captain said, "the place is thick with Bosche snipers." I certainly needed no second warning, for I had experienced those gentry before. "Our Goumiers are doing splendid work here on the dunes. It is, of course, like home to them among the sand-heaps."
The deadly silence was uncanny in the extreme; in fact I seemed to fear it more than the bombardment. It seemed to me too quiet to be healthy. What was Bosche up to? There must be some reason for it. I took cover in a shallow trench at the roadside. Along the bottom were lying several dead Bosches, and a short distance away fragments of human remains were strewn around.
Which was the most surprised the Bosche or myself I do not know, for less than a hundred yards away was the German line. I stopped turning. Immediately I did so bullets came singing unpleasantly past my head. I dropped flat on the ground, which luckily for me was slightly protected by a ridge of earth. I dragged the camera down on top of me and, lying flat, the bullets whizzed by overhead.
So rapid had been our advance that a party of Germans, still under the impression that they were behind their own lines, bumped right into a section of Mr Wood's platoon in a "grouse butt." On being challenged, the Bosche sergeant-major called out, "Welche Kompanie ist das?" Take that, you , it's the Black Watch you're up against this time."
The enemy shelling was not heavy and was confined to a few favourite spots. At night he sent over a few gas shells, but never in great numbers, and the damage done was trifling. On the other hand, night after night he received thousands of shells of all sizes from our gunners, especially from 6-inch howitzers, and none envied the Bosche.
Stopping the car, I immediately jumped out, and stood under cover of a broken-down wall, and looking up, could see the cause of this activity. High in the air, about eight to ten thousand feet, was a Bosche aeroplane, and while I was watching it shrapnel shells from our anti-aircraft guns were exploding round it like rain. A great number were fired at it.
The place was as silent as the grave. I filmed a few scenes which appealed to me, and was on the move towards the further end of the road when two of our cyclists suddenly came into view. I hurried up to them. "Any news?" I asked. "Where's Bosche?" The men were half dead with fatigue.
But no matter where I looked the Bosche line was apparently non-existent. Yet our shells were smashing into the ground, which seemed to be absolutely empty. I set up my camera and started to expose. While doing so I happened to glance down, for I must explain that I was on a slight mound.
So, going up to an R.A.M.C. officer, who was standing outside his dug-out, I asked him if there was any news in fact I enquired whether there was a war on up there, everything seemed to be so absolutely quiet. "Well," he said, "there was up to about three hours ago; Bosche has fairly plastered us with 5.9 and whizz-bangs.
The trenches were packed with men rushing up to the fight. I asked an officer who raced by, breathlessly, if Bosche was getting through. "Yes," he yelled; "they are trying to get through in part of my section. They have smashed our communication trenches so much that I have got to take my men round on the right flank. It's hell there!" It was impossible to get through.
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