hinking I could obtain a better view
from a point in the distance, I started off for it, bent nearly double,
when a warning shout from an officer bade me be careful. I reached the
point. Although about fifty yards behind the firing trench, I was under
the impression that I was still sheltered by the parapet. Evidently I
had raised my head too high while fixing up the tripod, for with a
murderous whistle two bullets "zipped" by overhead. I must be more
careful if I wanted to get away with a whole skin; so bending low, I
filmed the scene, and then returned.

While proceeding along the line, I filmed the regimental padre of the
Irish Guards wading through the mud and exchanging a cheery word with
every man he passed. What a figure he was! Tall and upright, with a long
dark beard, and a voice that seemed kind and cheery enough to influence
even the dead. He inspired confidence wherever he went. He stayed awhile
to talk to several men who were sitting in their dug-outs pumping the
water out before they could enter. His words seemed to make the men work
with redoubled vigour. Then he passed on.

Along this section, at the back of the dug-outs, were innumerable white
crosses, leaning at all angles, in the mud. They were the last
resting-place of our dead heroes. On each cross a comrade had written a
short inscription, and some of these, though simple, and at times badly
spelt, revealed a pathos and a feeling that almost brought tears to the
eyes. For all its slime and mud it was the most beautiful cemetery I
have ever seen. On some of the graves were a few wildflowers. No
wreaths; no marble headstones; no elaborate ornamentation; but in their
place a battered cap, a rusty rifle or a mud-covered haversack, the
treasured belongings of the dead.

I had barely finished filming this scene when with a shriek several
shells came hurtling overhead from the German guns and burst about a
hundred yards behind our firing line. Quickly adjusting the camera, I
covered the section with my lens. In a few seconds more shells came
over, and turning the handle I filmed them as they burst, throwing up
enormous quantities of earth. The Huns were evidently firing at
something. What that something was I soon found out. An enemy observer
had seen a small working party crossing an open space. The guns
immediately opened fire. Whether they inflicted any casualties I do not
know, but a few minutes later the same party of men passed me as though
nothi