Switching off the light, we lay down and awaited events. But not for long. The order came to man the trench. Out we tumbled, and took up our positions. Suddenly out of the blackness, in the direction of the German positions, came the rattle of rifle-fire, and the bullets began to whistle overhead. Keeping as low as possible, we replied, firing in quick succession at the flashes of the enemy rifles. This continued throughout the night. Towards morning a fog settled down, which blocked out our view of each other, and there was a lull in the fighting. At midday the attack started again. Taking my apparatus, I filmed a section of Belgians in action. Several times bullets whistled unpleasantly near my head. Passing along the trench, I filmed a mitrailleuse battery in action, which was literally mowing down the Germans as fast as they appeared. Then I filmed another section of men, while the bullets were flying all around them. Several could not resist looking round and laughing at the camera. Whilst thus engaged, several shells fell within thirty feet of me. Two failed to explode; another exploded and sent a lump of mud full in my face. With great spluttering, and I must admit a little swearing, I quickly cleaned it off. Then I filmed a large shell-hole filled with water, caused by the explosion of a German "Jack Johnson." The diameter was 28 feet across, and, roughly, 6 feet deep in the centre. At the other end of the line I filmed a company damming the Canal, to turn it into the German trenches. Then I cautiously made my way back, and filmed a section being served with hot coffee while under fire. Coming upon some men warming themselves round a bucket-stove, I joined the circle for a little warmth. How comforting it was in that veritable morass. Even as we chatted we were subjected to a heavy shrapnel attack, and the way we all scuttled to the trench huts was a sight for the gods. It was one mad scramble of laughing soldiers. Plunk--plunk--plunk--came the shells, not 20-25 feet from where we were sitting by the fire. Six shells fell in our position, one failed to explode. I had a bet with a Belgian officer that it was 30 feet from us. He bet me it was 40 feet. Not to be done, I roughly measured off a yard stick, and left the shelter of the trench to measure the distance. It turned out to be 28 feet. Just as I had finished, I heard three more shells come shrieking towards me. I simply dived for the trench, and luckily reached it just in time. Towards evening our artillery shelled a farm-house about three-quarters of a mile distant, where the Germans had three guns hidden, and through the glasses I watched the shells drop into the building and literally blow it to pieces. Unfortunately, it was too far off to film it satisfactorily. That night was practically a repetition of the previous one. The trench was attacked the greater part of the time, and bullets continually spattered against the small iron plate.