Next morning I decided to try and film the mitrailleuse outpost on a little spot of land in the floods, only connected by a narrow strip of grass-land just high enough to be out of reach of the water. Still keeping low under cover of the trenches, I made my way in that direction. Several officers tried to persuade me not to go, but knowing it would make an excellent scene, I decided to risk it. On the side of the bank nearest our front line the ground sloped at a more abrupt angle, the distance from the trench to the outpost being about sixty yards. Rushing over the top of the parapet, I got to the edge of the grass road and crouched down. The water up to my knees, I made my way carefully along. Twice I stumbled over dead bodies. At last I reached the outpost safely, but during the last few yards I must have raised myself a little too high, for the next minute several bullets splashed into the water where I had been. The outpost was very surprised when I made my appearance, and expressed astonishment that I had not been shot. "A miss is as good as a mile," I laughingly replied, and then I told them I had come to film them at work. This I proceeded to do, and got an excellent scene of the mitrailleuse in action, and the other section loading up. The frightful slaughter done by these guns is indescribable. Nothing can possibly live under the concentrated fire of these weapons, as the Germans found to their cost that day. After getting my scenes, I thanked the officer, and was about to make my way back; but he forbade me to risk it, telling me to wait until night and return under cover of the darkness. To this I agreed, and that night left the outpost with the others when the relief party came up. Shortly after news was received that we were to be relieved from duty in the trenches for the next forty-eight hours; the relief column was on its way to take our places. I was delighted, for I had been wet through during the days and nights I had been there, but was fully satisfied that I had got some real live films. Hastily packing up my equipment, I stood waiting the signal to move off. At last the relief came up. Holding each other's hands, we carefully made our way in Indian file along the trench, on to the road, and into Ramscapelle. [Illustration: WITH A GROUP OF BELGIAN OFFICERS AT FURNES, BELGIUM, 1914. ONE OF THEM USED TO ACT AS MY COURIER] [Illustration: ON SKIS IN THE VOSGES MOUNTAINS JUST BEFORE THE FRENCH ATTACK, FEBRUARY AND MARCH, 1915] What a terrible sight it was! The skeletons of houses stood grim and gaunt, and the sound of the wind rushing through the ruins was like the moaning of the spirits of the dead inhabitants crying aloud for vengeance. The sounds increased in volume as we neared this scene of awful desolation, and the groans became a crescendo of shrieks which, combined with the crash of shell-fire, made one's blood run cold.