The guide turned up a few minutes afterwards; he took the tripod, I the camera. I started off and entered King Street, making my way towards the firing trench. I have described in previous chapters what it was like to be under an intense bombardment. I have attempted to analyse my feelings when lying in the trenches with shells bursting directly overhead. I have been in all sorts of places, under heavy shell-fire, but for intensity and nearness--nothing--absolutely nothing--compared with the frightful and demoralising nature of the shell-fire which I experienced during that journey. I had only just reached King Street, when it started on that section. Bosche was fairly plastering the whole trench, and smashing down our parapets in the most methodical manner. Four men passed me, with horrible wounds; another was being carried on the shoulders of his comrades, one arm being blown clean off, leaving flesh and remnants of cloth hanging down in a horrible manner. The shells fell in front, overhead and behind us. I bent low and rushed through traverse after traverse, halting when a shell burst in the trench itself round the next bend, sending a ghastly blast of flame and choking fumes full in my face. At one point I halted, hardly knowing which way to go; my guide was crouching as low as possible on the ground. The further I went, the worse it got; shrieking, splitting shells seemed to envelop us. I looked back. The same. In front, another burst; the flames swept right into my face. If I had been standing up it would have killed me without a doubt. To go back was as dangerous as to advance, and to stay where I was--well, it was worse, if anything. Truth to tell, I had gone so far now that I did not like turning back; the picture of our men in Sunken Road attracted me like a magnet. "Go on," I shouted to the guide. "We'll get through somehow. Are you game?" "Yes, sir," said he. We ran round the next traverse, and had to scramble over a heap of débris caused by a shell a few moments before. "Look out, sir! There are some dead men here, and the parapet has practically disappeared. Get down on your stomach and crawl along." Phut-bang! The shells crashed on the parapet with the rapidity of machine-gun fire. I went down, and crawled along over the dead bodies of some of our lads killed only a few minutes before. It couldn't be helped. Purgatory, in all its hideous shapes and forms, could not possibly be worse than this journey. It seemed years getting through that hellish fire. "How much more?" I yelled out. "We are quite near now, sir; about twenty yards." "Rush for it, then--rush." I did, and my guide pulled up quickly at the entrance of what seemed like a mine. "Incline in here, sir," he said, and disappeared. I followed. Never in all my experience had I welcomed cover as I did at that moment. "Hold on a bit," I said, "for five minutes' breathing space."