fect did it have upon
you? Did you realise till you saw it what this vast battle-front was
like? Did you realise what our Army was doing; how our wonderful
soldiers--your husbands, your sons, your brothers--were driving the Huns
back; how they were going to their death with a laugh upon their faces
and a cigarette between their lips, fighting and dying like true
Britons? That those who came back wounded and broken still had that
smile?

Yes: the truth has at last dawned upon you. With that knowledge new
resolutions were born within you; resolutions that bade you never to
slack for an instant in your endeavour to bring success to our arms.

Trones Wood! That name had been drummed into my ears for days. It seemed
to have a fascination for me. I asked several men to describe the place.

"Quite impossible, sir; there baint anything like it on earth, and if
hell is at all like it then I have been there. It's dead; just
dead--dead--dead! And the smell--awful."

"Is Fritz strafing there much?"

"Yes, sir, he's at it all day: there's not room for a cat to hide in, so
why Fritz is dropping his souvenirs there heaven knows; I don't."

From the description the place seemed rather satisfactory from a scenic
point of view, so I made up my mind to try and film it, as I wanted
scenes of heavy bombardment which I could get if Fritz was concentrating
upon the wood, for the Hun is a tolerably safe person to deal with if he
has a target to fire at; he is so methodical.

Going up by my car as far as the top of Camoy Valley, I left it there
near a dressing station.

[Illustration: FILMING THE KING DURING HIS VISIT TO FRANCE IN 1916. HE
IS ACCOMPANIED BY PRESIDENT POINCARE, SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, GENERAL JOFFRE
AND GENERAL FOCH]

"Strafing!" I was out for "strafing," and by all appearances I was
likely to get it hot and strong before long. I had only just stopped
when a shell came hurtling overhead, falling about one hundred and fifty
yards behind the dressing station. I went over to a doctor who was
tending some wounded men--our own and Germans.

"Has Fritz been sending you these souvenirs very often?" I enquired.

The doctor rose, and mopping his forehead, grinned and replied: "Yes;
the blighter won't let us alone. Why doesn't he play cricket? He must
know this is Red Cross. That sign there," pointing to a large Red Cross
lying on the ground, "is large enough to be seen by the men in Mars.
Only this morning he put one bang through