, as the tower of the Cathedral
was in full view. I had previously covered the aluminium head of my
tripod with a sandbag to prevent it glistening in the sun. As I drew
nearer to the trench, which I could now see quite distinctly, more and
more of St. Quentin came into view. Such a picture gives one rather a
queerish feeling. If a keen-eyed Hun observer spotted me, with my load,
he would take me for a machine-gunner or something equally dangerous.
But, fortunately, nothing happened.

I dropped into the trench of the ---- Worcesters who were amazed and
amused to see me there, as one of them said:

"Well, sir, I always thought all the War pictures were fakes, but now I
know they're not.

"Will you take us, sir? We expect to go over to-night. Please do, sir;
our people at home will then in all probability see us. Don't suppose I
shall. I have an idea I shan't--but," he said, pulling himself together,
"I hope so, yer know, sir."

I liked the man's spirit. It caused all the others to smile. I carefully
fixed up my machine and filmed them, holding our front line.

"How close is this to the town?" I asked.

"About nine hundred yards, sir."

[Illustration: OUR OUTPOST LINE WITHIN 800 YARDS OF ST. QUENTIN. IT WAS
TO THIS OUTPOST THAT I CRAWLED IN DAYLIGHT TO OBTAIN THIS SCENE]

Whether or not Bosche had seen movement I don't know, but suddenly a
group of four 5.9 came crashing over. Everybody ducked--wise plan,
rather, out here--they fell and burst about fifty yards behind us. I
awaited the next lot; they came very shortly and fell in almost the same
place.

"Before he shortens the range," I thought, "I'll move," and suiting the
action to the word I moved out towards the Bois de Savy and was half-way
there when another lot burst in my direction. This time I made for the
Bois de Holnon, and fortunately the shells ceased.

As I reached the furthest side of the Bois de Savy several tear shells
came whistling over and burst just behind me. Needless to say I had
fallen flat, and, as I arose, the sweet smell of tear gas made itself
evident. Not intending to risk a repetition of my previous experience at
Beaumont Hamel, I closed my eyes and ran like--well, you couldn't see me
for dust.

Yard by yard we continued to press back the enemy. For me the film story
of the taking of St. Quentin is an obsession. It holds me as a needle to
a magnet. And in this section, at the present, I remain--waiting and
watching.

My leave is