]
Suddenly, we heard the wailing overhead and louder than any of the other
shells. Louder meant closer. It lasted a second of time, and then
crashed into the second story of the red house, six feet over Rossiter's
head. A shower of brown brick dust, and a puff of gray-black smoke
settled down over the machine and man, and blotted him out of sight for
a couple of seconds. Then we all coughed and spat, and the air cleared.
The tripod had careened in the fierce rush of air, but Rossiter had
caught it and was righting it. He went on turning. His face was streaked
with black, and his clothes were brown with dust.
"Trying to get the smoke," he called, "but I'm afraid it won't
register."
Maybe you want to know how that film took. We hustled it back to London,
and it went with a whizz. One hundred and twenty-six picture houses
produced "STREET FIGHTING IN ALOST." The daily illustrated
papers ran it front page. The only criticism of it that I heard was
another movie man, who was sore--a chap named Wilson.
"That picture is faked," he asserted.
"I'll bet you," I retorted, "that picture was taken under shell fire
during the bombardment of Alost. That barricade is the straight goods.
The fellow that took it was shot full of gas while he was taking it.
What's your idea of the real thing?"
"That's all right," he said; "the ruins are good, and the smoke is
there.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94