"Aim right across the bandage," the director coached them. I could
hear one of the soldiers laughing excitedly as he was warming up
to the rehearsal. It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot of
confidence in a stray band of soldiers. Some one of those
Belgians, gifted with a lively imagination, might get carried away
with the suggestion and act as if I really were a German spy.

"Shoot the blooming blighter in the eye," said one movie man
playfully.

"Bally good idea!" exclaimed the other one approvingly, while one
eager actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer. That was
altogether too much. I tore the bandage from my eyes, exclaiming:

"It would be a bally good idea to take those cartridges out first."
Some fellow might think his cartridge was blank or try to fire wild,
just as a joke in order to see me jump. I wasn't going to take any
risk and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges were
ejected. Even when the bandage was readjusted "Didn't-know-it-
was-loaded" stories still were haunting me. In a moment,
however, it was over and I was promised my picture within a
fortnight.

A week later I picked up the London Daily Mirror from a
newsstand. It had the caption:


Belgian Soldiers Shoot a German Spy Caught at Termonde