OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS IN FRANCE.
The 25th of December 1915, was to be our first Christmas in France,
and as the day approached there was much speculation among our men as
to which Battalions would be in the line. At last orders came out that
the 13th and 16th Battalions would relieve the 14th and 15th on
Christmas Eve. I determined, therefore, to spend my Christmas with the
former two. Our trenches at that time were in front of Ploegsteert.
The 16th was on the right and the 13th on the left. Taking my bag with
communion vessels and as many hymn books as I could carry, and with a
haversack over my shoulder containing requisities for the night, I was
motored over on Christmas Eve to the 3rd Brigade Headquarters at Petit
Moncque Farm. The day was rainy and so was not calculated to improve
the spirits and temper of the men who were going to spend their first
Christmas in the line. At dusk I walked up the road to Hill 63, and
then down on the other side to Le Plus Douve Farm. It was not a cheerful
Christmas Eve. The roads were flooded with water, and the transports
that were waiting for the relief were continually getting tangled up
with one another in the darkness. To make matters worse, I was met by
a Sergeant who told me he had some men to be buried, and a burial
party was waiting on the side of the road. We went into the field
which was used as a cemetery and there we laid the bodies to rest.
The Germans had dammed the river Douve, and it had flooded some of the
fields and old Battalion Headquarters. It was hard to find one's way
in the dark, and I should never have done so without assistance. The
men had acquired the power of seeing in the dark, like cats.
A Battalion was coming out and the men were wet and muddy. I stood by
the bridge watching them pass and, thinking it was the right and
conventional thing to do, wished them all a Merry Christmas. My
intentions were of the best, but I was afterwards told that it sounded
to the men like the voice of one mocking them in their misery.
However, as it turned out, the wish was fulfilled on the next day.
As soon as I could cross the bridge, I made my way to the trenches
which the 16th Battalion were taking over. They were at a higher (p. 119)
level and were not in a bad condition. Further up the line there was a
barn known as St. Quentin's Farm, which for some reason or other,
although it was in sight of the enemy, had not been demolished and was
used as a billet. I determined therefore to have a service of Holy
Communion at midnight, when the men would all have come into the line
and settled down. About eleven o'clock I got things ready. The officers
and men had been notified of the service and began to assemble. The
barn was a fair size and had dark red brick walls. The roof was low
and supported by big rafters. The floor was covered with yellow straw
about two feet in depth. The men proceeded to search for a box which I
could use as an altar. All they could get were three large empty biscuit
tins. These we covered with my Union Jack and white linen cloth. A row
of candles was stuck against the wall, which I was careful to see were
prevented from setting fire to the straw. The dull red tint of the
brick walls, the clean yellow straw, and the bright radiance of our
glorious Union Jack made a splendid combination of colour. It would
have been a fitting setting for a tableau of the Nativity.
The Highlanders assembled in two rows and I handed out hymn books.
There were many candles in the building so the men were able to read.
It was wonderful to hear in such a place and on such an occasion, the
beautiful old hymns, "While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night,"
"Hark the Herald Angels Sing," and "O Come All Ye Faithful." The men
sang them lustily and many and varied were the memories of past
Christmases that welled up in their thoughts at that time.
I had a comfortable bunk in one of the dugouts that night, and was up
next morning early to spend the day among the men in the line. I was
delighted to find that the weather had changed and a most glorious day
was lighting up the face of nature. The sky overhead was blue and only
a few drifting clouds told of the rain that had gone. The sun was beating
down warm and strong, as if anxious to make up for his past neglect.
The men, of course, were in high spirits, and the glad handshake and
the words "A Merry Christmas" had got back their old-time meaning.
The Colonel had given orders to the men not to fire on the enemy that
day unless they fired on us. The Germans had evidently come to the
same resolution. Early in the morning some of them had come over (p. 120)
to our wire and left two bottles of beer behind as a peace offering.
The men were allowed to go back to their trenches unmolested, but the
two bottles of beer quite naturally and without any difficulty continued
their journey to our lines. When I got up to the front trench, I found
our boys standing on the parapet and looking over at the enemy. I
climbed up, and there, to my astonishment, I saw the Germans moving
about in their trenches apparently quite indifferent to the fact that
we were gazing at them. One man was sawing wood. Between us and them
lay that mass of wire and iron posts which is known as the mysterious
"No Man's Land." Further down the hill we saw the trenches of the 13th
Battalion, where apparently intermittent "Straffing" was still going
on. Where we were, however, there was nothing to disturb our Christmas
peace and joy. I actually got out into "No Mans Land" and wandered
down it. Many Christmas parcels had arrived and the men were making
merry with their friends, and enjoying the soft spring-like air, and
the warm sunshine. When I got down to the 13th Battalion however, I
found that I had to take cover, as the German snipers and guns were
active. I did not have any service for that Battalion then, as I was
going to them on the following Sunday, but at evening I held another
midnight service for those of the 16th who were on duty the night
before.
The only place available was the billet of the Machine Gun Officer in
the second trench. It was the cellar of a ruined building and the
entrance was down some broken steps. One of the sergeants had cleaned
up the place and a shelf on the wall illuminated by candles was
converted into an altar, and the dear old flag, the symbol of liberty,
equality and fraternity, was once again my altar cloth. The Machine
Gun Officer, owing to our close proximity to the enemy, was a little
doubtful as to the wisdom of our singing hymns, but finally allowed us
to do so. The tiny room and the passage outside were crowded with
stalwart young soldiers, whose voices sang out the old hymns as though
the Germans were miles away. Our quarters were so cramped that the men
had difficulty in squeezing into the room for communion and could not
kneel down. The service was rich and beautiful in the heartfelt
devotion of men to whom, in their great need, religion was a real and
vital thing. Not long after midnight, once again the pounding of the
old war was resumed, and as I went to bed in the dugout that night, I
felt from what a sublime height the world had dropped. We had two (p. 121)
more war Christmases in France, but I always look back upon that first
one as something unique in its beauty and simplicity.
When I stood on the parapet that day looking over at the Germans in
their trenches, and thought how two great nations were held back for a
time in their fierce struggle for supremacy, by their devotion to a
little Child born in a stable in Bethlehem two thousand years before,
I felt that there was still promise of a regenerated world. The Angels
had not sung in vain their wonderful hymn "Glory to God in the Highest
and on Earth Peace, Good Will towards men."