CHRISTMAS DAY AT THE FRONT
Leave-taking at Charing Cross--A Fruitless Search for Food
on Christmas Eve--How Tommy Welcomed the Coming of the
Festive Season--"Peace On Earth, Good Will To Men" to the
Boom of the Big Guns--Filming the Guards' Division--And the
Prince of Wales--Coming from a Christmas Service--This Year
and Next.
On December 23rd I met an officer, a captain, at Charing Cross Station.
We were leaving by the 8.50 train, and we were not the only ones to
leave Christmas behind, for hundreds of men were returning to the Front.
Heartbreaking scenes were taking place, and many of the brave women-folk
were stifling their sobs, in order to give their men a pleasant
send-off, possibly for the last time.
Amidst hurried good-byes and fond kisses from mothers, sisters,
sweethearts and wives, and with shouts of good luck from hundreds of
throats, the train started off. Handkerchiefs were waved from many
windows, cheerful heads were thrust out, and not until the train had
cleared the platform, and the "hurrahs" had faded away in the distance,
did we take our seats. Then with set faces, grim with determination, we
resigned ourselves to the fate that awaited us on the battlefields of
France. Reaching Boulogne, after a rather choppy voyage, our car
conveyed us to G.H.Q., which we reached late in the evening.
The following morning I was told to leave for La Gorgue, to film scenes
connected with the Guards' Division. Late that afternoon, the Captain
and I set out for our destination, reaching there about 8 o'clock. I
was billeted in a private house, and immediately enquired for some food,
but it was impossible to obtain any there. Going out I walked through
the town, in the hope of finding a place to get something. But none
could be found. Feeling very tired, I began to retrace my steps, with
the intention of going to bed.
On my way back I had reason to change my mind. Quite an interesting
scene unfolded itself. The boom of the guns rang out sharp and clear.
The moon was shining brightly, and at intervals there flashed across the
sky the not-far-distant glare of star-shells. In the houses, lining both
sides of the road, there was music, from the humble mouth-organ to the
piano, and lusty British voices were singing old English tunes with the
enthusiasm of boyhood.
On the pavement clusters of our Tommies were proceeding towards their
billets, singing heartily at the top of their voices. Some batches were
singing carols, others the latest favourites, such as "Keep the Home
Fires Burning."
No matter where one went, the same conditions and the same sounds
prevailed; just happy-go-lucky throngs, filled with the songs and
laughter born of the spirit of Christmas. And yet as I reached my room,
despite the scenes of joyousness and hilarity rampant, I could still
hear the crash of the guns.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE OF WALES TRYING TO LOCATE MY "CAMOUFLAGED
CAMERA"]
[Illustration: THE PRINCE OF WALES LEAVING A TEMPORARY CHURCH AT LA
GORGUE, XMAS DAY, 1915]
This was my second Christmas at the Front, although not in the same
district. Last year I was with the brave Belgian army. This year was
certainly very different in all respects except the weather, and that
was as poisonous as ever. A miserable, misty, drifting rain, which would
soak through to the skin in a few minutes anyone not provided with a
good rainproof. Donning my Burberry, I proceeded towards a small chapel,
or rather to a building which is now used as one. It was originally a
workshop. On three sides it was entirely surrounded by the floods. The
front door was just clear, but I had to paddle through mud half-way up
to my knees to get there. I intended to obtain a film of the Guards'
Division attending the Christmas service.
Fixing up my camera, I awaited their arrival. After a short time they
came along, headed by their band. What a fine body of men! Swinging
along with firm stride, they came past. Thinking I had got sufficient I
packed my camera, when, to my astonishment, I saw the Prince of Wales,
with Lord Cavan, coming up at the rear. Rushing back to my old position,
I endeavoured to fix up again, to film them coming in, but I was too
late. "Anyway," I thought, "I will get him coming out."
Fixing up my machine at a new and advantageous point of view, I waited.
The service began. I could hear the strains of the old, old carols and
Christmas hymns. Surely one could not have heard them under stranger
conditions, for as the sound of that beautiful carol, "Peace on Earth,
Good Will to Men!" swelled from the throats of several hundreds of our
troops, the heavy guns thundered out round after round with increasing
intensity. Strange that at such a moment so terrific a bombardment
should have taken place. It seems as if some strange telepathic
influence was at work, commanding all the guns in the vicinity to open
fire with redoubled fury. And high in the air, our steel "birds" were
hovering over the enemy lines, directing the fire, and flecked all round
them, like flakes of snow, was the smoke from the shrapnel shells fired
on them by the Germans.
"Peace on earth, good will to men," came the strains of music from the
little church. Crash! went the guns again and again, throwing their
shrieking mass of metal far overhead. I fell into a deep reverie, and
my thoughts naturally strayed to those at home.
Returning to my room. I donned my thick woollen coat, as I intended to
rush off to G.H.Q. to see Tong, who had got a bad attack of dysentery,
and try and cheer him up. Getting into my car, I told the chauffeur to
drive like the wind. I had fifty kilometres to go. Away we rushed
through the night, and as we went through villages where our Tommies
were billeted, the strains of the old home songs--Irish, Scotch and
English--were wafted to my ears. Except for the incessant shelling, the
flash of guns, and the distant glare from the star-shells, it was almost
impossible to believe we were in the terrible throes of war. I arrived
at G.H.Q. about 8.30 p.m.
Poor Tong was very queer and feeling dejected. Not being able to speak
French, he could not let the people of the hotel know what he wanted. I
soon made him as comfortable as possible, and sat beside his bed
chatting about this, the strangest Christmas Day I had ever experienced.
After remaining with him for about an hour and a half, I again started
for the front line, where I arrived about 1 a.m., dog-tired, and at once
turned in.
So ended my second Christmas Day at the Front, and, as I dozed off to
sleep, I found myself wondering whether the next Christmas would find me
still in France. Should I be listening to carols and guns at the Front,
or would the message of the bells peal from a church in an adjacent
street at home, and announce the coming of another Christmas to me and
mine?