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? CHAPTER III I GET INTO A WARM CORNER Boxing Day--But No Pantomime--Life in the Trenches--A Sniper at Work--Sinking a Mine Shaft--The Cheery Influence of an Irish Padre--A Cemetery Behind the Lines--Pathetic Inscriptions and Mementoes on Dead Heroes' Graves--I Get Into a Pretty Warm Corner--And Have Some Difficulty in Getting Out Again--But All's Well that Ends Well.