"Sure enough, I could make out a slight movement. Happy must have seen it at the same time, because he carefully eased his rifle over the top, ready for instant use. My rifle was already in position. Curly was fumbling with the flare pistol. Suddenly a loud 'plop,' as he pulled the trigger, and a red streak shot up into the air as the star shell described an arc out in front; it hit the ground and burst, throwing out a white, ghostly light. A frightened 'meouw,' and a cat, with speed clutch open, darted from the wire in front of us, jumped over our gun and disappeared into the blackness of the trench. Curly ducked his head, and Happy let out a weak, squeaky laugh. I was frozen stiff with fear. Pretty soon the pump action of my heart was resumed, and once more I looked out into No Man's Land. "For the remainder of our two hours on guard nothing happened. Then we 'turned over' to the second relief and, half frozen, waded through the icy mud to the entrance of our dugout. "From the depths of the earth came the notes of a harmonica playing 'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile.' Stumbling down the muddy steps we entered the dugout. This was a regular dugout, not like the two-by-four one we generally had wished on us. "Eight boys of our machine-gun section, sitting on their packs, had formed a circle around a wooden box. In an old ammunition tin six candles were burning. I inwardly shuddered at this extravagance but suddenly remembered that it was Christmas Eve. Sailor Bill was making cocoa over the flames of a 'Tommy's cooker,' while Ikey was toasting bread in front of a fire bucket, the fumes from which nearly choked us. "As soon as we made our appearance in the dugout the circle stood up, and, as is usual with you English, unselfishly made room for us to get around the fire bucket to thaw out our stiffened joints. In about twenty minutes or so the cold of the trench was forgotten and we joined in the merriment. The musician put his harmonica away, which action was greatly appreciated by the rest of us. It was Ikey. Bursting with importance, 'Sailor Bill' addressed us: "'Gentlemen, it is now time for this ship's company to report progress as to what they have done for the Christmas feed which is to be held tomorrow at eight bells. Yank, let's hear yours.' "I reported one dozen eggs, two bottles of white wine, one bottle of red wine, eight packets of Gold Flake 'fags' and one quart bottle of champagne, which had cost me five francs, my last and lonely note on the Banque de France, at a French estaminet.