Christmas festivities were held on different dates by the various units according to their positions in the line or in reserve. Taking into consideration the adverse conditions that prevailed, an excellent bill of fare was provided—roast beef, plum-pudding with rum sauce, a pint of beer for each man, and various delicacies from canteen stores. Christmas day was bright and frosty, and the Divisional Band turned Gully Ravine into a pleasure resort by playing Christmas carols at appointed spots in the ravine. One battalion thought that greater delicacy might have been shown in the choice of carols. They had been relieved from the front line on Christmas Eve, and had just settled down in “rest” bivouacs near Gully Beach to a much-needed sleep, when, in the early hours of Christmas morning, they were ordered to turn out and move to a distant bivouac far up the ravine. As they put on their equipment in a most unchristian frame of mind, the band started to serenade Divisional Headquarters with “Christians Awake!” and as the men prepared to move off the tune changed to a less familiar air. “What are they playing now?” asked an officer. “‘God rest you, merry gentlemen,’” came the reply in a voice choked with emotion. With twilight a silence fell. No gun fired, no rifle cracked, until the moon showed over the shoulder of Achi Baba, when missiles of destruction of every kind, from the cricket-ball bomb to the giant shells from monitors out at sea, pitched into the enemy lines. Hostile aircraft, both bombing and observation planes, had greatly increased in number since the evacuation of Suvla and Anzac, the Turks being naturally anxious to learn what was happening at Helles. A note attached to an old bomb was thrown from the enemy trenches into the trenches occupied by the Sussex Yeomanry. It contained this message: “Good-bye, Sussex Yeomanry. Sorry you can’t stay, but we’ll meet again on the Canal.”