"It's a funny thing that a full belly always is associated with happiness," said Fitzgerald, shaking his head and laughing loudly. Rum went easily to his head. "If a man gets married, he feeds well, and if a child is born to him, he stuffs himself with viands. It's always his belly." "Always," said Bubb, reaching a second time for the mess-tin. "It doesn't matter what Fitz says," remarked Bowdy Benners, sinking his chin into the collar of his sheepskin coat. "What I say is this: We must have a Christmas dinner to-morrow." "How can we get one?" Fitz enquired. "Easy enough that," said Bowdy. "I know an old woman of the Café Calomphie. A parcel of good things could be got there for a few francs. I could go down to Les Brebis in an hour." "But they're shelling the road," Fitzgerald remarked. "Blowing holes in it, and the houses are flying about the streets. Not only that, but you're not supposed to go away from here. And again, all shops are closed at nine o'clock. It's well past eight now...." "But that doesn't matter," said Bowdy. "The woman of the café is a great friend of mine." "Ye're a sly old dawg, Bowdy," said Bubb. "No one 'ud fink that to look at yer." Bowdy went red in the face, and proceeded to buckle his equipment, his hands trembling a little over the job. "We'll have a collection, anyhow," said Fitzgerald, and he flung a coin into his mess-tin. Several coins followed, and in the end the magnificent sum of twelve francs fifty was collected. Bowdy put the money in his pocket, took a last long-drawn pull at his cigarette, and went outside. "I'll be back again in no time," were his final words. The men turned their attention to the rum jar again; tongues were loosened and stories of past Christmases went round the dug-out. Bubb, strong on the traditions of the regiment, told the story of the Brigadier's kit inspection at St. Albans the Christmas previous. "The 'ole Brig come round when 'e was inspectin' us, and 'e looked at my pack," said Bubb. "'That's the neatest pack I've seed in the 'ole battalion,' says the Brig. ''Ave yer got everything that's laid down in orders in that 'ere pack?' 'e says to me. 'Everything,' I sez. 'I know that the contents of a nice pack is always nice and clean,' 'e says. 'I'll just 'ave a look at yer pack. Take it off and take out everything and lay them out,' 'e says. Gor' blimey! I did wot 'e ordered me, an' my bloomin' pack was full of straw. 'Twas lighter to carry than the or'nary caboosh. Fourteen days' spudhole," Bubb concluded. Fitzgerald was singing a song and waving an empty mess-tin over his head. The song was one of his own making, a Rabelaisian production with a snappy chorus. All joined in and drank in turn. Suddenly they heard the dull rumble of approaching shells and the loud explosions of the missiles in the fields outside. Fitzgerald lit a cigarette and finished a chorus. "They're strafing again," he said. "The damned pastime will never come to an end."