The 25th of December 1915, was to be our first Christmas in France,
and as the day approached there was much speculation among our men as
to which Battalions would be in the line. At last orders came out that
the 13th and 16th Battalions would relieve the 14th and 15th on
Christmas Eve. I determined, therefore, to spend my Christmas with the
former two. Our trenches at that time were in front of Ploegsteert.
The 16th was on the right and the 13th on the left. Taking my bag with
communion vessels and as many hymn books as I could carry, and with a
haversack over my shoulder containing requisities for the night, I was
motored over on Christmas Eve to the 3rd Brigade Headquarters at Petit
Moncque Farm. The day was rainy and so was not calculated to improve
the spirits and temper of the men who were going to spend their first
Christmas in the line. At dusk I walked up the road to Hill 63, and
then down on the other side to Le Plus Douve Farm. It was not a cheerful
Christmas Eve. The roads were flooded with water, and the transports
that were waiting for the relief were continually getting tangled up
with one another in the darkness. To make matters worse, I was met by
a Sergeant who told me he had some men to be buried, and a burial
party was waiting on the side of the road. We went into the field
which was used as a cemetery and there we laid the bodies to rest.
The Germans had dammed the river Douve, and it had flooded some of the
fields and old Battalion Headquarters. It was hard to find one's way
in the dark, and I should never have done so without assistance. The
men had acquired the power of seeing in the dark, like cats.
A Battalion was coming out and the men were wet and muddy. I stood by
the bridge watching them pass and, thinking it was the right and
conventional thing to do, wished them all a Merry Christmas. My
intentions were of the best, but I was afterwards told that it sounded
to the men like the voice of one mocking them in their misery.
However, as it turned out, the wish was fulfilled on the next day.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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