YULETIDE IN THE TRENCHES

FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.

WAR CORRESPONDENTS’ HEADQUARTERS. FRANCE, SATURDAY. The seven days bridging over from Christmas to New Year’s Day have been unusually quiet. An occasional burst of shelling, with now and then a barrage along some narrow front, a raid or two, and, of course, an air battle every now and then, about tell the tale of the week. The Old Year out here is dying in white decorum. As Christmas came, marking its last week on Earth, snow fluttered down, preparing a chaste deathbed; and once at midweek, when spots of dark began to show through, another spotless sheet was spread, leaving everything again glistening and white. Our men have had, on the whole, a restful holiday. Dazzling days have been followed by the most perfect nights I can remember. The snow, catching the superb moonshine, made it possible to read ordinary newspaper print without the aid of any other light. One could see at night almost as well as during the day. Our soldiers have rather enjoyed all this as a change from the mud which ordinarily is the rule at this time of the year. Those whose turn it has been to do the holiday trick in the line have had little to do save keep open a vigilant eye. To these the snow was a blessing rather than otherwise. It is cleaner than the monotonous bog, and the trenches for the time being have been so frozen that they actually seemed to be lined with granite, while the snow, hiding the ugliness of Noman’s-land and the unsightly craters along and behind the lines, has been like a warm white blanket over comparatively comfortable dugouts. Out of the line our men in rest billets have played all manner of games, from footer to lugging. Sleds and skis have been improvised, and first-rate winter sports have been enjoyed within the range of German guns. One officer I know, whose hair is as white as the frost now so plentiful out here, yet whose heart is twin to Peter Pan’s own, was seen keenly shooting an improvised Cresta Run, down which he spun careening and revolving in an old-fashioned circular bathtub of zinc – borrowed from a fellow-mess member absent on leave. When the tub was returned to its owner it was brightly polished underneath, but so battered and full of holes, due to careless stones along the run, that it was rather more fit to hold hay than water. The Canadians, of course, have enjoyed the snow and the snappy weather to the limit. France during the past few days has been like a slice out of their own Canada at Yuletide, and in the larks in the snow they have taken the lead in their part of the line. The holiday spirit has not been lacking anywhere out here amongst our men. Cheery faces, telling of hearts that are not too heavy everywhere, have gathered about garlanded tables under swinging lamps, gay with mistletoe, for our men refuse to be downhearted. Stout stomached Britons and hardy sons from over the seas are backing up the British line today as the Old Year goes out. And though few regrets are wasted on the dying date, the new is faced with a keen eye and a smile. As 1917 goes out, the attitude of our soldiers is: “We’ve taken some hard knocks during the past year, and we’ve landed a whole lot more; but all we’ve done to Fritz thus far is but a taste to what we’re going to give him during 1918, that’s just about to begin.”