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"
"You'll get some presents," I said. "They haven't forgotten you at
home."
At that word "home" the boy flushed and something went soft in his
eyes for a moment. In spite of his steel helmet and mud-stained
uniform, he was a girlish-looking fellow--perhaps that was why his
comrades were chaffing him--and I fancy the thought of Christmas made
him yearn back to some village in Yorkshire.
Most of the other men with whom I spoke treated the idea of Christmas
with contemptuous irony.
"A happy Christmas!" said one of them, with a laugh. "Plenty of
crackers about this year! Tom Smith ain't in it."
"And I hope we're going to give the Boches some Christmas presents,"
said another. "They deserve it, I don't think!"
"No truce this year?" I asked.
"A truce? . . . We're not going to allow any monkey--tricks on the
parapets. To hell with Christmas charity and all that tosh. We've got
to get on with the war. That's my motto."
Other men said: "We wouldn't mind a holiday.


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