Christmas 1916 - Sir Harry Lauder.

Over the last few days we have visited many places and people in search of Christmas 1916.

Some accounts were in the sands of Egypt with a concert party. Some were in cold, wet trenches in France. One lady of the F.A.N.Y. was with the sick in hospital and the 8th Battalion officers enjoyed the delights of Paris

Both the King and the Kaiser have given respected Christmas messages and the early risers in London woke to a white Christmas, with Westminster Abbey filled with fog on Boxing Day.

To round it all off here is a rather long account of Christmas 1916 by the star of the music hall stage Harry Lauder from his book “A Minstrel in France.”

I have left this until last as I think it is one of the most moving stories of that Christmas 1916. Harry’s son Captain John Lauder of the First 8th, Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders was killed in France on 28th December 1916.

Here he recounts with heartbreak the Christmas he had and devastating news that followed.


That winter I was in the big revue at the Shaftesbury Theatre, in London, that was called "Three Cheers." It was one of the gay shows that London liked because it gave some relief from the war and made the Zeppelin raids that the Huns were beginning to make so often now a little easier to bear. And it was a great place for the men who were back from France. It was partly because of them that I could go on as I did. We owed them all we could give them. And when they came back from the mud and the grime and the dreariness of the trenches, they needed something to cheer them up--needed the sort of production we gave them. A man who has two days' leave in London does not want to see a serious play or a problem drama, as a rule. He wants something light, with lots of pretty girls and jolly tunes and people to make him laugh. And we gave him that. The house was full of officers and men, night after night.

Soon word came from John that he was to have leave, just after Christmas that would bring him home for the New Year's holidays. His mother went home to make things ready, for John was to be married when he got his leave. I had my plans all made. I meant to build a wee hoose for the two of them, near our own hoose at Dunoon, so that we might be all together, even though my laddie was in a home of his own. And I counted the hours and the days against the time when John would be home again.

While we were playing at the Shaftesbury I lived at an hotel in Southampton Row called the Bonnington. But it was lonely for me there. On New Yea r's Eve--it fell on a Sunday--Tom Vallance, my brother-in-law, asked me to tea with him and his family in Clapham,
where he lived. That is a pleasant place, a suburb of London on the southwest, and I was glad to go. And so I drove out with a friend of mine, in a taxicab, and was glad to get out of the crowded part of the city for a time.

I did not feel right that day. Holiday times were bad, hard times for me then. We had always made so much of Christmas, and here was the third Christmas that our boy had been away. And so I was depressed. And then, there had been no word for me from John for a day or two. I was not worried, for I thought it likely that his mother or his sweetheart had heard, and had not time yet to let me know. But, whatever the reason, I was depressed and blue, and I could not enter into the festive spirit that folk were trying to keep alive despite the war.

I must have been poor company during that ride to Clapham in the taxicab. We scarcely exchanged a word, my friend and I. I did not feel like talking, and he respected my mood, and kept quiet him self. I felt, at last, that I ought to apologize to him.

"I don't know what's the matter with me," I told him. "I simply don't want to talk. I feel sad and lonely. I wonder if my boy is all right?"

"Of course he is!" my friend told me. "Cheer up, Harry. This is a time when no news is good news. If anything were wrong with him they'd let you know."

Well, I knew that, too. And I tried to cheer up, and feel better, so that I would not spoil the pleasure of the others at Tom Vallance's house. I tried to picture John as I thought he must be--well, and happy, and smiling the old, familiar boyish smile I knew so well. I had sent him a box of cigars only a few days before, and he would be handing it around among his fellow officers. I knew that! But it was no use. I could think of John, but it was only with sorrow and longing. And I wondered if this same time in a year would see him still out there, in the trenches. Would this war ever end? And so the shadows still hung about me when we reached Tom's house.

They made me very welcome, did Tom and all his family. They tried to cheer me, and Tom did all he could to make me feel better, and to reassure me. But I was still depressed when we left the house and began the drive back to London.

"It's the holiday--I'm out of gear with that, I'm thinking," I told my friend.

He was going to join two other friends, and, with them, to see the New Year in in an old fashioned way, and he wanted me to join them. But I did not feel up to it; I was not in the mood for anything of the sort.

"No, no, I'll go home and turn in," I told him. "I'm too dull tonight to be good company."

He hoped, as we all did, that this New Year that was coming would bring victory and peace. Peace could not come without victory; we were all agreed on that. But we all hoped that the New Year would bring both--the new year of 1917. And so I left him at the corner of Southhampton Row, and went back to my hotel alone. It was about midnight, a little before, I think, when I got in, and one of the porters had a message for me.

"Sir Thomas Lipton rang you up," he said, "and wants you to speak with him when you come in."

I rang him up at home directly.

"Happy New Year, when it comes, Harry!" he said. He spoke in the same bluff, hearty way he always did. He fairly shouted in my ear. "When did you hear from the boy? Are you and Mrs. Lauder well?"

"Aye, fine," I told him. And I told him my last news of John.

"Splendid!" he said. "Well, it was just to talk to you a minute that I rang you up, Harry. Good-night--Happy New Year again."

I went to bed then. But I did not go to sleep for a long time. It was New Year's, and I lay thinking of my boy, and wondering what this year would bring him. It was early in the morning before I slept. And it seemed to me that I had scarce been asleep at all when there came a pounding at the door, loud enough to rouse the heaviest sleeper there ever was.

My heart almost stopped. There must be something serious indeed for them to be rousing me so early. I rushed to the door, and there was a porter, holding out a telegram. I took it and tore it open. And I knew why I had felt as I had the day before. I shall never forget what I read:

"Captain John Lauder killed in action, December 28. Official. War Office."

It had gone to Mrs. Lauder at Dunoon first, and she had sent it on to me. That was all it said. I knew nothing of how my boy had died, or where--save that it was for his country.

But later I learned that when Sir Thomas Lipton had rung me up he had intended to condole with me. He had heard on Saturday of my boy's death. But when he spoke to me, and understood at once, from the tone of my voice, that I did not know, he had not been able to go on. His heart was too tender to make it possible for him to be the one to give me that blow--the heaviest that ever befell me.

It was on Monday morning, January the first, 1917, that I learned of my boy's death. And he had been killed the Thursday before! He had been dead four days before I knew it! And yet--I had known. Let no one ever tell me again that there is nothing in presentiment. Why else had I been so sad and uneasy in my mind? Why else, all through that Sunday, had it been so impossible for me to take comfort in what was said to cheer me? Some warning had come to me, some sense that all was not well.

Realization came to me slowly. I sat and stared at that slip of paper, that had come to me like the breath of doom. Dead! Dead these four days! I was never to see the light of his eyes again. I was never to hear that laugh of his. I had looked on my boy for the last time. Could it be true? Ah, I knew it was! And it was for this moment that I had been waiting, that we had all been waiting, ever since we had sent John away to fight for his country and do his part. I think we had all felt that it must come. We had all known that it was too much to hope that he should be one of those to be spared.

The black despair that had been hovering over me for hours closed down now and enveloped all my senses. Everything was unreal. For a time I was quite numb. But then, as I began to realize and to visualize what it was to mean in my life that my boy was dead there came a great pain. The iron of realization slowly seared every word of that curt telegram upon my heart. I said it to myself, over and over again. And I whispered to myself, as my thoughts took form, over and over, the one terrible word: "Dead!"

I felt that for me everything had come to an end with the reading of that dire message. It seemed to me that for me the board of life was black and blank. For me there was no past and there could be no future. Everything had been swept away, erased, by one sweep of the hand of a cruel fate. Oh, there was a past, though! And it was in that past that I began to delve. It was made up of every memory I had of my boy. I fell at once to remembering him. I clutched at every memory, as if I must grasp them and make sure of them, lest they be taken from me as well as the hope of seeing him again that the telegram had forever snatched away.

I would have been destitute indeed then. It was as if I must fix in my mind the way he had been wont to look, and recall to my ears every tone of his voice, every trick of his speech. There was something left of him that I must keep, I knew, even then, at all costs, if I was to be able to bear his loss at all.

There was a vision of him before my eyes. My bonnie Highland laddie, brave and strong in his kilt and the uniform of his country, going out to his death with a smile on his face. And there was another vision that came up now, unbidden. It was a vision of him lying stark and cold upon the battlefield, the mud on his uniform. And when I saw that vision I was like a man gone mad and possessed of devils who had stolen away his faculties. I cursed war as I saw that vision, and the men who caused war. And when I thought of the Germans who had killed my boy a terrible and savage hatred swept me, and I longed to go out there and kill with my bare hands until I had avenged him or they had killed me too.

But then I was a little softened. I thought of his mother back in our wee hoose at Dunoon. And the thought of her, bereft even as I was, sorrowing, even as I was, and lost in her frightful loneliness, was pitiful, so that I had but the one desire and wish--to go to her, and join my tears with hers, that we who were left alone to bear our grief might bear it together and give one to the other such comfort as there might be in life for us. And so I fell upon my knees and prayed, there in my lonely room in the hotel. I prayed to God that he might give us both, John's mother and myself, strength to bear the blow that had been dealt us and to endure the sacrifice that He and our country had demanded of us.

My friends came to me. They came rushing to me. Never did man have better friends, and kindlier friends than mine proved themselves to me on that day of sorrow. They did all that good men and women could do. But there was no help for me in the ministration of friends. I was beyond the power of human words to comfort or solace. I was glad
of their kindness, and the memory of it now is a precious one, and one I would not be without. But at such a time I could not gain from them what they were eager to give me. I could only bow my head and pray for strength.

That night, that New Year's night that I shall never forget, no matter how long God may let me live, I went north. I took train from London to Glasgow, and the next day I came to our wee hoose--a sad, lonely wee hoose it had become now!--on the Clyde at Dunoon, and was with John's mother. It was the place for me. It was there that I wanted to be, and it was with her, who must hereafter be all the world to me. And I was eager to be with her, too, who had given John to me. Sore as my grief was, stricken as I was, I could comfort her as no one else could hope to do, and she could do as much for me. We belonged together.

I can scarce remember, even for myself, what happened there at Dunoon. I cannot tell you what I said or what I did, or what words and what thoughts passed between John's mother and myself. But there are some things that I do know and that I will tell you.

Almighty God, to whom we prayed, was kind, and He was pitiful and merciful. For presently He brought us both a sort of sad composure. Presently He assuaged our grief a little, and gave us the strength that we must have to meet the needs of life and the thought of going on in a world that was darkened by the loss of the boy in whom all our thoughts and all our hopes had been centred. I thanked God then, and I thank God now, that I have never denied Him nor taken His name in vain.

For God gave me great thoughts about my boy and about his death. Slowly, gradually, He made me to see things in their true light, and He took away the sharp agony of my first grief and sorrow, and gave me a sort of peace.


Sir Henry Lauder (4 August 1870 - 26 February 1950), known professionally as Harry Lauder, was a notable Scottish entertainer, described by Sir Winston Churchill as "Scotland's greatest ever ambassador!”

For more information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Lauder

Christmas 1916 – 17th Highland Light Infantry.

This account comes from the official history of “The Seventeenth Highland Light Infantry (Glasgow Chamber of Commerce Battalion).”

With games of rugby and football on the menu for the day and Christmas lunch reserved until 30th December.

"On the 19th the Battalion was relieved and returned to Mailly-Maillet where billets were taken over, and when the 17th rested and licked its wounds—well over 300 of "Glasgow's Own" had either been killed or wounded in that day's fighting. On the 21st of November General Gough, G.O.C. Fifth Army, inspected and congratulated the Battalion, and spoke to many of the N.C.O.s and men individually. During December the unit carried on training at Franqueville and Rubempré, and that the spirit of the men was not broken by the severity of their recent experiences is shown by the number of football matches played during the period.

On Christmas Day, 1916, the officers beat the sergeants at Rugby by 11 points to 0; in the afternoon "B" Company beat Headquarters at Association by 4 goals to 0; and in the evening the Battalion held a cheery concert. The Christmas Dinners were reserved for the 30th, and on Hogmanay the New Year was welcomed with a concert. General Gough attended Battalion Church Parade on the first Sunday of the New Year.

The opening months of the New Year were months of battling not only against a human enemy, but against the elements and the bad conditions which they created. The winter of 1916 had been a severe one, and in passing into 1917 it continued its course with unabated severity. The Battalion left Rubempré on January 6th and partly by motor lorry and partly in column of route proceeded to Courcelles where, on the following day, they relieved the troops of the 3rd Division in the trenches opposite Serre. The weather was bad, the enemy kept up brisk attentions and the trenches were the worst which the Battalion had ever been in. Most of them were absolutely impassable, being full of water to a height of five feet, with the result that reliefs had for the most part to be made outside the trenches. Owing to this condition of matters, strict orders were issued for the prevention of "trench feet," but notwithstanding every precaution, several cases occurred.

Heavy and continuous work was put in mending and bettering the trenches, training the drafts which were arriving, performing tactical exercises and battalion routine affairs. By this time several ceremonies had taken place at which decorations were bestowed upon N.C.O.s and men for bravery in the Field and gallantry in action. Esprit de corps was stronger than ever, and the tediousness of trench labours was relieved by the establishment of special strong posts, by minor raids on the Bosche, and when out of the line by football and such recreations as the circumstances permitted. This type of campaigning was experienced during January and February at Courcelles, Beaumont Hamel, Lyntham Camp, Mailly-Maillet, Bolton Camp, Molliens-au-Bois (where on February 19th, 1917, Major F.R.F. Sworder, Gordon Highlanders, assumed temporary command—Colonel Paul, after being in hospital in France, having been sent to England where he was appointed to a home unit), Camon, Wiencourt, Le Quesnel. And in March, the approach of spring seemed to bring with it nothing but additional storms of rain and snow, and the names of such points in the line as Key Post and Kuropatkin will bring back memories of buttressing up collapsed trenches and mending wire entanglements. "

Christmas 1916 – King George V.

King George V messages to the Empire was published in the Times on 26th December 1916.

THE KING’S MESSAGES

Good Wishes for The Fighting Men

The king has sent the following messages to his soldiers and sailors and to the sick and wounded: -

I send you, my Sailors and Soldiers, hearty good wishes for Christmas and the New Year.

My grateful thoughts are ever with you for victories gained, for hardship endured, and your unfailing cheeriness.

Another Christmas has come round and we are still at war. But the Empire, confident in you, remains determined to win.

May God bless and protect you.

George R.I.

At this Christmastide the Queen and I are thinking more than ever of the sick and wounded among my Sailors and Soldiers.

From our hearts we wish them strength to beat their sufferings, speedy restoration to health, a peaceful Christmas and many happier years to come.

George R.I.

The Christmas Box by Edgar Guest.

The Christmas Box by Edgar Guest.

This poem for Christmas entitled “The Christmas Box,” was published in the book ‘Over Here’ by Edgar A. Guest.

The Christmas Box

Oh, we have shipped his Christmas box with ribbons red 'tis tied,
And he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside,
But he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay
And he must miss the smiles of home upon his Christmas Day.

He'll spend his Christmas 'neath the Flag; he'll miss each merry face,
Old Glory smiling down on him must take his mother's place,
Yet in the Christmas box we've sent, in fancy he will find
The laughter and the tears of joy that he has left behind.

His mother's tenderness is there, his father's kindly way,
And all that went last year to make his merry Christmas Day;
He'll see once more his sister's smile, he'll hear the baby shout,
And as he opens every gift we'll gather round about.

He cannot come to share with us the joys of Christmas Day;
The Flag has called to him, and he is serving far away.
Undaunted, unafraid and fine he stands to duty grim,
And so this Christmas we have tried to ship ourselves to him.


Edgar Albert Guest - (August 20, 1881, Birmingham, England – August 5, 1959, Detroit, Michigan) (aka Eddie Guest) was a prolific American poet who was popular in the first half of the 20th Century and became known as the People’s Poet.

For more information on Edgar Guest go to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Guest

Christmas 1916 - 5th Highland Light Infantry.

Christmas 1916 found the 5th Battalion Highland Light Infantry in Egypt with limited supplies. With most of the goodies were acquisitioned from the ANZAC’s.

On December 20th we moved to Kilo 129 and took over a bit of the outpost line from the 6th Manchesters and that evening we occupied the trenches in orderly silence as usual. Sentry groups were put out, rifles loaded and all hope of a smoke put away till the dawn. As darkness fell, however, there appeared from the westward a great cloud of dust and columns of mounted men, and Horse Artillery, their gun-wheels broadened with pedrails, moved through our line and proceeded to camp immediately in front of our silent and alert sentries. They off-saddled and huge fires sprang up like magic, great columns of tired horses moved backwards and forwards to water, and the air was filled with the cheerful din of Australian talk and song. Rumours had been floating about all day that the Turks were evacuating and the sudden arrival of the cavalry left little doubt as to their truth. The pressing problem for the officer was how to explain to his scandalised men that the Anzacs were not violating all the rules of properly conducted warfare. This was done by postulating far flung cavalry outposts in the dim distance. One has often wondered whether they existed except in our imaginations; but the Anzac likes to conduct war in his own way, and if somewhat casual about details, many a Turk will witness that he has a firm grasp on the essentials. We felt justified in relaxing somewhat our usual vigilance and spent a peaceful night. Long before dawn, however, the cavalry had moved off with uncanny speed and quietness, and surrounded el Arish before daylight, after a brilliant ride over unknown, unmapped, and very difficult country in the dark. Within the next few days they attacked the Turks at Maghdaba and Rafa—each thirty miles from el Arish—inflicting heavy defeats and capturing many prisoners in each case. The story of all this has been well told by Mr. Massy in The Desert Campaigns. But the unhappy infantry had of necessity to be left out.
One great service the cavalry invasion did render us. The Australian light horseman has the bump of acquisitiveness even better developed than the Lowland infantryman, and having a horse on which he can hang his trophies he can give this penchant greater scope. But when he is going into action—or believes himself to be—he unhesitatingly sacrifices all that will incommode him in the serious business of war. In consequence the ground recently vacated appeared at dawn to our astonished eyes covered with a litter of discarded possessions. When we moved camp it was our honourable custom to pick up and burn or bury every tin, every fragment of paper and every match and cigarette end and to leave the desert swept and garnished as we found it—or better. So our first thought was one of scandalised amazement at the extreme untidiness of the business. Our next was less disinterested. We were on mobile rations, bully, biscuit, milk and jam. Vegetables and the "wee piece ham" had disappeared. Surely Australians did not live like that. Nor were we disappointed. Foraging parties returned laden with sides of bacon, cheese, bread, Maconochies, sacks of onions and dessicated vegetables, enough to make us quite certain of a full meal on Christmas Day, so long as we did not move in the interval. Nor was this all. Folding benches and tables, matting and bivouac poles, frying pans and canvas buckets, books and tobacco, a watch and even a real live horse were discovered—all the things which stand for wealth among such a primitive tribe as we then were. It is rumoured that hot and blasphemous Australian Quartermaster-Sergeants rode back that evening to retrieve some of their property. Well, they did not find it all. People who like bacon shouldn't leave it lying in deserts in front of hungry Scotchmen.

Our own orders to advance were cancelled, and we stopped on at Maadan. The evacuation of el Arish was rather an anti-climax. No one wants another war, and it would not be honest to pretend that we were all fire-eaters living for nothing but the joy of a scrap. At the same time a life of dreary monotony on a dead land becomes more endurable when there is the hope of coming excitement and the spur to effort of a definite place to be won. And when a man is keyed up to the idea of a fight, life seems dull and flat if he is suddenly told that it will not come off.
The weather, however, did its best to give us something to think about. It rained most nights, with thunder and lightning accompaniments, and the damp and dismal hours of darkness seemed endless in the exposed picquets. Save for the Australian loot it looked like a fasting Christmas. Parcel mails could not be sent up, for every camel was required to convey food and fodder on to the cavalry. The cigarette ration was behindhand and most of the men were without a smoke. The officers could torture themselves with the thought of five turkeys ordered in Port Said and unlimited mess stores lying sixty miles away at Romani. But at the last moment all was changed. A parcel mail came in—and the spectre of bully unrelieved vanished—the five turkeys, personally conducted by a versatile officer's servant, made their appearance—together with sufficient Daily Telegraph plum puddings for every one to get a piece, and last but not least, a determined Brigadier held up a ration convoy, and refused to let it through until he obtained enough cigarettes for a small issue to the Brigade. This action increased the sympathy which all felt for a tragedy which afflicted Brigade Headquarters at this time. Their live turkey shepherded up the line with extreme difficulty, suddenly, though perhaps not unjustifiably, died before any one had time to kill it. Captain Kennedy was immediately summoned to conduct a post mortem and had regretfully to decide that it was not fit for human consumption, adding however that if it were sent up to our headquarters they would make quite sure.
So there was some attempt at Christmas cheer in the holes in the sand into which the weather had driven us, for we who had once set our bivouacs to catch every breath of wind, now dug ourselves down three or four feet to avoid the sand-laden and icy blast. (We were thus also admirably protected against the bombing raids of the Turk's aeroplanes.) The three outpost companies had their vigil cheered by the distant drums and fifes of an English battalion playing "While shepherds watched their flocks by night—all seated on the ground," and felt a new and poignant sympathy with those whose watch must have been so like our own.
The great spell of Christmas seemed even to have touched the hearts of G.H.Q. for on Christmas Eve the C.O. received a wire through Brigade to ask "How many of your officers have wives in Egypt?" He was compelled to reply that no officer had managed the feat suggested. But it is nice to speculate on how the staff in Cairo, who doubtless had, felt their hearts go out to their less fortunate brethren of the fighting forces and how they hatched a plan for special private wires from wife to husband at this season of goodwill. Let no cynic obtrude other motives for that famous telegram.

On December 29th we moved forward again to Kilo 139, near Abu Feleifil. We left behind us Captain Wightman as Post Commandant at Kilo 128, a position which he held with true Scottish tenacity long after the whole post had melted away, and he had no one to command except his batman, another of the same bull-dog breed. He only admitted defeat when the last of the water in the canvas tanks was consumed, and the passing ration train had given up leaving anything for him to eat, and steamed past the forgotten post with a derisive whistle. At 139 we enjoyed heavy rain storms, bleak cold days, and a tearing wind; which raised a sand-storm as soon as the rain had sunk in. We were, however, free of outpost duty on the 31st and able to take off our boots at night for the first time for a fortnight, and a surprising number of us were able to celebrate the new year with a nip of something better than chlorinated water. On the 5th we took the outpost line again, but in the interval we did several route marches and saw the excellent Turkish trenches at Masaid among palm trees, growing scattered over a wide area, quite unlike the little concentrated hods with which we were familiar. We were now only a mile or two from the sea, and the roar of the surf reached us day and night, but bathing had lost much of its attraction with the change of weather and was even rather dangerous. On one day the sand-storm was so bad that it was impossible to leave camp. Anything left in the open was rapidly buried, and our food and drink, our ears and eyes and mouths were kept full of grit for twenty-four hours.

On January 8th we were off again and moving down to the coast, marched on to el Arish. The going was naturally very heavy, but we thus avoided the almost impassable jumble of high sand-dunes inland. On that day the Anzac cavalry passed us on their way to fight at Rafa, riding down the beach in long lines, and making a very impressive sight. The effect was rather spoilt by the inconsiderate attentions of some Turkish planes but no harm was done. We reached our bivouac area south of el Arish about two. It is a curious commentary on the complaints of the cold that we have just voiced, that the men of a new draft reached el Arish, running with sweat and vowing they had never been so hot in their lives, in spite of being in shirt sleeves, while the rest of us wore our tunics, and were hardly even thirsty.

Christmas 1916 - A Message from the Kaiser.

Christmas 1916 saw the Kaiser send this short encouraging message:

“Honour to God above, peace on earth, and to man, happiness. God bless the third war Christams of all those away in the field and of those at home in our dear fatherland.”

(signed) William.

‘The NewYork Time’s reported that this message was sent to all German armies and all to Germans at home.

Christmas 1916 - 3rd Australian Division.

This passage comes from the book “Over the Top with the Third Australian Division” by G.P Cuttriss.

Under the title ‘Soldiers Superstitions’ it gives an interesting account of the festive activities out of the front line. The final tragic story of the Lieutenant who was concerned by the old ‘unlucky thirteen at a table’ superstition is perhaps even more poignant given the time of year.

SOLDIERS' SUPERSTITIONS

With the advent of Christmas, arrangements were effected by which officers whose work necessitated their being temporarily separated from the unit could come together for the purpose of observing the special season in the established epicurean style. Every effort was made to make the day as distinct from other days as circumstances would allow. Donations from the officers and small contributions from the men enabled those who had the matter in hand to provide the customary Christmas dinner. Though it was not served up on tables, spread with linen, and the usual impedimenta of the banqueting-table, it was greatly appreciated, and afforded a rare opportunity for reunion. Fresh friendships were formed, acquaintances renewed, brothers and relatives met after months of separation. Toasts were honoured and carols or hymns appropriate to the season were sung. A great deal had been heard or read about our troops fraternizing with the enemy during the Christmas seasons of the previous years of the war, but there was none of that during the Christmas of 1916. There was no cessation of hostilities. The lines were held with the same keenness, and there was considerable aerial and artillery activity throughout the day and night. In fact, Christmas 'Somewhere in France' was born to the accompaniment of the boom of guns and the whirr of aeroplanes. The weather conditions were decidedly inclement, and, despite the good wishes from friends in the Homeland, it was difficult to keep warm.

At the back of the lines, in a certain battalion's H.Q. billets, a number of officers had assembled. They had come together by invitation to participate in a reunion dinner. Everything had been done to make it a meal worthy of the occasion. Great taste had been displayed in decorating the table, and the cooks excelled themselves in the quality of the food served. We seated ourselves immediately 'Grace' was said, when somebody remarked that there were thirteen only, and suggested that another be asked in to make fourteen. Little notice was taken of the remark until the same officer ventured to predict that one of them would 'go out' before the year ended. He was teased with being unduly superstitious and attaching too much significance to the supposed unluckiness of the number thirteen. His mind was evidently depressed with the impression which he had gathered, and there was not lacking evidence that the gathering ceased to interest him further.

Exactly a week passed, and another such reunion had been arranged for the purpose of celebrating the passing of the old year and the ushering in of the new. Several jocularly remarked that for G——'s sake we should arrange to have more or less than thirteen present. Late on the afternoon of the last day of the year, advice was received at B.Q.H. that Lieut. G—— had been killed. He had gone down to the trenches to inspect some work which was being done by his platoon, and was on the point of returning when an enemy shell burst and a shrapnel bullet went through his heart. This sad event recalled to us his words at the gathering on Christmas night. His prediction that one would be missing ere the year ended was fulfilled, and he was the one called hence. Arrangements for the evening function were cancelled, and the next day his remains were interred in the military cemetery, and the grave is now marked by a beautiful cross made by a member of his platoon and inscribed by his O.C. He was a fine fellow, full of fun and life, a true comrade, an ideal officer, beloved by all who knew him.

Christmas 1916 - Westminster Abbey.

This evocative report was published in “The Times” on 27th December 1916.

It describes the Boxing Day carol service held at Westminster Abbey. I like the way the fog descends upon the Abbey during the service and gives it a almost ‘holy’ atmosphere. It must have been a very unique experience.


CAROLS IN THE ABBEY

CHILD SINGERS AND SOLDIER LISTENERS

In the fog yesterday the towers of Westminster Abbey stood out dimly against a smoky sky. The great doors at the west end were open and the light streamed out in long yellow shafts as the congregation went in for the Christmas Carol Service.

The worshippers were for the most part children, but there were others there as well. There were many soldiers back from the front. There were many who were about to leave again for the trenches, and all listened attentively to the singing of the carols and all will carry back with them to Flanders and the firing line the sound of those children’s voices. The Abbey was filled. The fog had invaded the nave and transepts and the clusters of hanging lights showed as little discs high up in the air. The great pillars were lost in the mists above and the voices of the choristers also found their way up to the great stone roof and echoed down again.

“En natus est Emanuel, Dominus,
Quem praedixit Gabriel, Dominus,
Salvator noster est.”

The chant, with children’s voices predominating, was very beautiful, especially to the men who had who had seen the stress and strife of war. Many of the carols were the old ones, but they were the songs sung hundreds of years ago in the same choir by similar childish voices. One there was, “Babe ys borne, I wys,” that has been in the Abbey library for 500 years.

The service lasted for almost two hours. The collection was for the prisoners of war in Germany.

Christmas 1916 - At the Suez Canal.

This account of Christmas 1916 centers on the Middle East.

The author Antony Bluett served with with A" BATTERY, H.A.C., AND EGYPTIAN CAMEL TRANSPORT CORPS and recorded his war in the book “ Our Army in Palestine”.

Christmas 1916 found him at El Kubri, a post on the Suez Canal.


Christmas came and was made endurable and even enjoyable by the kindness of the Y.M.C.A., who lent us tables, yea and cloths, in addition to other things.

But the outstanding event of this period of waiting was the visit of one of Miss Lena Ashwell's concert parties to El Kubri. It will ever remain a fragrant memory, for it was the first time we had seen English ladies for nearly a year and it brought home very near to hear them sing.

They gave their concert in a specially constructed "hall" in the desert. Sandbags were the mainstay of the platform and a large tarpaulin, G.S., formed the drop-scene. The walls were of rough canvas, upon which it was inadvisable to lean, lest the whole structure collapsed. Primitive, no doubt, but it suited the environment; and I have never seen in the most elaborate West-end theatre anything like the enthusiasm here.

You called for a popular song or recitation and you got it, and as many more as you liked to ask for. One of these talented ladies used to give a recitation which became a permanent feature of her programme in Egypt. She would come to the front of the stage and say confidentially to the audience, "Do you know Lizzie 'Arris?" And back would come a mighty bellow, "Aiwa!" This rite was always insisted upon before the artiste could proceed, though she obviously enjoyed it almost as much as we did. She might probably be amused to know that—such is fame!—amongst the thousands of troops who heard her recite she was always known as "Lizzie 'Arris."

Early in the New Year the Mecca myth was finally dissipated, for we moved—no, the train never arrived—to the big concentration camp at Suez, and there started preparations in real earnest. It was strange to be amongst people again after so many months of comparative solitude, and stranger still to see houses and streets and civilians. Not that we had much time to look around, for with the coming of the cool weather the hours of work became appreciably longer.

Christmas 1916 - With The First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.

This account of Christmas 1916 comes from the book “Fanny Goes to War” by Pat Beauchamp.

Pat Beauchamp was a member of “The First Aid Nursing Yeomanry” and this wonderful account at a station in northern France really paints a vidid picture of the time.

CHRISTMAS, 1916

Christmas came round before we knew where we were, and Boss gave the order it was to be celebrated in our own mess. Work was slack just then and Mrs. Williams gave a tea and dance in the afternoon at her canteen up at Fontinettes. It was a picturesque-looking place with red brick floor, artistic-looking tables with rough logs for legs and a large open fireplace, typically English, which must have rejoiced the hearts of men so far from Blighty.

It was a very jolly show, in spite of my partner bumping his head against the beam every time we went round, and people came from far and near. It was over about five, and we hastened back to prepare for our Christmas dinner in Mess.

Fancy dress had been decided on, and as it was to be only among ourselves we were given carte blanche as to ideas. They were of course all kept secret until the last moment. Baby went as a Magpie and looked very striking, the black and white effect being obtained by draping a white towel straight down one side over the black nether garments belonging to our concert party kit.

I decided to go as a Vie Parisienne cover. A study in black and daffodil—a ravishing confection—and also used part of our "FANTASTIK" kit, but made the bodice out of crinkly yellow paper. A chrysanthemum of the same shade in my hair, which was skinned back in the latest door-knob fashion, completed the get-up.

Baby and I met on our way across the camp and drifted into mess together, and as we slowly divested ourselves of our grey wolf-coats we were hailed with yells of delight.

Dicky went as Charlie's Aunt, and Winnie as the irresistible nephew. Eva was an art student from the Quartier Latin, and Bridget a charming two-year old. The others came in many and various disguises.

We all helped to clear away in order to dance afterwards, and as I ran into the cook-house with some plates I met the mechanic laden with the tray from his hut.
The momentary glimpse of the Vie Parisienne was almost too much for the good Brown.

I heard a startled "Gor blimee! Miss" and saw his eyes popping out of his head as he just prevented the tray from eluding his grasp!

Soon after Christmas a grain-ship, while entering Boulogne harbour in a storm, got blown across and firmly fixed between the two jetties, which are not very wide apart. To make matters worse its back broke and so formed an effectual barrier to the harbour and took from a fortnight to three weeks to clear away.

Traffic was diverted to the other ports, and for the time being Boulogne became almost like a city of the dead.

One port had been used solely for hospital ships up till then, and the scenes of bustle and confusion that replaced the comparative calm were almost indescribable. We saw many friends returning from Christmas leave, who for the most part had not the faintest idea where they had arrived. There were not enough military cars to transport the men to Fontinettes, so besides our barge and hospital work we were temporarily commissioned by the Local Transport Office.

I was detailed to take two officers inspecting the Archic stations north of St. Omer one wet snowy afternoon, and many were the adventures we had. It was a great thing to get up right behind our lines to places where we had never been before, and Susan ploughed through the mud like a two-year old, and never even so much as punctured. We were on our way back at a little place called Pont l'Abbesse, about 6.30, when the snow came down in blinding gusts. With only two side lamps, and a pitch dark night, the prospect of ever finding our way home seemed nil, and every road we took was bordered by a deep canal, with nothing in the way of a fence as protection. It was bitterly cold, and once we got completely lost; three-quarters of an hour later finding ourselves at the same cottage where we had previously asked the way!
At last we found a staff car that promised to give us a lead, and in time we reached the main St. Omer road, finally getting back to Pont-le-Beurre about 10 p.m. I 'phoned up to the Convoy to tell them I was still in the land of the living, and after a bowl of hot soup sped back to camp.

My hands were so cold I had to sit on them in turns, and as for feet, I didn't seem to have any. Still it was "some run," and the next day I spent a long time hosing off the thick clay which almost completely hid the good Susan from sight.

Another temporary job we had was to drive an army sister (a sort of female Military Landing Officer) to the boat every day, where she met the sisters coming back from leave and directed them to the different units and hospitals.

One of the results of the closing of Boulogne harbour was that instead of the patients being evacuated straight to England we had to drive them into Boulogne, where they were entrained for Havre! A terrible journey, poor things. Twenty to twenty-four ambulances would set off to do the thirty kilometres in convoy, led at a steady pace by the Section Leader. These journeys took place three times a week, and often the men would get bitterly cold inside the cars. If there was one puncture in the Convoy we all had to stop till a spare wheel was put on. We eagerly took the opportunity to get down and do stamping exercises and "cabby" arms to try and get warm. To my utmost surprise, on one of these occasions my four stretcher patients got up and danced in the road with me. Why they were "liers" instead of "sitters" I can't think, as there was not much wrong with them. À propos I remember asking one night when an ambulance train came in in the dark, "Are you liers or sitters in here?" and one humorist scratched his head and replied, "I don't rightly know, Sister, I've told a few in my time!" To return to our long convoy journeys: once we had deposited our patients it was not unnaturally the desire of this "dismounted cavalry" unit to try the speed of its respective 'buses one against the other on the return journey; to our immense disappointment this idea was completely nipped in the bud, for Boss rode on the first car.

Permission however was given to pass on hills, as it was considered a pity to overheat a car going down to second gear when it could easily have done the hill on third! That Boulogne road is one of the hilliest in France, and Susan was a nailer on hills. I remember arriving in camp second one day. "How have you got here?" asked Boss in surprise, "I purposely put you nineteenth!"

Heasy, Betty, and I in celebration of two years' active service had permission to give a small dance in the mess at the beginning of the new year. We trembled lest at the last moment an ambulance train might arrive, but there was nothing worse than an early evacuation next morning and all went off excellently. I was entrusted to make the "cup," and bought the ingredients in the town (some cup), and gravely assured everyone there was absolutely "nothing in it." The boracic powder was lifted in my absence from the Pharmacie to try and get the first glimmerings of a slide on that sticky creosoted floor. The ambulances, fitted with paper Chinese lanterns, were temporarily converted into sitting out places. It was a great show.

Christmas 1916 - John Gibson Pitt, 8th Battalion, A.I.F.

By Christmas 1916 Private John Pitt of ‘D’ Company, 8th Battalion had risen to the rank of 2nd lieutenant. John (who was originally from England), in his own diary records this as he is given leave in Paris:-


Saturday December 23rd

We did grouping practices on the 30 yards range in the morning. In the afternoon we did a road ------ and at 3.30 were given our passes for Paris and straight away put all our best togs on. Had some tea and then got paid which crowned our joy. The train was due to leave Picquigny at 5.38 but we had to do a freeze on the station for two hours before it eventually turned up. We settled down in a 1st class compartment with 3 French officers who were excellent chaps and spoke English very well.

Xmas Eve

We steamed into the Gare Du Nord at Paris after a long journey at 3 am and as ever were just about ravenous a MS Corpl showed us a Red and –uff- underground where we got a good feed. Then we had to start looking for a hotel and it was a good while before 4 of us succeeded in getting rooms at the Grand Hotel. I got room number 949 on the fifth floor. Some Hotel. Turned in at about 4 o’clock. Hot bath and up at 9.30 to breakfast which according to the Parisian style consisted of steaming hot coffee and rusks. This is a beautiful place and there are some big bugs of here of all nationalities. We started off to have a look round after reporting to the RSM. A guide eventually collared Lenbury Dillon and myself and we allowed him to show us around. We went round slowly in a taxi,, he explaining the various places of interest as we went and stopping when necessary. It is certainly a very beautiful city and well named Gay Paris. We had lunch at the Brasserie Universille and then went out exploring again in the afternoon and back to the hotel. We saw the Notre Dame Eiffel Tower, Napoleons tomb and Place De La Concorde, which is a beautiful spot and all the other well known places. We bought tickets for the Opera tonight and after having had tea at the American tea rooms and dinner at Prunier? we made for the Opera Pomique and saw Carmen, which although all in French, we appreciated to the full there being some marvellous singing and acting.

Xmas Day 1916

Up at 9 o’clock. Breakfast. Further exploration of the city returning to the hotel for our Xmas dinner at 1 o/c., 15 Australian Officers being present. Dobbin and I then strolled some more and had dinner at the cafe –ois— and then went to the Nouveau Cirque a variety show. Just caught the 11.4 train by the skin of our teeth. Paris is absolutely full but there are very few British soldiers there at all. We had a very pleasant and educational trip.

Boxing Day 1916

Slept very little on the train and after a very tiresome journey arrived at Picquigny at 6 am. Slept for an hour had breakfast and turned out on parade at 9 o/c. The CO roaring because some of us were unshaven. PT was not too acceptable this morning. Judging distances. Live bomb throwing in the afternoon. Lecture at 5 o/c on German grenades.

Christmas 1916 - A White Christmas in London

This article published in ‘The Times’ on 26th December 1916 describes the Christmas activities on and around London for the soldiers on leave in 1916.

It was bitterly cold and wet in the trenches in France and London had a fall of snow on Christmas Eve. Those waking up early would have been greeted by a ‘White Christmas.’


CHRISTMAS

THE THIRD WAR-TIME CELEBRATION

ENTERTAINING THE SOLDIERS


Christmas Day, the day of peace and good will, found the British nation determined that there cannot yet be peace, but inspired with the thought that before another year passed an abiding peace may have been won. The Master of the Temple in his morning sermon expressed the attitude of the people when he said that the heavy, throbbing darkness of a year ago has been relieved by faint rays of hope.

And so it was that while few men yesterday could sincerely wish their neighbours “A Merry Christmas.” And festivities either in the homes or in public places were never more subdued, there was a fine spirit abroad. Those who denied themselves accustomed luxuries looked forward to a Christmas yet to come when the cloud of sorrow shall have been dispersed. Where there were vacant chairs wives and mothers let their thoughts look ahead to the return of the men who had gone out to battle. Somehow the knowledge that the nation is at last uniting to win the war brought confidence and hope, which gave the third war Christmas its own quality and its own cheerfulness.

In the early hours of the morning a sudden wind arose which was presently followed by a fall of snow. At daybreak roofs and gardens in the suburbs had a thin covering and families gathering at the breakfast table said it was like an old fashioned Yuletide. The snow did not last; but during the day the sun shone and the weather was much better than it was on Christmas Day last year. The cold morning did not prevent a fine swimming race in the Serpentine for the ‘Peter Pan’ Cup.

Less Travelling

Above all else it was a stay-at-home Christmas Day. Certain people have ignored the appeal not to travel and are spending the holiday at the seaside or in the country, but there has been nothing like the Christmas traffic of ordinary years. The only crowded trains yesterday were the “leave” trains from France. Four come into Victoria during the early part of the day and hundreds of trench-stained men stepped gleefully into the London Streets prepared to enjoy every hour of a well earned holiday. It was noted that some of the soldiers went straight from the station to the afternoon service at Westminster Abbey. There was a reverse side to the “leave” picture. Several trains took away men whose days of freedom were completed. The soldiers made no complaints, but some of their relatives were disappointed that they should be torn away on this particular day of the year.

The Soldier at Home

The happiest homes yesterday were undoubtedly those where soldier members of the family were enjoying leave. There (if the money could be found) no compunction was felt over feasting on turkey and the luxuries of the season. For the lonely soldiers many entertainments had been arranged. In every Y.M.C.A. hut in London (and there are now 60 of them) soldiers and sailors were welcomed to dinner and tea. The huts had been decorated and for amusements the men in Khaki had concerts and old-time Christmas games. There were also Christmas parties at the Church Army huts, while many soldiers without friends were bountifully entertained in private homes.

The wounded in the military hospitals were well cared for. Gifts for the patients had been poured into the institutions, many of them by anonymous well wishers. At one of the London hospitals 1,800 men hung up their stockings and found them filled with comforts in the morning. There was good fare for those able to eat it and score of ward concerts were given during the day.

In the hotels the day was observed very quietly. Festivities originally planned for the holiday had been cancelled to meet the call for economy. There were no decorations and the restrictions on courses kept the menus within reasonable limits. Where the Christmas dinner was served at midday the regulations had been relaxed to the extent of allowing three courses to be served instead of two, but if it had not been for the inclusion of turkey and plum pudding there would have been nothing to distinguish the meals from those of an ordinary day.

Christmas 1916 - with the 4th Field Ambulance, A.I.F.

Private William Dalton Lycett, 2063, of the 4th Field Ambulance A.I.F. enlisted on 12th September 1914, he embarked on the 22nd December 1914 at Melbourne on the H.M.A.T. “Berrima”.

This extract is from his diary which can be found online at Anzacs.net: - and describes his 1916 Christmas which was cold and very wet.

Monday 18th December, 1916

Arrived at Albert between 4 and 5 a.m., told my unit was at Dernancourt, about 4 miles away, by R.T.O. Walked to Dernancourt, unit not there, on to Edge Hill, Buire, Ribemonte and Maricourt where got hold of another R.T.O who told me my unit had moved yesterday. Had walked about 10 to 12 miles. Got on train at Maricourt about 2 p.m. and got to Amiens when told no train to Vigny-Court where my unit now is until 6-7 a.m. in morning. Had difficulty getting pass into town to get a meal and feeling dead beat and worn out. In Y.M.C.A. tonight.


Tuesday 19th December, 1916

Stayed in Y.M.C.A. by Amiens station all night, place crowded and had to stand up most of time, also very cold. Caught a train at 6-7 a.m. and arrived at Vignacourt about 7.30 a.m. Very large village and had to walk round for about an hour before found where our unit was billetted. Had breakfast and was glad to turn into bed in a loft full of straw. Slept through till tea-time when got up and had tea. Received some letters and Xmas cards then had yarn with the boys. Turned in about 8 p.m.

Wednesday 20th December, 1916

Got up this morning about 8 a.m. and had breakfast. Are running a small hospital for chaps with colds and influenza in barn beneath our loft. Had shave and good clean up then re-arranged my kit before dinner. On duty at 2 p.m., had ten patients in with very bad colds, fairly busy all afternoon, very cold and place awfully draughty. Some of our chaps got Xmas parcels from home today and we have been eating nearly all day. After tea did little writing and turned in about 9 p.m. Off duty 8 p.m.


Thursday 21st December, 1916

Slept as sound as a top and up at 8.30 a.m. this morning. After breakfast gave a hand generally till dinner time and then went on duty at 2 p.m. for the afternoon shift. Got a dozen patients in today all suffering from the effects of the cold weather. Rained today. Had a few dressings and various odd duties to attend to and then tea at 5 p.m. After tea gave patients cocoa at 7.30 p.m. and then did some writing. Getting very good tucker just now. Off duty 8 p.m. and turned in 9 p.m.


Friday 22nd December, 1916

Up at 8.30 a.m. and had breakfast, getting very good tucker just now. Did few odd jobs this morning, very cold and raining, went out at 11 a.m. and had cup of coffee. On duty at 2 p.m., only ten patients in today, few dressings etc. Did some writing before tea and received three letters, one from home, two from Dais. Tea at 5 p.m. after which cleaned up and was busy writing till 8 p.m. when went off duty and then played bridge till 9 p.m. Cold again tonight and turned in 9.30 p.m.


Saturday 23rd December, 1916

Up at 8.30 a.m. and had breakfast. Afterwards got cleaned and shaved. Getting large sick parades, nearly all the men suffering from severe colds. Had French kiddie about 8 years old in, slate blew off roof and gashed his face, sent him to Amiens hospital. Very cold, raining and blowing a gale. On duty at 2 p.m., a dozen patients in. Our hospital is an old barn and patients lie on straw. Am on committee for Xmas dinner and we had a meeting this afternoon. After tea wrote three letters and then turned in at 9 p.m.


Sunday 24th December, 1916

Got up about 8.30 a.m. and had breakfast, raining and very cold so went back to bed again till 12 noon as am not on duty till 2 p.m. Only 10 patients in today, some foments and dressings, chaps coming in all the time for cough medicine. Tea at 5 p.m. then cleaned up and did dressings again. Had to go up street to foment boil on sick officer. Most of boys went to church tonight so stayed in and looked after hospital. Wrote letter. Off duty 8 p.m. and turned in.


Monday 25th December, 1916

Xmas day, my 3rd Xmas from home. Did not get up till 12 noon, raining and very cold. On duty 2 p.m., gave Xmas boxes from Australia. to patients, did not get our own, but had one from our old O.C. Col. Beeston. Did dressings etc. and gave patients tea at 4 p.m., Xmas cake etc. Had dinner ourselves at 5 p.m. in hired room, very good, goose, vegetables, pudding and cakes. Geese cost 35/- each, bought from regimental fund, good job. Spent very pleasant evening, finished 8 p.m. and returned to billet and to bed.


Tuesday 26th December, 1916

Stayed in bed again till 12 noon, still raining and cold, mud very rotten and boots wet through. Big lot of men losing their voices. On duty 2 p.m., did dressings etc. and various odd jobs till tea time 5 p.m. Only six patients today, having evacuated some to C.C.S. After tea some of boys went to concert in village. Stayed behind and had game of bridge then wrote letters till turned in at 9 p.m. A.D.M.S. inspected our billet today, all correct.


Wednesday 27th December, 1916

Got up about 11 a.m. and gave a hand with some dressings till dinner time at 12.30 p.m. On duty at 2 p.m. and had good number more dressings, foments etc. to do. Received a large parcel from home this afternoon. Have about 20 patients in hospital. Our Staff Sgt. dispenser (Bankier) received notice to be ready to go to O.T.C. in England tomorrow. After getting everything done by about 3.30 p.m. had game of bridge till tea time at 5 p.m. After tea and had cleaned up wrote four letters. Off duty 9 p.m. and turned in.


Thursday 28th December, 1916

Was coughing a good deal last night and did not sleep too well. Up at 10.30 a.m., very hard white frost overnight and pretty cold. Gave a hand with patients and had a walk up street with S.S. Bankier before dinner, who left us today for O.T.C. England. On duty at 2 p.m. About two dozen patients, did dressings etc. and gave out medicines, after which had game of bridge till tea-time at 5 p.m. Cleaned up after tea and then played bridge till went off duty at 8 p.m. when had some rum and milk and turned in.


Friday 29th December, 1916

Did not cough so much last night, but was very restless and did not sleep well. Got up at 10.30 a.m. and got out some medicine for Major Bentley. Dinner 12.30 p.m. General parade at 2.15 p.m. in full marching order and inspection by A.D.M.S. Did not go myself as had to stay and look after hospital, kept pretty busy, about 20 patients. Tea at 5 p.m. At 5.30 p.m. went to divisional boxing tournament held in Hall in village. One of our men Dvr. Perry won his contest. Very good show, back at billet 9.30 p.m. and turned in.


Saturday 30th December, 1916

Had very rotten night, cough very bad and perspired heavily, hardly slept at all but fell asleep about 7 a.m. and did not get up till 12 midday. General parade at 11.30 a.m. but did not get up for it. On duty at 2 p.m. At 2.30 p.m. things being alright went with four other chaps to large house where lady lent us piano and had a practice at "Sweet and Low" which we are to sing on Monday night. Returned for tea at 5 p.m. Cleaned up, gave out medicines and read newspaper. Off duty 8 p.m. and turned in 8.30 p.m.


Sunday 31st December, 1916

Slept very poorly again last night, cough worrying me considerably. Got up about 8.30 a.m. doing various odd jobs during morning and had walk up street before dinner. At 1.30 p.m. went round and had another practice at our various songs and part song till 3 p.m. when came back to billet and yarned till tea-time at 5 p.m. After tea wrote letters and then played bridge and talked till about 9 p.m. when turned in.

Christmas 1916 - 5th Leicestershire's.

The next account comes from the excellent book “The Fifth Leicestershire (A Record Of The 1/5th Battalion The Leicestershire Regiment T.F., During The War, 1914-1919)by J.D. Hills.”

Christmas 1915 was the 5th Leicestershire’s first in France, away in Foreign Fields. Christmas 1916 found them at Monchy in trenches with clinging mud, everything was wet and cold.

On the 6th December we marched to the Souastre huts, where the Colonel returned to us, and we once more began to feel fit; the huts here were not palaces, but were far better than those we had left at Halloy. On the 11th we moved up through Bienvillers and went into our old trenches opposite Monchy. But the recent heavy rains had undone all the good that we had done in the early autumn, and they were now in a very bad state. On the right of the Hannescamps road they were particularly bad, and Liverpool Street, which ran from Lulu Lane to the front line, was almost impassable. There was the same terrible clinging mud, feet deep, that we had found at Richebourg a year before, and the old troubles of lost gum boots began again. Fortunately we were now prepared, and were able to combat the dangers of "trench foot." Each Company had its drying room—a dug-out occupied by the Stretcher bearers, and kept warm by an ever burning brazier. Here at least once in every 24 hours every man who could possibly have got wet feet, and every man wearing rubber boots, came, had his feet rubbed, and was given dry socks and boots, while at Headquarters and in Bienvillers were large drying rooms where the wet boots could be dealt with. In this way we were able to keep almost free from the complaint, and the few men whose feet did fail were all men who had had "trench feet" the previous winter, and were consequently always liable to it.

All this time it was not only wet, but cold, and after Christmas it became colder until the first week in January, when heavy snow fell. Thenceforward, until the middle of February, there was continuous frost with occasional heavy falls of snow, though generally the days and nights were fine and clear. For several feet down, the ground was frozen hard, and digging became absolutely impossible. There was now solid ice instead of water in the trenches, and the front line sentries found their task a particularly cold one. Fortunately by this time the trench cook-house was not only an established thing but had become a very successful affair, and four times a day hot meals were carried in tanks and food containers from Battalion Headquarters to the front line. For this purpose the rectangular tanks from the cooks' wagons were used, being carried by two men, on a wooden framework or stretcher. Along a road or up a well made communication trench this was a comparatively light task, but to carry a tank full of hot tea over slippery shell holes and through knee-deep mud was a difficult matter, and on more than one occasion a platoon lost its hot drink at night through the disappearance of the carriers into some shell hole. The wonderful thing was that both tea-less platoon and drenched carriers would laugh over it all.

Christmas Day was spent in trenches. We were relieved in the afternoon by the 4th Battalion, who had their festivities on Christmas eve, and went back to Souastre, where the following day we, too, had our dinner. Pigs had been bought and killed, and we all gorged ourselves on roast pork and plum pudding, washing them down with beer—a very satisfactory performance. There were also the usual games and Company dinners, and we all spent a very enjoyable few days. Later on we managed to arrange a Battalion concert which was a tremendous success, and voted by all a most excellent evening; the "star" turn was Colonel Jones, who gave a recitation.

The weather made raids and active operations impossible, and though we made all preparations for a rifle grenade demonstration to assist a Staffordshire raid on New Year's night, this had to be cancelled on account of the snow. Patrols, however, still continued to tour No Man's Land in the hopes of finding a stray Boche, or encountering a Boche patrol. In front of Essarts the lines were so far apart that there was plenty of room for a small pitched battle, and night after night Lieuts. Pearson, Creed, Poynor, and others visited such familiar haunts as the "Osier Bed," "Thistle Patch," "Lonely Tree," and other well-known places. The first to meet the enemy was Lieut. Pearson, who came upon a small party in the "Thistle Patch," who made off rapidly back to their lines. Our patrol used their rifles, but, though they hit one of the enemy, failed to take a prisoner, and for a week or two the Boche did not show himself. Then on the 10th January, 2nd Lieut. Creed, with a mixed party of scouts from all Companies, while reconnoitering the "Osier Bed" suddenly found that a party of the enemy was in their right rear and close to our wire, where four of them could be seen. Our patrol turned at once and ran straight at the four as fast as they could, coming, as they ran, under a heavy fire from a Boche covering party lying some 50 yards out. Pte. A. Garner was killed outright, but the remainder, led by 2nd Lieut. Creed and Pte. Frank Eastwood of "C" Company, rushed on and wounded and captured one of the four, who was found to be the officer. The remainder of the enemy took the alarm in time and made off. The officer proved to be an English-speaking subaltern of the 55th Regt.—our old opponents of Hohenzollern in October, 1915. He was led down to the Aid Post to have his wound dressed, much to the disgust of Captain Terry, the M.O., who would have liked to have killed him outright, though Serjeant Bent, the medical orderly, took compassion on his shivering prisoner and fed him on hot tea, and actually gave him a foot warmer!

This little affair caused the Boche extreme annoyance, and the following day he spent the morning shooting at Berlin Trench, the Bienvillers road and Bienvillers itself, round the Church. As we were relieved during the morning we had to march out through it all, and found it particularly unpleasant, especially when a shell hit the R.E. Dump, exploded an ammunition store, and sent the house at the Church corner several hundred feet into the air.

Christmas 1916 - With a Field Battery.

This short account of Christmas 1916 comes from C.A. Rose.

C.A. Rose M.C., was a member of the Royal Field Artillery and his book “Three years in France with the Guns: Being Episodes in the life of a Field Battery” is a record of the work of a Royal Field Artillery Battery.

After action on the Somme Christmas found his Field Battery concealed In Sailly-Saillisel.

The country, in this part, was undulating, and better suited to the concealment of battery positions, and nowhere was the enemy able to overlook our territory. Our area included the defence of the joint villages of Sailly-Saillisel, situated on commanding ground, which the French had recently bravely stormed. Combles, too, which lay in a basin shaped hollow, was interesting as having been the centre of supplies for the southern portion of the German Army operating in the battle, and much booty was discovered in the huge catacombs which ran underneath the town.

'Xmas passed in much the same way as in the previous year. A smart bombardment was carried out in the morning in order to advise the enemy that anything in the way of fraternizing would not be countenanced by us. At mid-day the men partook of their 'Xmas fare, which had been fetched from Amiens, and a short service was conducted by the Padre in one of the gun-pits. A slight disturbance took place at dusk, when the S.O.S. went up from the front line and all batteries immediately opened out. It seemed a rather extraordinary occurrence, as the evening was unusually quiet, and, presently, it was discovered to have arisen through an error, due to the fact that the enemy had put up a coloured light in between two ordinary Verey lights which constituted our own S.O.S.

About this time the enemy caused considerable annoyance to a certain Battalion Headquarters, situated in a quarry close behind the lines, by occasionally dropping a shell right into it, the position having probably been discovered by his aircraft. Retaliation tactics were adopted, which consisted of subjecting the hostile trenches to a sharp half-hour's bombardment from eight batteries, firing a total of 2,000 rounds. The enemy was well known to be very thick-skinned, but these measures met with instant success, and it was only necessary to remind him once again that we were not to be trifled with in this way.

After the New Year, a severe spell of frost set in, with an occasional heavy fall of snow, and we were somewhat annoyed when orders came through to sideslip our position further south, as we had made our quarters fairly comfortable by this time, and expected to remain undisturbed throughout the winter. The new position was situated behind the ruined village of Rancourt, facing St. Pierre Vaast wood, and was one of the worst and most disagreeable localities it was ever our lot to occupy, as we were, more or less, water-logged the whole of our time there. Much difficulty was experienced by both friend and foe in entering their respective front line, so much so that, by common consent, sniping by rifle fire was discontinued until parapets were constructed and made fit for occupation. However, sniping was still indulged in by the artillery, and no parties of any size were permitted to go about freely near the front line under observation. Affairs continued thus until the middle of February, when it became apparent that something unusual was taking place in enemy territory, and great explosions were heard, after which volumes of smoke were seen to rise in large columns. These, as was afterwards proved, were due to preparations being made by the enemy to evacuate the low-lying country, into which they had reluctantly been forced, as the result of the battle of the Somme, prior to falling back upon the great prepared defences known as the Hindenburg Line.

Christmas 1916 - A War Christmas at Home.

This article entitled “My Three War Christmases In Flanders, Denmark, and Old England by Basil Clarke” comes from the excellent site “The Great War in A Different Light.”

Christmas 1915 by War Correspondent Basil Clarke was spent in the North Sea nearing the port of Copenhagen, with Danish hospitality. Now in 1916 he’s back home again in ‘Old England’ for a War Christmas at home.

1916

Two good ideas struck me at once. The first was to see and to write just how a wounded soldier is sent home from the front-line trenches. The second was to have a War Christmas at home. And with strategic ingenuity, prompted thus by desire, I contrived to make one purpose helpful and fulfill the other. I would see a wounded soldier from trench to home, and by so doing arrive home myself for Christmas. Bound for "Blighty".

I bade good-bye to colleagues in the War Correspondents' Camp, hitched on my shrapnel helmet and gas-mask, and made my way to the front-line trenches. It was at a grim spot on the Ancre tributary of the Somme, called Beaumont-Hamel. Little more than a month earlier this battered heap of stones and bricks and homesteads had been the scene of one of the most desperate fights in all the Somme battles. Now, the lines lay beyond it, just over the crest of a hill.

I waited by the stretcher-bearers' dug-out in the front-line trench. Fritz was sending over shrapnel and "heavy stuff," which whined piteously through the air, ' while occasionally a sniper's rifle brought a new note into the rumble of sounds.

"Stretcher-bearers ! " The call came from along the trench, away to the right. Off went the boys from the dug-out, as I trailed behind as best I could over the mud and the shell-holes. A sniper's bullet had caught one poor fellow in the thigh. He had been crossing an open space where no trench existed. The bearers, with great labour — and much danger to themselves — carried him down to the regimental Aid-post, in a dug-out in the village below. And from that point began the joint journey home of Private J. C. H. Oldham, who was wounded and pining for "Blighty," and of myself, war correspondent, anxious to fulfill an interesting mission which would, land me home for Christmas.

I forget what the date was, but at the outset it promised to give me ample time to achieve my personal purpose. But at the aid-post Private Oldham was kept some two hours before passing on to the advanced dressing-station. At the A-D-S. he was kept about four hours before going on to the main dressing-station. And at the M.D.S. he spent, if I remember rightly, a day and a half before going on to the casualty clearing-station. His stay there was four and a half days. I saw the prospect of reaching "Blighty" by Christmas becoming poorer and poorer.

Joyous Home-Coming

He got away at last, and I with him. With five hundred wounded, weary souls I made the journey from the battle zone to the coast. We stopped in sidings and restarted, stopped again and again, and did not land till the small hours of the following morning. Again Oldham was whisked off on a stretcher — this time to a base hospital. How long would they keep him ? I spent some days with nothing better to do than hunt round the shops of Boulogne, choosing little presents that should be in keeping with the season, if only I could arrive home in time. Day followed day without seeing Private Oldham ready for transport. I must give up the Christmas idea.

One dull December morning out came his stretcher. Off he was driven to a ship at the quay, I in the same motor-ambulance. I saw him placed in a hospital ship, painted a bright apple-green ; I saw him landed at a southern English port in the grey of a drizzly morning, and I saw him set quietly down on the snow-white bed of a London hospital — with tears in his eyes born of weakness and sheer joy at being back in "Blighty."

I too, had my own joy of home-coming. Alice was radiant ; the little fellows swarmed around me, an avalanche of excited humanity. And they hung up their stockings that night, and Santa Claus put in them unusual little presents, some of them marked " Boulogne-sur-Mer."

That was my Christmas of 1916, a great Christmas, something like an old-time Christmas.

Christmas 1916 - First Canadian Division.

Over the last two years I posted many articles on the first two Christmas’s of the First World War.

Christmas 1916 brought to the end a devastating year for the British Army. The Battle of the Somme begun on 1st July 1916 had finally come to a close in November 1916 and a state of stalemate was still the order of the day on the Western Front.

This piece of First World War history comes from the book, “The Great War as I Saw It” by Canon Frederick George Scott, C.M.G., D.S.O. who was the Senior Chaplain to the First Canadian Division.

Christmas 1916

It was certain now that all serious fighting was at an end till next spring, so everyone settled down to his work with a sense of relief and tried to make the best of things. A few days after my return from Albert I went to England.

On my return to France, I heard with some regret that our Divisional Headquarters were going to move, and that the Corps would make Camblain l'Abbé their headquarters. On December 20th we moved back to the town of Bruay, where we were to stay till after the New Year. Bruay in comparison with Camblain l'Abbé is a large and thriving town, all the inhabitants being more or less connected with the mines in the neighbourhood. Our Headquarters were in the administration building of the Mining Company, in a square, and I had a billet in a street near by. There was a good theatre in the place, which our 1st Divisional Concert party took over, and where I had services on Sunday. In and around the town were several of the battalions; the rest of the division were in the villages near by. Bruay had not been shelled, and the mines were being worked as in pre-war days. It was a comfort to have the men out of the line once again, and the roads round about were very pleasant, the country being hilly and unspoilt. Bethune was within easy reach, and a visit to the quaint town made a pleasant afternoon's ride.

Rumours were abroad that with the opening of Spring we were to begin an offensive, and it was generally believed that towards the close of the next year we might hope for the end of hostilities. Our men were being trained, when weather permitted, in open warfare, and the time of so-called rest was really a period of constant activity. The chief hotel in the place became an officers' club, and very pleasant were the reunions we had there. I was glad we were going to spend Christmas out of the line, and determined to take advantage of the theatre as a place for Christmas services. The 8th and 14th Battalions were quartered in the town, besides some smaller units, so we had a good many men to draw upon for a congregation.

On Christmas Eve, at half-past eleven, I had a celebration of the Holy Communion. We had a splendid band to play the Christmas hymns, and a large number of men attended. The stage was made to look as much as possible like a chancel, and the service was very hearty. Many made their communion. I also had a watch-night service on New Year's Eve. The theatre was almost filled with men—there were rows of them even in the gallery. It was an inspiring sight, and we all felt we were beginning a year that was to decide the destinies of the Empire. I told the men that somewhere in the pages of the book which we were opening that night lay hidden the tremendous secret of our success or failure. At ten minutes to twelve we sat in silence, while the band played Chopin's Funeral March. It was almost too moving, for once again the vision came before us of the terrible battle-fields of the Somme and the faces that had gone. Then we all rose, and there was a brief moment for silent prayer. At midnight the buglers of the 14th Battalion sounded the Last Post, and at the close the band struck up the hymn "O God our help in ages past." A mighty chorus of voices joined in the well-known strains. After the Benediction, I went down to the door and shook hands with as many of the men as I could and wished them a happy New Year. No one who was at that service will ever forget it. As we found out, the trail before us was longer than we had expected, and the next New Year's Eve found many of us, though, alas, not all, in that theatre once more, still awaiting the issue of the conflict.

In January, I paid a flying visit to the Canadian Cavalry Headquarters at Tully near Abbeville, and saw many old friends. On my return, I had a curious experience which throws a light upon railway travelling at the Front. A friend had motored me to Abbeville that afternoon, just in time to catch a leave-train full of men returning from England. I only wanted to go as far as St. Pol, about thirty miles off, where I hoped to get a car for Bruay. I got into a carriage with four officers, one of whom was a chaplain who had just been decorated with the D.S.O. I had crossed the Channel with him once before, so was glad to renew our acquaintance. The train left Abbeville about four o'clock. We found ourselves in a second-class compartment. The windows were broken, the floor was dirty, and there was no lamp to lighten our darkness. By pulling down the curtains we tried to keep out the cold wind, but the draught was very unpleasant, and we had to trust to the accumulated warmth of our bodies to keep from freezing.

Instead of going directly to St. Pol, for some reason or other, the train started off to the South. We travelled on and on at a snail's pace, and had frequent and lengthy stops. When the light died away, we should have been in complete darkness if one of the officers had not brought a candle with him. Hour after hour passed by and we began to get hungry. Somebody had some sandwiches and a piece of cake, and this was shared by all the company. It served to stimulate rather than soothe the appetite. About midnight to our astonishment we found we had got to Canaples, where I had stayed when we were going to the Somme. Someone said there had been a railway accident and we had to travel by branch lines. In spite of the cold, we tried to sleep. I sat between my parson friend, who was inclined to be stout, and another officer who was remarkably angular. When I leaned upon my corpulent friend, his frequent fits of coughing made my head bounce as though it were resting on an air-cushion. When I got tired of this and leaned against my angular friend on the other side, the jolting of the carriage scraped my ear against his ribs. I spent the night by leaning first on one companion, and then on the other. The morning found us still travelling, and finally at half-past ten the train drew up once more at our starting point in Abbeville station. Having been eighteen hours without food or drink or the opportunity of a shave, I thought it was about time to retire, and told my companions that life was too short to spend it in railway journeys of that description. So, with a feeling of superiority and independence which made the others green with envy, I bid them good-bye. I never heard any more of my friends, but, although the war has long since ended, I have a sort of dim impression in my mind that they are still travelling round and round and coming back to Abbeville again. I went over to the officers' club and had a good wash and luncheon, and there meeting a very nice engineer officer, I asked him if he could tell me where I could find any lorries going North. I told him my railway experience, and it so moved him that he very kindly sent me off in his own car to St. Pol, where I was picked up by one of our staff cars and taken home in time for dinner. Railway journeys in France were not things to remember with pleasure, and if they were bad for the officers, what must they have been for the poor men in the crowded third-class carriages?

At the end of January, our pleasant life at Bruay came to an end, and we moved off to Barlin which was to be our headquarters for a month and a half. It was while we were there that I had an attack of trench-fever, which, like being "crummy," is really part of a complete war experience. Barlin was not a bad place of residence. There were many men within easy reach, and I had an upper room in the Town Hall for use as a chapel. The presence of a well equipped British hospital also gave one opportunities of seeing our wounded men. We had come to know by this time that the first task which lay before us in the opening of spring was the taking of Vimy Ridge, and our life became filled with fresh zest and interest in view of the coming attack.