But that absurd idea—of Santa Claus in the trenches—came into my head several times, and I wondered whether the Germans would fire a whizz-bang at him or give a burst of machine-gun fire if they caught the glint of his red cloak.
Some of the soldiers had the same idea. In the front-line trench a small group of Yorkshire lads were chaffing one another.
“Going to hang your boots up outside the dugout?” asked a lad, grinning down at an enormous pair of waders belonging to a comrade.
“Likely, ain't it?” said the other boy. “Father Christmas would be a bloody fool to come out here... They'd be full of water in the morning.”
“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.