CHRISTMAS IN FRANCE, 1916, WAS MERRY ONE-FOR SOME.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18644, 22 December 1928, Page 19 (Supplement)

CHRISTMAS IN FRANCE, 1916, WAS MERRY ONE-FOR SOME.

POULTRY, PUDDING AND BEER.

Rain, Mud, Gaping Roofs and Screaming Shells mattered not to

New Zealanders Behind the Fines

WRITTEN FOR THE “STAR” BY

A. H. CARRINGTON.

6 WHERE the usual artillery activity has continued, being most marked in the neighbourhood of Ypres, and also south of Armentieres, where we bombarded buildings occupied by the enemy in rear of his lines.” So ran the official communique for December 25, 1916, describing the action that had taken place on the Western front. Other places and more strenuous fighting were mentioned, but the artillery action south of Armentieres was taken by New Zealand gunners and they were firing over the heads of New Zealand infantrymen who were holding the front line trenches. There 'were many New Zealanders, however, who were not quite so intimately connected with the war. They were not far away, and were ready to do their job had they been called out; nevertheless, the Christmas season had afforded them the opportunity of a light relief from the unpleasantnesses of war and all did their best to forget them. Some time previously arrangements were made for celebrating Christmas. Grants of money were forthcoming from several sources—the Y.M.C.A., patriotic societies, the canteens ; plum puddings were provided in quantities limited only by the ability of the transport available to carry them, and many private individuals made many private presents to units that they were interested in. A “Cuslhy” Sector. During the winter of 1916 the New Zealand Division was in the line in front of a little village called Sailly, resting (?) after the fighting on the Somme. It was certainly a “cushy” sector. Fritz had been flooded out of his front line, the winter was hard and the war was neglected for the purpose, much more important, of living. Of course there were a number of raids going on, the artillery fired off their shells, and even the huge 9.45 in trench mortar in the Boutillerie sector occasionally sent over some of its half-ton shells, our front line having been previously cleared. Taken all round, except for the weather it was a very easy “possie.” Broken Roofs.

Christmas comes but once a year, so they say, and on that festive day, the big hall in the little village of Fleurbaix was the scene of a great feast. Shell holes gaped in the roof, occasional wisps of rain, as though they wished to join the merry gathering blew through the windows whose glass

was long since shatered; and all the time the vicious bark of the 18-pounder could be heard sending Christmas fare to the Germans, backed up by the heavier rumble of big howitzers. But that did not worry the happy throng. Forgotten were the bully beef stews of the front line, and all the hardships of trench life, while Christmas wassail flowed. Fleurbaix was only a little farming village. There were a few decent sized houses before the shells hit them, a school or two, a convent, and of course, a church. Most of the roofs had been, repaired by the engineers and many of them needed patching quite occasionally, for they w T ere within a mile of the front line and were a frequent target for the German guns. Alongside the church was the big hall, school, convent, goodness knows what, but a dangerous place to go to. It was too good a target, often in the night when Fritz thought, perhaps, that an entertainment was in progress, its brick walls withstood a sudden hail of steel and high explosive; but on that Christmas day no shot was fired at it though it was filled with men for the greater part of the day. “The Goose.” “There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked,” wrote Charles Dickens in his immortal “Christmas Carol,” and in Fleurbaix that was the general impression. However, there it was steaming hot from the cooker where the grimy cooks, army cooks always look that, had been slaving their souls out since early morn, piled up with stuffing and vegetables in season—swedes (green peas don’t grow at that time in France). Plum puddings there were in heaps, fruit and cigarettes, and casks of foaming ale. Ye Gods! Let us think a moment of bully beef and biscuits, and chlorinated tea.

rain could blow in through unprotected r windows, the sullen winter sky could lower as it liked —what Cared those New Zealanders? Too few were such brief respites from the toil and danger they were passing through. The meal done, the Brigadier spoke a few words, a cheer was given for the officers, and the men filed out making way for another company, eager for the feast that awaited them, and the more eager after hearing what those who went first had to tell. The Trenches. Up in the trenches there w r ere men envying their more fortunate comrades. Some had still to guard the front; some very fortunate enough to be in a position to enjoy themselves. As far as the infantry were concerned it was a

At the long improvised trestle tables the men sat while the officers and n.c.o.’s acted as waiters. Down the long rows of men were passed the fragrant smelling helpings of what once had been perfectly good specimens of Flanders poultry, while dixies were filled a-brimming with good brown ale. Up on the stage the regimental band provided a programme of all the popular music, but the noise and merriment, the laughter and talk, almost drowned it. The guns could boom outside, the

normal day, but the New Zealand Artillery were hard at it sending over Christmas presents in a rather unpleasant form, that burst with clouds of smoke and a rending crack, distributing unhealthy pieces of metal round the country-side, or forcing huge holes in the landscape. A week later those men who had been in the trenches had the laugh their way, for on January 1. 1917, Fritz returned the compliment he had received on December 25, sending over 5.9 inch howitzer shells that destroyed the trenches and his “whizz-bangs” that made the bravest “duck.” They walked out to their fine dinner that was awaiting them while those that had already celebrated their Christmas, came into the line to start another year of meaningless toil and bloodshed.