“You come half-way—­I come half-way,” floated out of the darkness.

“Come on, then!” shouted the sergeant.  “I’m coming along the hedge!”

“Ah! but there are two of you,” came back the voice from the other side.

Well, anyway, after much suspicious shouting and jocular derision from both sides, our sergeant went along the hedge which ran at right-angles to the two lines of trenches.  He was quickly out of sight; but, as we all listened in breathless silence, we soon heard a spasmodic conversation taking place out there in the darkness.

Presently, the sergeant returned.  He had with him a few German cigars and cigarettes which he had exchanged for a couple of Maconochie’s and a tin of Capstan, which he had taken with him.  The seance was over, but it had given just the requisite touch to our Christmas Eve—­something a little human and out of the ordinary routine.

After months of vindictive sniping and shelling, this little episode came as an invigorating tonic, and a welcome relief to the daily monotony of antagonism.  It did not lessen our ardour or determination; but just put a little human punctuation mark in our lives of cold and humid hate.  Just on the right day, too—­Christmas Eve!  But, as a curious episode, this was nothing in comparison to our experience on the following day.

On Christmas morning I awoke very early, and emerged from my dug-out into the trench.  It was a perfect day.  A beautiful, cloudless blue sky.  The ground hard and white, fading off towards the wood in a thin low-lying mist.  It was such a day as is invariably depicted by artists on Christmas cards—­the ideal Christmas Day of fiction.

“Fancy all this hate, war, and discomfort on a day like this!” I thought to myself.  The whole spirit of Christmas seemed to be there, so much so that I remember thinking, “This indescribable something in the air, this Peace and Goodwill feeling, surely will have some effect on the situation here to-day!” And I wasn’t far wrong; it did around us, anyway, and I have always been so glad to think of my luck in, firstly, being actually in the trenches on Christmas Day, and, secondly, being on the spot where quite a unique little episode took place.

Everything looked merry and bright that morning—­the discomforts seemed to be less, somehow; they seemed to have epitomized themselves in intense, frosty cold.  It was just the sort of day for Peace to be declared.  It would have made such a good finale.  I should like to have suddenly heard an immense siren blowing.  Everybody to stop and say, “What was that?” Siren blowing again:  appearance of a small figure running across the frozen mud waving something.  He gets closer—­a telegraph boy with a wire!  He hands it to me.  With trembling fingers I open it:  “War off, return home.—­George, R.I.”  Cheers!  But no, it was a nice, fine day, that was all.

Walking about the trench a little later, discussing the curious affair of the night before, we suddenly became aware of the fact that we were seeing a lot of evidences of Germans.  Heads were bobbing about and showing over their parapet in a most reckless way, and, as we looked, this phenomenon became more and more pronounced.