A complete Boche figure suddenly appeared on the parapet, and looked about itself.  This complaint became infectious.  It didn’t take “Our Bert” long to be up on the skyline (it is one long grind to ever keep him off it).  This was the signal for more Boche anatomy to be disclosed, and this was replied to by all our Alf’s and Bill’s, until, in less time than it takes to tell, half a dozen or so of each of the belligerents were outside their trenches and were advancing towards each other in no-man’s land.

A strange sight, truly!

I clambered up and over our parapet, and moved out across the field to look.  Clad in a muddy suit of khaki and wearing a sheepskin coat and Balaclava helmet, I joined the throng about half-way across to the German trenches.

It all felt most curious:  here were these sausage-eating wretches, who had elected to start this infernal European fracas, and in so doing had brought us all into the same muddy pickle as themselves.

This was my first real sight of them at close quarters.  Here they were—­the actual, practical soldiers of the German army.  There was not an atom of hate on either side that day; and yet, on our side, not for a moment was the will to war and the will to beat them relaxed.  It was just like the interval between the rounds in a friendly boxing match.  The difference in type between our men and theirs was very marked.  There was no contrasting the spirit of the two parties.  Our men, in their scratch costumes of dirty, muddy khaki, with their various assorted headdresses of woollen helmets, mufflers and battered hats, were a light-hearted, open, humorous collection as opposed to the sombre demeanour and stolid appearance of the Huns in their grey-green faded uniforms, top boots, and pork-pie hats.

The shortest effect I can give of the impression I had was that our men, superior, broadminded, more frank, and lovable beings, were regarding these faded, unimaginative products of perverted kulture as a set of objectionable but amusing lunatics whose heads had got to be eventually smacked.

“Look at that one over there, Bill,” our Bert would say, as he pointed out some particularly curious member of the party.

I strolled about amongst them all, and sucked in as many impressions as I could.  Two or three of the Boches seemed to be particularly interested in me, and after they had walked round me once or twice with sullen curiosity stamped on their faces, one came up and said “Offizier?” I nodded my head, which means “Yes” in most languages, and, besides, I can’t talk German.

These devils, I could see, all wanted to be friendly; but none of them possessed the open, frank geniality of our men.  However, everyone was talking and laughing, and souvenir hunting.

I spotted a German officer, some sort of lieutenant I should think, and being a bit of a collector, I intimated to him that I had taken a fancy to some of his buttons.