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 whizzbang 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.”