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.

“A truce?⁠ ⁠… We’re not going to allow any monkey-tricks on the parapets. To hell with Christmas charity and all that tosh. We’ve got to get on with the war. That’s my motto.”