The weather continues very cold, and today it is again snowing. If not inappropriate for the week before Christmas, it is forbidding weather in which to fight and severely trying to men in the trenches. So far as the Somme area is concerned, activity is confined to the artillery, which never rests, the shelling being at times very heavy. Everywhere, under stress of weather, the conditions of trench warfare of a year ago have returned, only more strained and more alert, along all the hundred miles.
At many points the Germans hardly have any men in their front trench at all, at least by daylight, so that, within the last two days, a party of our men entered a trench, stayed there for a couple of hours, and came away without seeing a German, or, presumably, being seen by one. Under the constant pressure of our artillery and trench mortar fire, and with the fear of raids always before him, the enemy seems to prefer to leave as few men as possible in exposed front lines, keeping them commanded by artillery and machine-guns, and to hold his strength, where the troops can be better sheltered and, in case of attack, have time to issue from their dugouts before our men arrive. It is also a good deal more difficult for men to desert from trenches in the rear than it is from the front line.
Nobody can make pretence of knowing what the enemy meditates. But to all outward appearance, in spite of occasional bursts of artillery activity, the Germans are concerned now solely with considerations of defence. For ourselves, conditions for Christmas could hardly be more grim, but our men approach it with unshaken moral. They suffer, inevitably, and they “grouse” after the Army’s immemorial fashion. But their unquenchable spirits, their humour and unconscious heroism of mind remain. No men could have better cause to wish for peace than these out here, but the notion of Germany offering peace as a victorious Power is a current jest throughout the Army. An officer told me that he communicated the terms of Germany’s Note to a number of his men, and smiles grew on their faces as he read. He asked them what they thought of it, and there was silence for a space. Then one man spoke up; and all he said was “Good old Boche!” And there is really nothing to be added.
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