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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



exaggeration to say that we Americans 

 had not known what mud could be like 

 until we found it at its worst in the low- 

 lands of the Meuse and Woevre. 



The plans for Christmas Day called for 

 field sports in the afternoon. That seemed 

 to be as near an approach to a real home 

 Christmas as we could come under the 

 circumstances. The prospects certainly 

 were far from encouraging, but, be it ever 

 said to the credit of the American dough- 

 boy, he rose triumphant over all obstacles. 

 The first problem was where to hold the 

 sports. Very clearly we could not use 

 the fields, for no one can run where he 

 cannot walk, nor jump where he can 

 scarcely crawl. In the end, we had to 

 fall back upon the road. 



The hundred-yard dash, the two- 

 twenty, the running broad jump, the high 

 jump, potato race, sack race, three-legged 

 race, signal relay, Yorkshire wrestling — 

 every last man in the outfit went in for 

 something. Winners, led by the sergeant- 

 major, strove through the mud and rain 

 against the Dashers, captained by the first 

 sergeant of brigade. 



The deeper the mud, the higher ran the 

 rivalry, the harder struggled the men, 

 until the shell-torn hollow, with its little 

 ruin of Reville, echoed to the strangest 

 cheers it had ever heard. 



The Brigadier himself came down from 

 his shack on the hillside, plowing through 

 the mud and crawling round shell-holes 

 until he had reached a vantage point on 

 the bank above the road. Here, the man 

 who had taken Grande Pre, and thus 

 broken the keystone of German resistance 

 in the Meuse-Argonne offensive, stood 

 all afternoon in mist and driving rain, 

 shouting encouragement to the racing 

 men with the same spirit that had led him 

 but a few weeks before to take a first-line 

 battalion forward in person when it 

 seemed impossible for anyone to advance. 



A MYSTERY TO THE COUNTRY-SIDE FRENCH 



As the sports grew keener, our cheer- 

 ing and noise grew louder, the hip-hip- 

 hurrahs and three-times-threes attracting 

 the attention of what few French refu- 

 gees and poilus were in the neighborhood. 

 They stood for a while along the roadside 

 vainly trying to make out what it all could 

 be about. It was too much for them, 



however. Clearly carol singing at dawn, 

 then mad racing and leaping and tugging 

 on a rope in the mud was beyond their 

 ken. With significant shrugs and shak- 

 ing of heads they went away. 



They had put us down as mad, quite 

 mad; but, then, all American soldiers 

 seem so to them, and it did not make 

 much matter to us. We left them to 

 their own celebration of the day with vin 

 rouge, stewed rabbit, and snails. The 

 games went on with even louder shouts 

 and hip-hip-hurrahs in the good old 

 Anglo-Saxon way. 



MUDDY FIELDS MAKE FOR FUN 



The best fun of all were the sack race 

 and three-legged race, for they were run 

 off in the fields, where the mud and slime 

 and ponds that had been shell craters 

 only added to the comedy. Such slipping 

 and sliding and falling in the mire could 

 not well be imagined. It seemed as 

 though all the rain and soggy discomforts 

 of the previous weeks had been but a 

 preliminary setting of the stage, a pre- 

 paring of the ground for the afternoon's 

 fun. 



We could forgive the country of the 

 Meuse a lot, even the mud somewhat, 

 while we watched the comical antics of 

 doughboys in gunny-sacks hopping, wob- 

 bling, sprawling head first over the 

 course. It was a real course, too, in 

 the way of hazards! Each contestant's 

 friends and backers cheered him on his 

 way with fervent cries and entreaties, 

 one Irishman urging his favorite to "Lep 

 to it like a man, for the love of God and 

 County Mayo !" 



The last two events in the games were 

 a pie-eating contest and a tug o' war. 

 Sassamann, from Missouri, competed 

 with Helm, from Pennsylvania, and the 

 man from Missouri won. Arms locked 

 behind backs, both men knelt in the mud, 

 the pjes resting on the ground before 

 them. At the word to begin, they bent 

 over and the race was on. It was an ex- 

 cellent and a very practical demonstra- 

 tion of the value of chewing. Fletcher 

 would have appreciated it keenly. 



Missouri's son went to work in slow 

 and deadly earnest, chewing each hunk 

 well and swallowing it before bobbing 

 for another, while Pennsylvania's repre- 



