December 23, 1915- 
L Ai\ D A-\ i) W A 1 h K. 
LAST CHRISTMAS AT YPRES. 
By Desmond McCarthy. 
B 
jEHOLD, It IS taken away from being a city, 
and it shall be a ruinous heap." " The 
burden of Damascus," according to the 
prophet, is now iipon Ypres. Yet this 
time last year one could do a little shopping of a surrep- 
titious back-door kind in Ypres. 
The first big bombardment was over. The cathedral 
tower was half-down. Part of the roof lay in a heap in 
the middle of the nave, and the church itself had a 
ragged hole in its side several times bigger than its porch. 
But from the organ, though some of the pipes had been 
shed and others were leaning this way and that, a few 
groans could still be elicited. The Grande Place was 
much battered and pitted with shell holes. The Cloth 
Hall was a facade; inside rows of pillars supported 
nothing. A few streets were ruins, and in many others 
there was a charred gap where once a house had stood. 
The Germans were contining themselves then to throwing 
a few shells in a lazy, aimless way during half an hour in 
the morning and again in the afternoon or evening. They 
often sent down shrapnel. This was wanton ; for that 
could not have done much destruction, and they must 
have known there were no troops in the town. The only 
result was, of course, that some ten or twelve citizens 
were killed or maimed every week. The town was very 
empty, but one could still do a little shopping in it. 
Christmas Shopping. 
The day before Christmas. I was sent in by the office 
commanding our ambulance unit to buy some extra 
utensils for our feast. The approach to the ironmonger's 
lay through the house next door ; but the interior except 
for the shuttereddarkness was normal enough ; so, also, 
except for a look of weary dejection, the behaviour of the 
ironmonger and his wife behind the counter. Customers 
must have been rare enough ; it was their neat packets of 
screws, knives, hammers and scissors, their cans and 
baths and lamps, their brass fittings which gleamed 
here and there in the semi-darkness they could not 
bear to leave. I suppose, too, like us, like the French 
soldiers, who were then holding that bit of the line, like 
everybody, alas, they thought the worst was over. Poor 
people ! I wonder if a 17-inch shell came afterwards and 
blew their home, themselves and their wares over the 
next acre or two of roofs, or if at this moment, somewhere 
in France or England, they are astonishing benevolent, 
unimaginative people by their grumbling ! Having loaded 
the car with frying pans, slop pails, etc., I drove on to 
Bosinghe, where I knew a little cabaret where wine could 
he purchased. It, too, was dark and shuttered ; for 
Bosinghe held five dressing stations and came in for daily 
attention from the Gemian guns. The cabaret was 
crowded with French soldiers smoking and drinking coffee. 
There was a shout of laughter when I tucked several 
bottles under both arms and a cry of " Dieu, mais Ics 
Anglais ont le crdn" ; for being forbidden to buy wine 
themselves they concluded that my deed was in defiance 
of orders. 
We had been looking forward to Christmas as few 
of us had done since we were children. For some time 
past our parcel post had been getting heavier." The 
evening lorry which came up from the Red Cross base at 
Dunkirk and went the round of our various ambulance 
posts delivering petrol and stores, kept bringing more 
and more brown-paper packages. Not that anyone got 
much benefit at the time. " Cook " kept his eye on any 
oarcel which suggested comestibles, and before the 
-ccipient had done feasting his eyes on the emeralds and 
rubies of crystallised fruit, the box was snatched with a 
cry of " Chnstmas," and borne off to the kitchen. Some- 
times he would relent a little, and throw over his shoulder 
as he shelved it : " You may have a chocolate cream if 
you like, or a biscuit." Thekitchen was a corner of a 
long low room (once the Nuns' school-room) in which 
some twenty of us slept, smoked, talked, read, ate, rested 
— and, in fact, had our Ijeing when not out on the cars. 
It had a stove in it which wanted seeing to. Its 
long draught pipe leaked smoke and was usually decorated 
with steaming socks and brown shirts ; while round the 
disappointing stove itself there was always a ring of 
encrusted boots, their snouts turned up in expectation 
of some day getting dry. The kitchen was a stronghold 
of empty packing cases, and behind the barrier surprising 
culinarj' feats were daily performed. 
Plenty of Dessert. 
The shelves began to be filled with the contents of 
the parcels. We were finely off for dessert. Crackers 
we had in plenty, figs, raisins, gingerbreads too. It was 
in the staple dishes it seemed possible our feast might be 
lacking. Then a ham arrived in a tin box, looking as if 
it contained a musical instrument ; and, tinally, just 
before Christmas, a turkey. It was one of those magnifi- 
cent birds whose contours have a mountainous grandeur, 
such as one can imagine outlined against blue sky. It is 
not mere guUosity which makes me dwell in retrospect 
on these details. They are part of the local colour of 
war itself. Food acquires a romantic importance, and 
the most emaciated or complicated sage would recapture 
on a campaign the forgotten gusto of a smuggled dor- 
mitory feast. Other familiar things, too, acquire a 
profound significance ; a smooth pillow and a turned- 
down bed for instance, may seem to stand for a peace and 
rest beyond fathoming. And the poetry of the mere sensa- 
tion of warmth ! The best expression I know of that 
revelation lies in Mr. Hulme's fantasia of a fallen gentle- 
man on a cold, bitter night. " Once," he says : — 
Once, in the finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy. 
In the flash of gold heels on the hard pa\-ement. 
Now I see 
That warmth's the very stuff of poesy. 
Oh, God make small 
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky, 
j That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie. 
Do not conclude then, that I am making too much 
copy out of the turkey. The question was, how was it to 
be cooked ? Oil lamps, even with blow pipe attached, 
could not deal with such a bird ; and to drop it into the 
porridge pot and let it boil soft would be desecration. 
It was decided that I should take it round to the Nuns. 
They Hved in a wing of the house (an old Mother Superior 
with a harsh voice and the gentlest manners and three 
frail sisters), behind a grey door on which was printed 
the peremptorymonosyllable" Slot," which is theFlemish 
for private. They were always ready to do what they 
could, and, of course, they would do this. 
The Feast. 
Christmas Day began for us like any other. There 
might be truce along the line, but there had not been one 
the day before. The dressing stations had to be visited 
as usual. At the same black hour before dawn we were 
roused by the last man on watch beating a jangling din 
out of empty shell cases ; the brown chrysalides lying in 
rows along the floor began to stir as though their sensitive 
ends had been touched. Bhnking somnambulists emerged 
from them, and made instantly for the kitchen corner ; 
burnt themselves awake_ with an over-hot mouthful of 
porridge, and tramped down and out to wind up the cars. 
But by ten that day work was over ; and the rest of it 
was spent in preparations; in rigging up a candelabra, 
nailing up holly, setting out the gayest-coloured blankets^ 
and beating up and borrowing things of every description 
from trestle tables to spoons ; in feverish kitchen activity 
and constant visits to see how the turkey was browning. 
Our feast, like all good feasts, began in portentous 
solemnity and ended in songs. The Nuns came up to 
listen and pull crackers with us ; and when the Mother 
Superior was crowned with a paper-cap, they flung up 
their hands and clapped them on their knees and laughed 
like true Flemings. . 
It was all over by nine o clock ; yet we felt as though 
we had eaten and drunk .nil night like Balshazzar. 
13 
