I was fed up with looking like a shaggy dog, fed up with smelling like a cess pit, fed up with wearing my dirty army uniform. But worst of all I was fed up with seeing my pals blown to pieces. All sorts of bugs and lice inhabit my skin. My feet are swollen, they call it trench foot. So you can imaging my relief when the battalion was told to pack up and leave the trenches. We where overdue for a rest period. A hot shower and a visit to the barbers was just the ticket. As we staggered away from the front line we saw the new guys marching in, taking over our trench. Poor buggers, what rotten timing. We get to spend Christmas Eve at the comfort station, as they duck bullets.

I almost feel human again, till the bombardment starts. Even the folks in Dover will be able to hear this. The general is apparently worried, our rest is cut short and we are sent back to the front. The poor sods who took over our trenches look just about done in. Then I remember that it’s Christmas Day. But there will be no football today.