soldier would then smite the aggressive animals, and, after a few more
strides, the centre mules would hang back while the wings would close
in, and then, as confusion became worse confounded, some of the restless
brutes would commence to roll, and the group finally resembled a sort of
mulish "scrum" with the soldier on his back as football.

There were, of course, various camp services on Christmas Day: most of
my comrades on the train went to the little Episcopal Church in De Aar.
The Church of England community in this out-of-the-way village numbers
some fifty all told. Nevertheless these churchmen had contrived to build
a pretty little church and their services were very hearty. Officers,
men, and two Red Cross sisters formed the bulk of the congregation and
we listened to a delightful sermonette written and delivered in
excellent style by the good Vicar, an old Corpus man at Oxford. We sang
the old familiar hymns, "While shepherds watched" and "Hark, the Herald
Angels sing," which took our thoughts away to distant homes and
services in England, 7,000 miles away. At the close of the service came
that hymn of prayer, "O God of peace, give peace again;" and as we
walked back to the train a sergeant said to me: "If there is a God who
will listen to prayer, my prayer for peace went straight to Him". I
think he spoke for all of us. Most people who love war for war's sake
are not soldiers.

Our Christmas dinner was a most gorgeous affair. We were determined to
do everything in the best possible style, and everybody helped. We first
rigged up a trestle table beside the train and stretched a tarpaulin
above it to shelter us from the fierce heat. Three of our number were
then despatched to secure all the green stuff they could for decorative
purposes, and as the good people of De Aar were quite ready to give us
some of their scanty flowers and allow us to dismember their shrubs, our