Christmas, 1917
By Seth G. Haley
As written, 1955
It was Christmas, 1917; the occasion World War I; the place a tiny village in France, a village with one little shop, a few houses, a beaten chateau.
Stationed there temporarily was a machine-gun battalion of the Rainbow Division, to which I, as a YMCA worker, was attached. To this place I was sent, to try to make a Christmas for these men.
I arrived a few days before Christmas. It was bitterly cold. There was snow and ice on the ground. The men were billeted in barns, in the chateau, anywhere. They spent their days on long marches, training, hardening for the ordeal ahead. They were reasonably cheerful, and together we planned for our Christmas.
We secured from the fine parish priest the use of his little, unheated hall. Then we searched for talent in the outfit, held rehearsals, with no piano available. But the “Y” had promised a plane, and it came on Christmas Eve, with boxes of Christmas things. Many willing hands unloaded the truck, and then the final rehearsal.
Christmas morning came bright and fair, and cold, and in the hall, decorated with greens and red berries, with a colorful tree on the stage, the men assembled, bundled in their coats.
The program began with a brief religious note; a few verses of scripture, the Lord’s Prayer, a few simple remarks, a carol we all remembered. Then the boys performed: vocal and instrumental solos, banjos predominating; a surprising piano solo; a good quartet; dancers, and then the climax, the “Hobnail Minstrels,” a rollicking good number. Then the distribution of little gifts and a Christmas card to each man. A closing song and benediction.
Shortly, the dinner! Uncle Sam had remembered us abundantly, and the cooks had worked valiantly. There was turkey and all that goes with it on Christmas Day at home; and “seconds!” My dinner was with one of the companies in a new barn, my table a manger. Unforgettable!
In the evening another gathering in the cold, dimly lighted little hall. Some of the entertainment repeated and the singing of familiar carols from our leaflets. The quartet sang softly and effectively “Silent Night, Holy Night” and the day was ended.
No, not quite ended, for many lingered –to talk, to write letters by candle light, some standing, using the stage for a desk. And to my little room adjoining, many came to talk, to show pictures of their loved ones so far away and to receive New Testaments, which fitted the blouse pocket over the heart.
Come early next morning, and they marched away to another area, their shoes crunching on the snow and ice. They waved and spoke as they passed me, standing by the side of the road. I watched them out of sight around the bend, and thought, “Wonderful boys, the flower of American manhood. I hope their Christmas helped!