YPRES SALIENT - Traces of Bairnsfather - The Christmas Truce - St. Yvon - Ploegsteert

In 1914, when Bairnsfather re-enlisted with his old unit, the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, he was instantly promoted Lieutenant. After the battle of Mons he was assigned to command a machine-gun section at the hamlet of St. Yvon near Ploegsteert Wood, close to the Belgian-French border.

In the dug-out beneath this house Bairnsfather drew his first "trench" cartoons.  For The Bystander journal he developed his humorous series of cartoons about life in the trenches, featuring a.o. "Old Bill", a grumpy soldier with a walrus moustache and a balaclava.

"Fragments of France"

A detail of a British trench map of the same area of Bairnsfather’s sketch. Although the map was drawn on 5 May 1916, one and a half years years after the 1914 Christmas Truce event, the situation after the Truce of the opposed front lines and of No Man’s Land did not change much. Of course, since Christmas 1914 both sides of the wire had actively expanded their trench systems to mazes of trenches, and the British had gained a few metres eastward, between Anton’s Farm and Leval Cottage. Still, this trench map detail offers a good impression of the front line at St. Yvon (also spelled on trench maps as St. Yves), and this map detail matches Bairnsfather’s sketch.

To help you compare the trench map detail with the situation today I show a satellite photo of 2016.

"On Christmas morning I awoke very early, and emerged from my dug-out into the trench. It was a perfect day. A beautiful, cloudless blue sky. The ground hard and white, fading off towards the wood in a thin low-lying mist. It was such a day as is invariably depicted by artists on Christmas cards—the ideal Christmas Day of fiction.

"Fancy all this hate, war, and discomfort on a day like this!" I thought to myself. The whole spirit of Christmas seemed to be there, so much so that I remember thinking, "This indescribable something in the air, this Peace and Goodwill feeling, surely will have some effect on the situation here to-day!" And I wasn't far wrong; it did around us, anyway, and I have always been so glad to think of my luck in, firstly, being actually in the trenches on Christmas Day, and, secondly, being on the spot where quite a unique little episode took place. (....)

Walking about the trench a little later, discussing the curious affair of the night before, we suddenly became aware of the fact that we were seeing a lot of evidences of Germans. Heads were bobbing about and showing over their parapet in a most reckless way, and, as we looked, this phenomenon became more and more pronounced.

A complete Boche figure suddenly appeared on the parapet, and looked about itself. This complaint became infectious. It didn't take "Our Bert" long to be up on the skyline (it is one long grind to ever keep him off it). This was the signal for more Boche anatomy to be disclosed, and this was replied to by all our Alf's and Bill's, until, in less time than it takes to tell, half a dozen or so of each of the belligerents were outside their trenches and were advancing towards each other in no-man's land.

A strange sight, truly!

I clambered up and over our parapet, and moved out across the field to look. Clad in a muddy suit of khaki and wearing a sheepskin coat and Balaclava helmet, I joined the throng about half-way across to the German trenches.

It all felt most curious: here were these sausage-eating wretches, who had elected to start this infernal European fracas, and in so doing had brought us all into the same muddy pickle as themselves.

This was my first real sight of them at close quarters. Here they were—the actual, practical soldiers of the German army. There was not an atom of hate on either side that day; and yet, on our side, not for a moment was the will to war and the will to beat them relaxed. It was just like the interval between the rounds in a friendly boxing match. The difference in type between our men and theirs was very marked. There was no contrasting the spirit of the two parties. Our men, in their scratch costumes of dirty, muddy khaki, with their various assorted headdresses of woollen helmets, mufflers and battered hats, were a light-hearted, open, humorous collection as opposed to the sombre demeanour and stolid appearance of the Huns in their grey-green faded uniforms, top boots, and pork-pie hats.

The shortest effect I can give of the impression I had was that our men, superior, broadminded, more frank, and lovable beings, were regarding these faded, unimaginative products of perverted kulture as a set of objectionable but amusing lunatics whose heads had got to be eventually smacked.

"Look at that one over there, Bill," our Bert would say, as he pointed out some particularly curious member of the party.

I strolled about amongst them all, and sucked in as many impressions as I could. Two or three of the Boches seemed to be particularly interested in me, and after they had walked round me once or twice with sullen curiosity stamped on their faces, one came up and said "Offizier?" I nodded my head, which means "Yes" in most languages, and, besides, I can't talk German.

These devils, I could see, all wanted to be friendly; but none of them possessed the open, frank geniality of our men. However, everyone was talking and laughing, and souvenir hunting.

I spotted a German officer, some sort of lieutenant I should think, and being a bit of a collector, I intimated to him that I had taken a fancy to some of his buttons.

We both then said things to each other which neither understood, and agreed to do a swap. I brought out my wire clippers and, with a few deft snips, removed a couple of his buttons and put them in my pocket. I then gave him two of mine in exchange.

Whilst this was going on a babbling of guttural ejaculations emanating from one of the laager-schifters, told me that some idea had occurred to someone.

Suddenly, one of the Boches ran back to his trench and presently reappeared with a large camera. I posed in a mixed group for several photographs, and have ever since wished I had fixed up some arrangement for getting a copy. No doubt framed editions of this photograph are reposing on some Hun mantelpieces, showing clearly and unmistakably to admiring strafers how a group of perfidious English surrendered unconditionally on Christmas Day to the brave Deutschers."

From Bruce Bairnsfather: Bullets & Billets (1916), Chapter VIII

In 2014 the Belgian authorities created another Christmas Truce Football Game memorial next to Prowse Point Cemetery.

The local authorities added a British bunker, just outside, at the south-west point of the cemetery, which was never there.

Worst of all is the addition of two fake trenches. Although I normally appreciate the reconstruction of trenches, in my opinion these trenches are completely fake. The trenches are not covered inside with corrugated boards or with concrete sandbags, simulating the original ones. Instead, they are covered with modern, grey, plastic garden screens, which you can buy anywhere, in every Do-It-Yourself shop! This modern and deplorable reconstruction did not deserve to be photographed by me.

Frankly, it would have been better if the Belgian authorities had put on this site even a plastic copy of this bronze statue, which since 2014 is to be found at the Markt of Mesen.

Here they exchanged food, tobacco, cigarettes, drinks, badges and buttons.

Fragment from a letter of Frederick James Davies, a private in the 2nd Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers.

Returning to St. Yvon: a last view from Prowse Point Cemetery at Bruce's daily route to the trenches.