Christmas truce is said to have been prolonged for three weeks or more.
Here the men are supposed to prefer their comfortable trenches to their
billets, though when they "come out" they are cheered by the Follies and
the Fancies. On this section of the line is the notorious Plugstreet
Wood, that show-place to which all distinguished but valuable visitors
are taken. Other corps have sighed for the gentle delights of this
section of the line....

South-west from Armentieres the country is as level as it can be. It is
indeed possible to ride from Ypres to Bethune without meeting any hill
except the slight ascent from La Clytte. Steenwerck, Erquinghem, Croix
du Bac, and, farther west, Merris and Vieux Berquin, have no virtue
whatsoever. There is little country flatter and uglier than the country
between Bailleul and Bethune.

One morning Huggie, Cecil, and I obtained leave to visit Bethune and the
La Bassee district. It was in the middle of January, three months after
we had left Beuvry. We tore into Bailleul and bumped along the first
mile of the Armentieres road. That mile is without any doubt the most
excruciatingly painful _pave_ in the world. We crossed the railway and
raced south. The roads were good and there was little traffic, but the
sudden apparition of a motor-lorry round a sharp corner sent that other
despatch rider into the ditch. Estaires, as always, produced much
grease. It began to rain, but we held on by La Gorgue and Lestrem,
halting only once for the necessary cafe-cognac.

We were stopped for our passes at the bridge into Bethune by a private
of the London Scottish. I rejoiced exceedingly, and finding Alec, took
him off to a bath and then to the restaurant where I had breakfasted
when first we came to Bethune. The meal was as good as it had been three
months before, and the flapper as charming.[29] After lunch we had our
hair cut. Then Cecil took us to the little blue-and-white cafe for tea.
She did play the piano, but two subalterns of the less combatant type
came in and put us to flight. A corporal is sometimes at such a
disadvantage.

We rode along the canal bank to Beuvry Station, and found that our
filthy old quarters had been cleaned up and turned into an Indian
dressing-station. We went on past the cross-roads at Gorre, where an
Indian battalion was waiting miserably under the dripping trees. The sun
was just setting behind some grey clouds. The fields were flooded with
ochreous water. Sinc