NO CHRISTMAS HALT

Wairarapa Times-Age, 28 December 1943, Page 3

NO CHRISTMAS HALT

FOR NEW ZEALANDERS IN. ITALY BATTLE IN MUD AND MIST. CELEBRATION POSTPONED. (Official War Correspondent, N.Z.E.F.) N.Z.E.F. H.Q., ITALY, December 2j. This Christmas Eve for the New Zealanders is a day of dark-grey cloying mud and of seeping clouds of mist stealing down from high places. Mud is feet deep over riven fields and blazed ridges where the attack goes on. Greasy sludge surrounds an area where drunkenly-swaying trucks fight to get vital supplies through. Deep, soft ruts run with yellow water in the more open country, where vehicles lie dispersed under sodden camouflaged nets. Today dawned to the thunder roll or cur massed guns laying a zone of death across some threatened ground. The sun made only the feeblest attempt to break through the ranks of dingy rainclouds, and the grim, rugged line of mountains was early hidden from view as the mist and drizzle rolled down into the valleys. The men fight on against their bitterest enemy with courage and endurance—wet to the skin/covered with clinging mud and shivering in the keen winter blast. As I drove toward the front this afternoon, in a jeep which, despite its four-wheel drive and chains could barely hold the road. Lthought of other Christmases —of that of, 1941 in the peaceful desolation of Bargush. with hilarity running high in the knowledge of a bitter campaign well ended, and of last year's festivities by the sea at Nofilia, with the ruins of two hostile armies scattered over the desert behind us. Now it is Christmas again, but only those whose duties will permit them will celebrate in what little manner they can. For those formations locked in battle with the enemy there will be another day.

Skating, careening in mud, we passed through our artillery positions, where fled and medium pieces pierced the drizzle with the searing yellow flash of their discharge. Muffled figures moved like automata about the guns as I have seen them so many times, but somehow today the sight was different. As we stopped beside a gun which was blasting away through the murk a figure emerged from, the parked gun-tractor with a slab of Christmas cake poised in hand. “Where is your stocking, you mugs?” he called cheerfully, but the only reply was: “Get that black quod off the skyline.” The artillery has its hands full at the moment.

PAST SCENES RECALLED. We went on past scenes reminiscent of pictures of the last war—shellholes brimming with water, Bairnsfather figures peering forth from ruined farmhouses, huddled, hopeless refugees barefoot in the mud. An exposed stretch of road past a brickworks was as slippery as ice and stippled with shell-holes. Furthher on I saw groups of infantrymen moving m single file toward the line. Against the bleak background they stood out as misshapen, helmeted forms muffled in great-coats and hunchbacked under packs and gas-capes. Mud caked thickly over their heavy boots as they walked carefully by, watching every step, in the dusk. It is not for want of seasonable fare that the division is not celebrating this Christmas, but for want of opportunity. Seldom have we been better served with the physical needs of the festive season. The supply columns have worked unremittingly to assure that cigarettes, tinned turkey, pork, pudding and cake came forward across the mountain tracks in time. Dripping figures played Santa Claus to the units. The fare was all delivered, but the celebrants were standing to their guns, were lying in mud under fire, or were wrestling with their trucks in the.rain. The division is too busy to enjoy the good things at its disposal.