he snowflakes were beginning to tumble gently out of a leaden sky and the churchyard was already carpeted in a thin layer of white. I shivered and hugged myself, but the old man kneeling at the grave seemed oblivious to the cold. It was not fit for him to be out here in this weather, I thought. I laid the wreath, which I'd brought, then turned towards him.       "It's bitter out today, isn't it? I've got a flask of hot coffee back in my car, and you'd be more than welcome..."       "Lord bless yer, sir," he said. "I were just payin' me respects to an ol' wartime comrade." I wasn't sure if he'd heard me say about the coffee, but he seemed quite happy just to have someone to talk with.

He waved an arm at the gravestone. "Dear ol' Albert Johnson, Gawd rest 'im. D'you know, sir, 'e were me best mate wot saved me life back in the war. Dear ol' Albert, Gawd bless 'im."      He struggled to his feet, shrugging off my efforts to help, then stood to attention in front of the grave and gave a salute. "Why, I wouldn't be 'ere now if it weren't for 'im," the old soldier continued.

      His coat billowed open as he saluted, and I saw he was wearing a faded cardboard poppy in his lapel just above a string of medals.
      "You don't mean the First World War, do you?" I asked. If it was so, then he must be in his nineties.
      "Gawd bless yer, sir. Yes, the Great War, the 1914-18 War. They said it were 'a war to end all wars'." He shook his head. "But you young uns have no idea."
      His eyes grew misty with the memory of it. "The horror of the Front ... the trenches ... shells exploding everywhere ... even after it were all over, they were still goin' off in yer dreams ... an' all those millions of young men wot never came back ... 'a corner of a foreign field', sir."
      "I've read about it," I offered. "Seen films."
      "But you 'ad to be there, yer see, to sort of go through it all 'afore you could understand. Ypres, Passcendale, Verdun, Arras, Vimy, the Somme ..." He sighed and shook his head again. "Lest we forget, sir. I was with 'em at the Somme, you know. Me an' Albert Johnson. We fixed bayonets and went over the top together. Anyways, I got myself tangled up in some barbed wire ... an' a German sniper got me in the leg. I was sure as I was a gonna. Then Albert, you know, 'e carries me back all the way to the safety of the trenches, with guns goin' off an' shells flyin' all around us ... saved me bloomin' life ..."
      I looked at the grave. "He survived the war?"
      "I expect you're thinkin' that if 'e died at the Front, then he'd be buried in one of them great war cemeteries out there. But no, both of us came back, you know - me with a gammy leg an' Albert with shell shock. He died soon after, though, me best mate wot 'ad saved me life. Aye, 'e had shell shock an' never properly recovered, gawd rest 'is soul, sir. It should've been the other way round."
      "I'm sorry," I said. "He must have been a very brave man."
      "Aye, he was that. So you see, I comes here every week to pay me respects. Every day is Remembrance Day to some of us, you know, sir. But Gawd bless yer fer listenin' to an old man reminisce..."
      He stood to attention and saluted the grave once more. Then, looking at an old- fashioned pocket-watch in his waistcoat, he added, "It's time I was a goin', sir, so merry Christmas to yer." And he limped away among the gravestones of the cemetery while I waved a hand and shouted Christmas greetings after him.

      I turned up my coat collar against the freezing December wind. And as I walked slowly away, I glanced idly at the other graves. Even those that were more recent didn't seem so well cared for as that of the old soldier. All the same, I thought, the old man shouldn't be coming out here in this weather at his age. Remembering his story of wartime sacrifice, I was reminded it was this time of the year when we celebrated the birth of another that gave His life that others might live.

      There was a funeral procession trudging up the snow-covered path to the church. Recognising a colleague from work among the followers, I offered my condolences. I hoped it was not someone too close. I'm sure I would have heard if he'd lost his wife, one of the children, or even a parent.
      "My grandfather," he explained. "He was an old First World War veteran. Used to come here every week, even in bad weather, to pay his respects to an old war colleague who saved his life at the Somme."
      I stared at him. It could be no more than a coincidence, yet... Turning my head, I looked back to where I'd been talking to the old veteran a few minutes ago. Although the wind was bitingly cold, it was not strong enough to obliterate footprints in the snow, but there were no others apart from mine.
      "The name of your grandfather's wartime colleague ... it wasn't by any chance Albert Johnson?" I ventured, pointing back to the gravestone. "And your grandfather ... was he wounded in the leg by a German sniper? And Albert ... did he carry him back to the trenches?"         My friend looked at me in astonishment. "That's exactly what happened. But I thought you didn't know him? Who told you about it?"
      I waved my arms in a futile attempt to explain.
      "Grandfather's been bedridden for the last six months," my friend told me. "And he always felt so guilty because he was unable to come here every week to stand in front of the grave and salute his old colleague just as he used to do."

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