Christmas in a dugout, as told by a Yank while on a working party
to a squad of Royal engineers in their dugout. You say, you,
fellows, have just come out and want to know how I enjoyed last Christmas.
While I'll tell you the circumstances and let you judge for yourself about the
enjoyment part of it. I guess nearly all of you met our gun's crew
at that show we gave it s, so it will be unnecessary to introduce
them as well as I remember. This is what happened. It was Christmas
eve and cold. Not the kind of cold which sends the red blood tingling
through your veins and makes you want to be up and at em, but
that miserable, damp kind that eats into the marrow of your bones, attacking
you from the rear and sending cold shivers up and down your spinal column.
It gives you a feeling of dread and loneliness. The three of us,
curly happy in myself, were standing at the corner of Yankee Avenue in Yiddish
Street, waiting for the words stand Too, upon which we were to mount
our machine gun on the parapet and go on watch for two hours with our
head sticking over the top. Yankee Avenue was the name of the fire trench,
while Yiddish Street was the communication trench leading to the rear. You see,
we were occupying y sector of the front line of Abrogade. The trench
was muddy and in some places a thin crest of ice was beginning to form
around the edges of the puddles. We had wrapped our feet and legs with
empty sand bags and looked like snow shovelers. On Fifth Avenue, my teeth
were chattering with the cold. Happy was slapping his hands on his thighs,
while Curly had unbuttoned one of the buttons on his overcoat and with his left
hand was desperately trying to reach under his right armpit. No doubt a Cootie
had gone marketing for its Christmas dinner. Then came the unwelcome stand too,
and it was up on the fire step for us to get our gun mounted.
This took about five minutes. Curly, while working away, was muttering,
BlimE me Christmas Eve, and here I am some wheres in France,
half starved with the gold. Happy was humming keep the home fires burning right
then. Any kind of a home fire would have been very welcome. It
was black as pitch in no man's land. Curly stopped muttering to himself,
and Happy's humming ceased. There was serious work in front of us. For
two hours. We had to penetrate that blackness with our straining eyes to see
that Fritz did not surprise us with some German cult Christmas stunt. Suddenly,
Happy, who was standing on the firestep next to me, gripped my arm
and in a low, excited whisper, asked, did you see that out
in front? Yank a little to the right of that black patch in the
barbed wire, turning my eyes in the direction indicated, With my heart pounding
against my ribs, I waited for something to develop. Sure enough I could
make out a slight movement. Happy must have seen it at the same time,
because he carefully eased his rifle over the top, ready for instant use.
My rifle was already in position. Curly was fumbling with the flare pistol.
Suddenly, a loud PLoP as he pulled the trigger, and a red
streak shot up into the air. As the star shell described an arc out
in front it hit the ground and burst, throwing out a white ghostly light,
A frightened well, and a cat with speed clutch open darted from the
wire in front of us, jumped over our gun, and disappeared into the
blackness of the trench. Curly ducked his head and happy let out a weak,
squeaky laugh. I was frozen, stiff with fear. Pretty soon the
pump action of my heart was resumed, and once more I looked out into
no man's land. For the remainder of our two hours on guard, nothing
happened. Then we turned over to the second relief, and, half frozen,
waded through the icy mud to the entrance of our dugout. From the
depths of the earth came the notes of a harmonica playing, pack up your
troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. Stumbling down
the muddy steps, we entered the dugout. This was a regular dugout,
not like the two by four one we generally had wished on us. Eight
boys of our machine gun section, sitting on their packs, had formed a
circle around a wooden box in an old ammunition tin. Six candles were burning.
I inwardly shuddered at this extravagance, but suddenly remembered that it was Christmas
Eve. Sailor Bill was making cocoa over the flames of a tommy cooker,
while Ike was toasting bread in front of a fire bucket, the fumes from
which nearly choked us. As soon as we made our appearance in the dugout,
the circle stood up and, as is usual with you English and selfishly
made room for us to get around the fire bucket to thaw out our stiffened
joints. In about twenty minutes or so, the cold of the trench was
forgotten, and we joined in the merriment. The musician put his harmonica away,
which action was greatly appreciated by the rest of us. It was Ike
bursting with importance. Sailor Bill addressed, gentlemen, it is now time for
the ship's company to report progress as to what they have done for the Christmas
feed which is to be held to morrow at eight bells. Yank let's hear
yours. I reported one dozen eggs, two bottles of white wine, one
bottle of red wine, eight packets of gold lake fags, and one quart
bottle of champagne, which had cost me five francs my last and lonely note
on the bank of France at a friend yester Minette. This report was received
with a cheer. Ikey was next in order. He proudly stated that he
had saved his rum ration for the last eleven days and consequently was able to
donate to the feast his water bottle three fourths full of rum. We knew
he had swiped the rum, but said nothing because this would help out in
making brandy sauce for the plum pudd Ink Sailor Bill informed us that he had
a fruit cake, a bottle of pickled walnuts, and two tins deviled ham,
which had been sent out to him from London. Each man had something
to report. I carefully made a list of the articles opposite the name of
the person donating them, and turned the list over to Bill, who was
to act as cook on the following day. Just then, Lance Corporal Hall
came into the dugout, and, warming his hands over the fire bucket,
said if fe blokes want to hear something that will take you home to Blighty,
come up into the fire trench a minute. None of us moved.
That fire bucket was too comfortable After much coaxing, Sailor Bill Ikey and myself
followed Hall out of the dugout up into the fire trench. A dead silence
reigned and we started to return. Hall locked our way and whispered just a
minute, boys, and listen. Pretty soon, from the darkness out in
front, we heard the strains of a cornet playing It's a long, long
trail we're winding. We stood in trance till the last note died out.
After about a four or five minute wait, the strains were repeated, and
then silence. I felt lonely and homesick. Out At the firebale on our
left, a Welsh voice started singing the song. The German cornet player must
have heard it, because he picked up the tune and accompanied the singer on
his cornet. I had never heard anything so beautiful in my life before.
The music from the German trench suddenly ceased, and in the air overhead came
the sharp crack crack of machine gun bullets as some bosh gunner butted in on
our concert. We ducked and returned to our dugout. The men were all
tied out, and soon rasping snores could be heard from under the cover of
blankets and overcoats. The next day was Christmas, and we eagerly awaited the
mail, which was to be brought up by the ration party at noon.
Not a shot or shell had been fired all morning. The sun had come
out, and although the trenches were slippery with mud, still it was warm,
and we felt the Christmas spirit running through our veins. We all turned
in and cleaned up the dugout, making reflectors out of ammunition tins, sticking
them into the walls of the dugout. We placed a lighted candle in each
sailor. Bill was hustling about preparing the Christmas bread. He placed a waterproof
sheet on the floor, and adding three blankets, spread another waterproof over the
top for a tablecloth, and arranged the men's packs around the edge for chairs.
Presently, the welcome voice of Mas Sergeant came from the entrance of the
dugout. Come on me, lads, lend and with the post. There
was a mad rush for the entrance. In a couple of minutes or so,
the boys returned, staggering under a load of parcels. As each name
was read off, a parcel was thrown over to the expectant Tommy. My
heart was beating with eagerness as the sergeant picked up each parcel, then a
pang of disappointment as the name was read off. Each of the others received
from one to four parcels. There were none left. I could feel their
eyes sympathizing with me. Sailor Bill whispered something to the sergeant that I could
not get. The sergeant turned to me and said, why blimey, yank,
I must be going balm. I left your parcel up in the trench.
I'll be right back. He returned and in a few minutes with a
large parcel dressed to me. I eagerly took the parcel and looked for the
postmark. It was from London. Another pang of disappointment passed through me.
I knew no one in London. My mail had to come from America.
Then it all flashed over me in an instant. About two weeks before I
had noticed a collection being taken up in the section, and at the time
thought it very strange that I was not asked to donate. The boys had
all chipped in to make sure that I would not be forgotten On Christmas.
They eagerly crowded around me. As I opened the parcel. It contained nearly
everything under the sun, including some American cigarettes. Tears of gratitude came to
my eyes, but some way or other I managed not to betray myself.
Those Tommies certainly were tickled at my exclamations of delight. As I removed each
article. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them nudging
each other. A man named Smith in our section had been detailed as a
runner to our captain and was not present at the distribution of the mail.
Three parcels and five letters were placed on his pack so he would receive them
on his return to the dugout. In about ten minutes, a man came
from the trench loaded down with small oblong boxes. Each Tommy, including myself,
received one. They were presents from the Queen of England, and each
box contained a small plum pudding, cigarettes, a couple of cigars, matches
and chocolates. Every soldier of the British Army in the trenches received one of
those boxes on Christmas Day, as most of you know, At last,
Sailor Bill announced that Christmas dinner was ready, and we each lost no time
in getting to our respective packs sitting around in a circle. Smith was the
only absentee, and his parcels and letters, still unopened, were on his
pack. He was now a half hour overdue. Sailor Bill, noting our
eagerness to begin, held up his hand and said, now, boys,
we're all shipmates together. Don't you think it would be better to wait a
few minutes more for Smith. We all assented, but Soldier like cust him
for his delay. Ten minutes past fifteen, then twenty, all eyes were
turned in Sailor Bill's direction. He answered our looks with go to it,
boys, we can't wait for Smith. I don't know what's keeping him,
but you know his name is in orders for leave, and perhaps he's so
tickled that he's going to see his wife and three little nippers in Blighty,
that he's lost his bearings and has run aground. We started in and waxed
merry for a few minutes. Then there'd be an uncomfortable pause, and all
eyes would turn in the direction of the vacant place. Uneasiness prevailed. Suddenly
the entrance to the dugout was darkened, and a form came stumbling down with
one accord. We all shouted, come on Smith, you're missing one of
the best Christmas dinners of your life. Our sergeant entered the dugout. One
look at his face was enough we knew he was the bearer of ill tidings.
With tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice, he asked,
which is Smith's pack? We all solemnly nodded our heads in the direction
of the vacant place without a word. The sergeant picked up the letters,
parcels and pack and started to leave the dugout. Sailor Bill could stand it
no longer, and just as the sergeant was about to leave, he asked
out with its sergeant, what's happened. The sergeant turned around and in a
choking voice said, boys, Smith's gone west. Some bloody German sniper got
him through the napper as he was passing that bashed in part in Yidish street.
Sailor Bill ejaculated, poor old Smith gone west. Then he paused and
sobbed out, My God, think of his wife and three little nippers waiting
in Blighty for him to come home for the Christmas holidays. I believe that
right at that moment, a solid vow of vengeance registered itself in every heart
around that festive circle. The next day we buried poor Smith in a little
cemetery behind the lines. While standing around his grave, our artillery suddenly opened
up with an intense bombardment on the German lines, and as every shall passed
screaming overhead, we sent a prayer of vengeance with it. As the grave
was filled in, I imagined a huge rainbow embracing the graves in that cemetery,
on which in letters of fire was written sarcastically in German, Peace on
earth, good will toward men. But such is war. So boys,
that was my last Christmas. Where I'll be next Christmas? God only knows.
Next day my mail came in from America and didn't cheer me much because
I was thinking of Smith's wife and nippers. So long, boys, I've
got to go. End of Christmas. In a dugout by Arthur guy Empey