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Christmas in a dugout, as told
by a Yank while on a working party

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to a squad of Royal engineers in
their dugout. You say, you,

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fellows, have just come out and
want to know how I enjoyed last Christmas.

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While I'll tell you the circumstances and
let you judge for yourself about the

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enjoyment part of it. I guess
nearly all of you met our gun's crew

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at that show we gave it s, so it will be unnecessary to introduce

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them as well as I remember.
This is what happened. It was Christmas

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eve and cold. Not the kind
of cold which sends the red blood tingling

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through your veins and makes you want
to be up and at em, but

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that miserable, damp kind that eats
into the marrow of your bones, attacking

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you from the rear and sending cold
shivers up and down your spinal column.

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It gives you a feeling of dread
and loneliness. The three of us,

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curly happy in myself, were standing
at the corner of Yankee Avenue in Yiddish

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Street, waiting for the words stand
Too, upon which we were to mount

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our machine gun on the parapet and
go on watch for two hours with our

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head sticking over the top. Yankee
Avenue was the name of the fire trench,

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while Yiddish Street was the communication trench
leading to the rear. You see,

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we were occupying y sector of the
front line of Abrogade. The trench

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was muddy and in some places a
thin crest of ice was beginning to form

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around the edges of the puddles.
We had wrapped our feet and legs with

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empty sand bags and looked like snow
shovelers. On Fifth Avenue, my teeth

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were chattering with the cold. Happy
was slapping his hands on his thighs,

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while Curly had unbuttoned one of the
buttons on his overcoat and with his left

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hand was desperately trying to reach under
his right armpit. No doubt a Cootie

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had gone marketing for its Christmas dinner. Then came the unwelcome stand too,

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and it was up on the fire
step for us to get our gun mounted.

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This took about five minutes. Curly, while working away, was muttering,

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BlimE me Christmas Eve, and here
I am some wheres in France,

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half starved with the gold. Happy
was humming keep the home fires burning right

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then. Any kind of a home
fire would have been very welcome. It

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was black as pitch in no man's
land. Curly stopped muttering to himself,

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and Happy's humming ceased. There was
serious work in front of us. For

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two hours. We had to penetrate
that blackness with our straining eyes to see

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that Fritz did not surprise us with
some German cult Christmas stunt. Suddenly,

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Happy, who was standing on the
firestep next to me, gripped my arm

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and in a low, excited whisper, asked, did you see that out

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in front? Yank a little to
the right of that black patch in the

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barbed wire, turning my eyes in
the direction indicated, With my heart pounding

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against my ribs, I waited for
something to develop. Sure enough I could

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make out a slight movement. Happy
must have seen it at the same time,

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because he carefully eased his rifle over
the top, ready for instant use.

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My rifle was already in position.
Curly was fumbling with the flare pistol.

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Suddenly, a loud PLoP as he
pulled the trigger, and a red

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streak shot up into the air.
As the star shell described an arc out

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in front it hit the ground and
burst, throwing out a white ghostly light,

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A frightened well, and a cat
with speed clutch open darted from the

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wire in front of us, jumped
over our gun, and disappeared into the

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blackness of the trench. Curly ducked
his head and happy let out a weak,

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squeaky laugh. I was frozen,
stiff with fear. Pretty soon the

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pump action of my heart was resumed, and once more I looked out into

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no man's land. For the remainder
of our two hours on guard, nothing

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happened. Then we turned over to
the second relief, and, half frozen,

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waded through the icy mud to the
entrance of our dugout. From the

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depths of the earth came the notes
of a harmonica playing, pack up your

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troubles in your old kit bag and
smile, smile, smile. Stumbling down

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the muddy steps, we entered the
dugout. This was a regular dugout,

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not like the two by four one
we generally had wished on us. Eight

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boys of our machine gun section,
sitting on their packs, had formed a

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circle around a wooden box in an
old ammunition tin. Six candles were burning.

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I inwardly shuddered at this extravagance,
but suddenly remembered that it was Christmas

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Eve. Sailor Bill was making cocoa
over the flames of a tommy cooker,

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while Ike was toasting bread in front
of a fire bucket, the fumes from

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which nearly choked us. As soon
as we made our appearance in the dugout,

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the circle stood up and, as
is usual with you English and selfishly

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made room for us to get around
the fire bucket to thaw out our stiffened

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joints. In about twenty minutes or
so, the cold of the trench was

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forgotten, and we joined in the
merriment. The musician put his harmonica away,

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which action was greatly appreciated by the
rest of us. It was Ike

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bursting with importance. Sailor Bill addressed, gentlemen, it is now time for

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the ship's company to report progress as
to what they have done for the Christmas

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feed which is to be held to
morrow at eight bells. Yank let's hear

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yours. I reported one dozen eggs, two bottles of white wine, one

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bottle of red wine, eight packets
of gold lake fags, and one quart

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bottle of champagne, which had cost
me five francs my last and lonely note

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on the bank of France at a
friend yester Minette. This report was received

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with a cheer. Ikey was next
in order. He proudly stated that he

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had saved his rum ration for the
last eleven days and consequently was able to

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donate to the feast his water bottle
three fourths full of rum. We knew

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he had swiped the rum, but
said nothing because this would help out in

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making brandy sauce for the plum pudd
Ink Sailor Bill informed us that he had

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a fruit cake, a bottle of
pickled walnuts, and two tins deviled ham,

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which had been sent out to him
from London. Each man had something

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to report. I carefully made a
list of the articles opposite the name of

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the person donating them, and turned
the list over to Bill, who was

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to act as cook on the following
day. Just then, Lance Corporal Hall

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came into the dugout, and,
warming his hands over the fire bucket,

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said if fe blokes want to hear
something that will take you home to Blighty,

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come up into the fire trench a
minute. None of us moved.

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That fire bucket was too comfortable After
much coaxing, Sailor Bill Ikey and myself

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followed Hall out of the dugout up
into the fire trench. A dead silence

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reigned and we started to return.
Hall locked our way and whispered just a

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minute, boys, and listen.
Pretty soon, from the darkness out in

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front, we heard the strains of
a cornet playing It's a long, long

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trail we're winding. We stood in
trance till the last note died out.

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After about a four or five minute
wait, the strains were repeated, and

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then silence. I felt lonely and
homesick. Out At the firebale on our

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left, a Welsh voice started singing
the song. The German cornet player must

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have heard it, because he picked
up the tune and accompanied the singer on

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his cornet. I had never heard
anything so beautiful in my life before.

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The music from the German trench suddenly
ceased, and in the air overhead came

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the sharp crack crack of machine gun
bullets as some bosh gunner butted in on

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our concert. We ducked and returned
to our dugout. The men were all

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tied out, and soon rasping snores
could be heard from under the cover of

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blankets and overcoats. The next day
was Christmas, and we eagerly awaited the

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mail, which was to be brought
up by the ration party at noon.

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Not a shot or shell had been
fired all morning. The sun had come

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out, and although the trenches were
slippery with mud, still it was warm,

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and we felt the Christmas spirit running
through our veins. We all turned

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in and cleaned up the dugout,
making reflectors out of ammunition tins, sticking

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them into the walls of the dugout. We placed a lighted candle in each

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sailor. Bill was hustling about preparing
the Christmas bread. He placed a waterproof

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sheet on the floor, and adding
three blankets, spread another waterproof over the

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top for a tablecloth, and arranged
the men's packs around the edge for chairs.

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Presently, the welcome voice of Mas
Sergeant came from the entrance of the

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dugout. Come on me, lads, lend and with the post. There

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was a mad rush for the entrance. In a couple of minutes or so,

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the boys returned, staggering under a
load of parcels. As each name

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was read off, a parcel was
thrown over to the expectant Tommy. My

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heart was beating with eagerness as the
sergeant picked up each parcel, then a

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pang of disappointment as the name was
read off. Each of the others received

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from one to four parcels. There
were none left. I could feel their

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eyes sympathizing with me. Sailor Bill
whispered something to the sergeant that I could

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not get. The sergeant turned to
me and said, why blimey, yank,

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I must be going balm. I
left your parcel up in the trench.

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I'll be right back. He returned
and in a few minutes with a

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large parcel dressed to me. I
eagerly took the parcel and looked for the

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postmark. It was from London.
Another pang of disappointment passed through me.

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I knew no one in London.
My mail had to come from America.

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Then it all flashed over me in
an instant. About two weeks before I

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had noticed a collection being taken up
in the section, and at the time

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thought it very strange that I was
not asked to donate. The boys had

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all chipped in to make sure that
I would not be forgotten On Christmas.

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They eagerly crowded around me. As
I opened the parcel. It contained nearly

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everything under the sun, including some
American cigarettes. Tears of gratitude came to

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my eyes, but some way or
other I managed not to betray myself.

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Those Tommies certainly were tickled at my
exclamations of delight. As I removed each

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article. Out of the corner of
my eye, I could see them nudging

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each other. A man named Smith
in our section had been detailed as a

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runner to our captain and was not
present at the distribution of the mail.

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Three parcels and five letters were placed
on his pack so he would receive them

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on his return to the dugout.
In about ten minutes, a man came

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from the trench loaded down with small
oblong boxes. Each Tommy, including myself,

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received one. They were presents from
the Queen of England, and each

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box contained a small plum pudding,
cigarettes, a couple of cigars, matches

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and chocolates. Every soldier of the
British Army in the trenches received one of

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those boxes on Christmas Day, as
most of you know, At last,

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Sailor Bill announced that Christmas dinner was
ready, and we each lost no time

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in getting to our respective packs sitting
around in a circle. Smith was the

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only absentee, and his parcels and
letters, still unopened, were on his

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pack. He was now a half
hour overdue. Sailor Bill, noting our

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eagerness to begin, held up his
hand and said, now, boys,

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we're all shipmates together. Don't you
think it would be better to wait a

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few minutes more for Smith. We
all assented, but Soldier like cust him

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for his delay. Ten minutes past
fifteen, then twenty, all eyes were

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turned in Sailor Bill's direction. He
answered our looks with go to it,

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boys, we can't wait for Smith. I don't know what's keeping him,

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but you know his name is in
orders for leave, and perhaps he's so

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tickled that he's going to see his
wife and three little nippers in Blighty,

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that he's lost his bearings and has
run aground. We started in and waxed

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merry for a few minutes. Then
there'd be an uncomfortable pause, and all

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eyes would turn in the direction of
the vacant place. Uneasiness prevailed. Suddenly

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the entrance to the dugout was darkened, and a form came stumbling down with

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one accord. We all shouted,
come on Smith, you're missing one of

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the best Christmas dinners of your life. Our sergeant entered the dugout. One

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look at his face was enough we
knew he was the bearer of ill tidings.

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With tears in his eyes and a
catch in his voice, he asked,

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which is Smith's pack? We all
solemnly nodded our heads in the direction

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of the vacant place without a word. The sergeant picked up the letters,

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parcels and pack and started to leave
the dugout. Sailor Bill could stand it

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no longer, and just as the
sergeant was about to leave, he asked

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out with its sergeant, what's happened. The sergeant turned around and in a

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choking voice said, boys, Smith's
gone west. Some bloody German sniper got

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him through the napper as he was
passing that bashed in part in Yidish street.

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Sailor Bill ejaculated, poor old Smith
gone west. Then he paused and

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sobbed out, My God, think
of his wife and three little nippers waiting

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in Blighty for him to come home
for the Christmas holidays. I believe that

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right at that moment, a solid
vow of vengeance registered itself in every heart

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around that festive circle. The next
day we buried poor Smith in a little

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cemetery behind the lines. While standing
around his grave, our artillery suddenly opened

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up with an intense bombardment on the
German lines, and as every shall passed

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screaming overhead, we sent a prayer
of vengeance with it. As the grave

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was filled in, I imagined a
huge rainbow embracing the graves in that cemetery,

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on which in letters of fire was
written sarcastically in German, Peace on

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earth, good will toward men.
But such is war. So boys,

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that was my last Christmas. Where
I'll be next Christmas? God only knows.

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Next day my mail came in from
America and didn't cheer me much because

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I was thinking of Smith's wife and
nippers. So long, boys, I've

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got to go. End of Christmas. In a dugout by Arthur guy Empey