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Speaker 1: Christmas in a dugout, as told by a Yank while

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on a working party to a squad of Royal engineers

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in their dugout. You say, you, fellows, have just come

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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

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for yourself about the enjoyment part of it. I guess

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nearly all of you met our gun's crew at that

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show we gave it s, so it will be unnecessary

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to introduce them as well as I remember. This is

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what happened. It was Christmas eve and cold. Not the

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kind of cold which sends the red blood tingling through

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your veins and makes you want to be up and

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at em, but that miserable, damp kind that eats into

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the marrow of your bones, attacking you from the rear

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and sending cold shivers up and down your spinal column.

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It gives you a feeling of dread and loneliness. The

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three of us, curly happy in myself, were standing at

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the corner of Yankee Avenue in Yiddish Street, waiting for

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the words stand Too, upon which we were to mount

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our machine gun on the parapet and go on watch

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for two hours with our head sticking over the top.

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Yankee Avenue was the name of the fire trench, while

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Yiddish Street was the communication trench leading to the rear.

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You see, we were occupying y sector of the front

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line of Abrogade. The trench was muddy and in some

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places a thin crest of ice was beginning to form

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around the edges of the puddles. We had wrapped our

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feet and legs with empty sand bags and looked like

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snow shovelers. On Fifth Avenue, my teeth were chattering with

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the cold. Happy was slapping his hands on his thighs,

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while Curly had unbuttoned one of the buttons on his

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overcoat and with his left hand was desperately trying to

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reach under his right armpit. No doubt a Cootie had

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gone marketing for its Christmas dinner. Then came the unwelcome

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stand too, and it was up on the fire step

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for us to get our gun mounted. This took about

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five minutes. Curly, while working away, was muttering, BlimE me

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

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half starved with the gold. Happy was humming keep the

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home fires burning right then. Any kind of a home

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fire would have been very welcome. It was black as

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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

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of us. For two hours. We had to penetrate that

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blackness with our straining eyes to see that Fritz did

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not surprise us with some German cult Christmas stunt. Suddenly, Happy,

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who was standing on the firestep next to me, gripped

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my arm and in a low, excited whisper, asked, did

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you see that out in front? Yank a little to

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the right of that black patch in the barbed wire,

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turning my eyes in the direction indicated, With my heart

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pounding against my ribs, I waited for something to develop.

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Sure enough I could make out a slight movement. Happy

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must have seen it at the same time, because he

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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

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the flare pistol. Suddenly, a loud PLoP as he pulled

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the trigger, and a red streak shot up into the air.

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As the star shell described an arc out in front

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it hit the ground and burst, throwing out a white

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ghostly light, A frightened well, and a cat with speed

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clutch open darted from the wire in front of us,

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jumped over our gun, and disappeared into the blackness of

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the trench. Curly ducked his head and happy let out

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a weak, squeaky laugh. I was frozen, stiff with fear.

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Pretty soon the pump action of my heart was resumed,

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and once more I looked out into no man's land.

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For the remainder of our two hours on guard, nothing happened.

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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.

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From the depths of the earth came the notes of

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a harmonica playing, pack up your troubles in your old

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kit bag and smile, smile, smile. Stumbling down the muddy steps,

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we entered the dugout. This was a regular dugout, not

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like the two by four one we generally had wished

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on us. Eight boys of our machine gun section, sitting

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on their packs, had formed a circle around a wooden

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box in an old ammunition tin. Six candles were burning.

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I inwardly shuddered at this extravagance, but suddenly remembered that

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it was Christmas Eve. Sailor Bill was making cocoa over

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the flames of a tommy cooker, while Ike was toasting

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bread in front of a fire bucket, the fumes from

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which nearly choked us. As soon as we made our

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appearance in the dugout, the circle stood up and, as

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is usual with you English and selfishly made room for

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us to get around the fire bucket to thaw out

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our stiffened joints. In about twenty minutes or so, the

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cold of the trench was forgotten, and we joined in

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the merriment. The musician put his harmonica away, which action

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was greatly appreciated by the rest of us. It was

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Ike bursting with importance. Sailor Bill addressed, gentlemen, it is

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now time for the ship's company to report progress as

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to what they have done for the Christmas feed which

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is to be held to morrow at eight bells. Yank

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let's hear yours. I reported one dozen eggs, two bottles

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of white wine, one bottle of red wine, eight packets

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of gold lake fags, and one quart bottle of champagne,

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which had cost me five francs my last and lonely

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note on the bank of France at a friend yester Minette.

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This report was received with a cheer. Ikey was next

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in order. He proudly stated that he had saved his

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rum ration for the last eleven days and consequently was

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able to donate to the feast his water bottle three

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fourths full of rum. We knew he had swiped the rum,

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but said nothing because this would help out in making

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brandy sauce for the plum pudd Ink Sailor Bill informed

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us that he had a fruit cake, a bottle of

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pickled walnuts, and two tins deviled ham, which had been

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sent out to him from London. Each man had something

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to report. I carefully made a list of the articles

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opposite the name of the person donating them, and turned

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the list over to Bill, who was to act as

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

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

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fire bucket, said if fe blokes want to hear something

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that will take you home to Blighty, come up into

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the fire trench a minute. None of us moved. That

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fire bucket was too comfortable After much coaxing, Sailor Bill

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Ikey and myself followed Hall out of the dugout up

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into the fire trench. A dead silence reigned and we

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started to return. Hall locked our way and whispered just

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a minute, boys, and listen. Pretty soon, from the darkness

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out in front, we heard the strains of a cornet

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playing It's a long, long trail we're winding. We stood

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in trance till the last note died out. After about

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a four or five minute wait, the strains were repeated,

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and then silence. I felt lonely and homesick. Out At

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the firebale on our left, a Welsh voice started singing

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the song. The German cornet player must have heard it,

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because he picked up the tune and accompanied the singer

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on his cornet. I had never heard anything so beautiful

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in my life before. The music from the German trench

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suddenly ceased, and in the air overhead came the sharp

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crack crack of machine gun bullets as some bosh gunner

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butted in on our concert. We ducked and returned to

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our dugout. The men were all tied out, and soon

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rasping snores could be heard from under the cover of

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blankets and overcoats. The next day was Christmas, and we

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eagerly awaited the mail, which was to be brought up

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by the ration party at noon. Not a shot or

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shell had been fired all morning. The sun had come out,

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and although the trenches were slippery with mud, still it

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was warm, and we felt the Christmas spirit running through

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our veins. We all turned in and cleaned up the dugout,

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making reflectors out of ammunition tins, sticking them into the

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walls of the dugout. We placed a lighted candle in

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each sailor. Bill was hustling about preparing the Christmas bread.

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He placed a waterproof sheet on the floor, and adding

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three blankets, spread another waterproof over the top for a tablecloth,

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and arranged the men's packs around the edge for chairs. Presently,

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the welcome voice of Mas Sergeant came from the entrance

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of the dugout. Come on me, lads, lend and with

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the post. There was a mad rush for the entrance.

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In a couple of minutes or so, the boys returned,

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staggering under a load of parcels. As each name was

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

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My heart was beating with eagerness as the sergeant picked

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up each parcel, then a pang of disappointment as the

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name was read off. Each of the others received from

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one to four parcels. There were none left. I could

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feel their eyes sympathizing with me. Sailor Bill whispered something

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to the sergeant that I could not get. The sergeant

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turned to me and said, why blimey, yank, I must

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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

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minutes with a large parcel dressed to me. I eagerly

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took the parcel and looked for the postmark. It was

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from London. Another pang of disappointment passed through me. I

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knew no one in London. My mail had to come

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from America. Then it all flashed over me in an instant.

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About two weeks before I had noticed a collection being

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taken up in the section, and at the time thought

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it very strange that I was not asked to donate.

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The boys had all chipped in to make sure that

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I would not be forgotten On Christmas. They eagerly crowded

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around me. As I opened the parcel. It contained nearly

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

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gratitude came to my eyes, but some way or other

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I managed not to betray myself. Those Tommies certainly were

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tickled at my exclamations of delight. As I removed each article.

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Out of the corner of my eye, I could see

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them nudging each other. A man named Smith in our

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section had been detailed as a runner to our captain

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and was not present at the distribution of the mail.

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Three parcels and five letters were placed on his pack

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so he would receive them on his return to the dugout.

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In about ten minutes, a man came from the trench

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

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

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and each box contained a small plum pudding, cigarettes, a

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couple of cigars, matches and chocolates. Every soldier of the

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British Army in the trenches received one of those boxes

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

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Sailor Bill announced that Christmas dinner was ready, and we

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each lost no time in getting to our respective packs

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sitting around in a circle. Smith was the only absentee,

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and his parcels and letters, still unopened, were on his pack.

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

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our 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

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better to wait a few minutes more for Smith. We

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all assented, but Soldier like cust him for his delay.

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Ten minutes past fifteen, then twenty, all eyes were turned

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in Sailor Bill's direction. He answered our looks with go

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to it, boys, we can't wait for Smith. I don't

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know what's keeping him, but you know his name is

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in orders for leave, and perhaps he's so tickled that

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he's going to see his wife and three little nippers

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in Blighty, that he's lost his bearings and has run aground.

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We started in and waxed merry for a few minutes.

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Then there'd be an uncomfortable pause, and all eyes would

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turn in the direction of the vacant place. Uneasiness prevailed.

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Suddenly the entrance to the dugout was darkened, and a

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form came stumbling down with one accord. We all shouted,

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come on Smith, you're missing one of the best Christmas

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

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look at his face was enough we knew he was

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the bearer of ill tidings. With tears in his eyes

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and a catch in his voice, he asked, which is

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

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direction of the vacant place without a word. The sergeant

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picked up the letters, parcels and pack and started to

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leave the dugout. Sailor Bill could stand it no longer,

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and just as the sergeant was about to leave, he

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asked out with its sergeant, what's happened. The sergeant turned

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around and in a choking voice said, boys, Smith's gone west.

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Some bloody German sniper got him through the napper as

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he was passing that bashed in part in Yidish street.

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

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paused and sobbed out, My God, think of his wife

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and three little nippers waiting in Blighty for him to

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come home for the Christmas holidays. I believe that right

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at that moment, a solid vow of vengeance registered itself

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in every heart around that festive circle. The next day

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we buried poor Smith in a little cemetery behind the lines.

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While standing around his grave, our artillery suddenly opened up

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with an intense bombardment on the German lines, and as

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every shall passed screaming overhead, we sent a prayer of

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vengeance with it. As the grave was filled in, I

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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,

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Peace on earth, good will toward men. But such is war.

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So boys, that was my last Christmas. Where I'll be

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next Christmas? God only knows. Next day my mail came

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in from America and didn't cheer me much because I

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

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I've got to go. End of Christmas. In a dugout

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by Arthur guy Empey