Speaker 1: 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