Soon the shy wintry sun was wearing a veil of frosted silver. The eye of
the moon was on us early in the afternoon, ever a little wider open and
a degree colder in its stare. All one day our mud rang like an anvil to
the tramp of rubicund customers in greatcoats and gloves; and the next
day they came and went like figures on the film next-door, silent and
outstanding upon a field of dazzling snow.
But behind the counter we had no such seasonable sights to cheer us;
behind the counter, mugs washed overnight needed wrenching off their
shelf, and three waistcoats were none too many. In our room, for all the
stove that reddened like a schoolgirl, and all the stoking that we did
last thing at night, no amount of sweaters, blankets, and miscellaneous
wraps was excessive provision against the early morning. By dawn, which
leant like lead against our canvas windows, and poked sticks of icy
light through a dozen holes and crannies, the only unfrozen water in
the hut was in the kitchen boiler and in my own hot-water bottle. I made
no bones about this trusty friend; it hung all day on a conspicuous
nail; and it did not prevent me from being the first up in the morning,
any more than modesty shall deter me from trumpeting the fact. One of us
had to get up to lay the stove and light the fire, and it was my chance
of drawing approximately even with my brisk commander. No competing with
his invidious energy once he had taken the deck; but here was a march I
could count on stealing while he slept the sleep of the young. Often I
was about before the orderlies, and have seen the two rogues lying on
their backs in the dim light of their kitchen, side by side like huge
dirty children. As for me, blackened and bent double by my exertions,
swaddled in fleece lining and other scratch accoutrements, no doubt I
looked the lion grotesque of the party; but, by the time the wood
crackled and the chimney drew, I too had my inner glow.
So we reached the shortest day; then came a break, and for me the
Christmas outing of a lifetime.
The Y.M.C.A. in that sector had just started an outpost of free cheer in
the support line. It was a new departure for the winter only, a kind of
cocoa-kitchen in the trenches, and we were all very eager to take our
turn as cooks. The post was being manned by relays of the workers in our
area, one at a time and for a week apiece; but at Christmas there were
to be substantial additions to the nightly offering. It was the obvious
thing to suggest that extra help would be required, and to volunteer for
the special duty. But one may jump at such a chance and yet feel a
sneaking thrill of morbid apprehension, and yet again enjoy the whole
thing the more for that very feeling. Such was my case as I lit the fire
on the morning of the 21st of December, foolishly wondering whether I
should ever light it again. By all accounts our pitch up the Line was
none too sheltered in any sense, and the severity of the weather was not
the least intimidating prospect. But for forty mortal months I would
have given my right eye to see trench life with my left; and I was still
prepared to strike that bargain and think it cheap.
The man already on the spot was coming down to take me back with him: we
met at our headquarters over the mid-day meal, by which time my romantic
experience had begun. I had walked the ruined streets in a shrapnel
helmet, endeavouring to look as though it belonged to me, and had worn a
gas-mask long enough to hope I might never have to do so for dear life.
The other man had been wearing his in a gas-alarm up the Line; he had
also been missed by a sniper, coming down the trench that morning; and
had much to say about a man who had not been missed, but had lain,
awaiting burial, all the day before on the spot where we were to spend
our Christmas ... It was three o'clock and incipient twilight when we
made a start.
Our little headquarters Ford 'bus took us the first three miles, over
the snow of a very famous battle-field, not a whole year old in history,
to the mouth of a valley planted with our guns. Alighting here we made
as short work of that valley as appearances permitted, each with a
shifty eye for the next shell-hole in case of need; there were plenty of
them, including some extremely late models, but it was not our lot to
see the collection enlarged. Neither had our own batteries anything to
say over our heads; and presently the trenches received us in fair
order, if somewhat over-heated. I speak for myself and that infernal
fleece lining, which I had buttoned back into its proper place. It alone
precluded an indecent haste.
But in the trenches we could certainly afford to go slower, and I for
one was not sorry. It was too wonderful to be in them in the flesh. They
were almost just what I had always pictured them; a little narrower,
perhaps; and the unbroken chain of duck-boards was a feature not
definitely foreseen; and the printed sign-boards had not the expected
air of a joke, might rather have been put up by order of the London
County Council. But the extreme narrowness was a surprise, and indeed
would have taken my breath away had I met my match in some places. An
ordinary gaunt warrior caused me to lean hard against my side of the
trench, and to apologise rather freely as he squeezed past; a file of
them in leather jerkins, with snow on their toe-caps and a twinkle under
their steel hat-brims, almost tempted me to take a short cut over the
top. I wondered would I have got very far, or dropped straight back into
the endless open grave of the communication trench.
Seen from afar, as I knew of old, that was exactly what the trenches
looked like; but from the inside they appeared more solid and rather
deeper than any grave dug for the dead. The whole thing put me more in
mind of primitive ship-building--the great ribs leaning outwards--flat
timbers in between--and over all sand-bags and sometimes wire-work with
the precise effect of bulwarks and hammock-netting. Even the mouths of
dug-outs were not unlike port-holes flush with the deck; and many a
piquant glimpse we caught in passing, bits of faces lit by
cigarette-ends and half-sentences or snatches of sardonic song; then
the trench would twist round a corner into solitude, as a country road
shakes off a hamlet, and on we trudged through the thickening dusk.
Once, where the sand-bags were lower than I had noticed, I thought some
very small bird had chirped behind my head, until the other man turned
his and smiled.
'Hear that?' he said. 'That was a bullet! It's just about where they
sniped at _me_ this morning.'
I shortened my stick, and crept the rest of the way like the oldest
inhabitant of those trenches, as perhaps I was.