CHRISTMAS EVE
The sergeant's water bottle's full,
But it is strange to see
The sergeant on the 'ear'ole for
Some water for his tea.
But ain't it strange when night is on
And we are out o' sight,
The sergeant takes his bottle out
And swigs from it all night
Cold water--
Co-o-old water--
Co-o, o-o, o-o, o-o, co-o-old water.
(_From "The Lost Rum Ration."_)
It was about seven o'clock in the evening and an unusual silence
brooded over the Loos Salient. In the trenches the silence always
broods; the soldiers, not knowing what the moment may bring forth, are
uneasy; and the eternal hidden menace of the Unknown is intensified by
the stillness. The evening was intensely dark; black, impenetrable
shadows bulked in the trenches and became the colour of the parapet,
parados and bay. Objects quite near at hand took on strange fantastic
shapes and looked like men lying asleep on the firesteps; only a closer
examination would show that the phantoms were sandbags or ammunition
boxes. Many of the boys were smoking; the lighted cigarettes glowed
like rubies set in an illimitable spread of ebony.
It was raining; a soft, almost caressing rain dropped sleekly and
helplessly down on the firing line. In this manner it had been falling
for hours; the trenches were filled to the firestep with slush and
muck; the duck-boards were afloat, and men changing their position in
the trench clambered out over the top and walked along the reverse
slope of the parapet. Now and again a wayfarer stuck in the clinging
quicksand of the trench floor, only to free himself when he succeeded
in climbing out of his Wellington boots.
Fitzgerald sat down on the firestep and sank into the soft mud. So
complete was the stillness that he could distinctly hear all the varied
sounds of the night mingling together in a long-drawn, slumberous
murmur. The far-off death lullaby of a heavy shell, the soft, quivering
croon of the damp wind, the sough of a boot as a soldier walked along
the trench; the vague murmurings from a near dug-out, the enervating
sizzle of falling rain, and the varied, indefinable night movements of
Nature blended sleepily together in a slumber that made for nightmares
and fevered dreams.
Fitzgerald dozed off, only to wake in an instant by hearing voices
speaking very close to him.
"Spudhole, my rifle is full of dirt; half a sandbag of chalk has gone
down the barrel," said the voice of Bowdy Benners.
"Mine is full up o' muck, too," said Spudhole. There was an
indifference in his tones. He seemed to have lost all interest in his
best friend, his "'ipe."
"I don't care a damn," he muttered. "A nipe's only made to be cleaned
in this 'ere war as far as I can see."
"When is the rum coming up?" Bowdy enquired. "Probably we'll get none
to-night."
"'S'up," said Bubb, "round the next bay in the dug-out."
"Well, I'm off," said Bowdy. "I'm half frozen. I'm for a good tot if
it's going.... By the way," he asked, as if it had suddenly occurred to
him, "how many of our fellows were blown up by the mine this morning?"
"Seven or eight," said Bubb, "or maybe more."
"And to think that to-night's Christmas Eve," said Benners, as if the
conversation had forcibly reminded him of the fact.
The two men clambered over the top and made their way towards the
dug-out from which the rum was issued.
Fitzgerald got up and followed.
As he crawled over the sandbags a starshell rose into the darkness and
lit the scene of war. The country showed wet and livid, the barbed wire
entanglements wound crookedly along the levels. The wires stretched out
waiting for their prey with threatening barbs.
In the brooding silence and the locality of war, Hate and Vengeance
persisted, and were well in keeping with the ominous night, and here it
seemed they found their most direct expression. Fitzgerald looked
around, and queer, fragmentary thoughts rioted in his head. He
remembered a verse of a song which he had once heard, and repeated it
aloud.
"Here comes I, Jack Straw;
Such a man you never saw;
Through a rock, through a reel,
Through an old spinning-wheel,
Through a mill hopper, through a bag of pepper;
Sheep shanks, chicken bone--
Give me a kiss or leave me alone."
"What has put this nonsense into my mind?" he asked himself. "Probably
it is because it is part of a Christmas carol.... And this is Christmas
eve.... Two thousand years gone by and the message of the Prince of
Peace not made manifest yet.... Well, I wonder if the rum is
waiting...?"
He made his way into the trench again, and came in sight of the
dug-out, with its candle lit in a niche of the chalky wall, and its
huddled occupants lying on the floor. A few, no doubt, were asleep. Two
or three were sitting, their backs against the chalk, their heads bent
down almost between their knees. All were dressed in sheepskin coats,
khaki trousers and high boots, and wore full equipment, their cartridge
pouches being well stocked with ammunition. Although a bank of earth
was heaped up on the doorstep, it did not prevent the water from
dripping inside. The floor of the dug-out was as mucky as the floor of
the trench. Stooping down, Fitzgerald crawled in through the narrow
door of the shelter.
Bubb was already inside, scraping the muck from his boots with a clasp
knife. Behind him, with his back against the wall, sat Bowdy Benners,
cutting a lump of cheese into small portions.
The cheese was a big item of the Christmas Eve rations.
He was sitting down now, his head thrust forward, his big hands busy
with the cheese. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, then glanced round
the dug-out.
"Not much grub to-night, boys," he said. "Four biscuits, a half a tin
of bully and a piece of cheese for each man."
"And the rum?" asked Bubb, forestalling every man with the question.
"It's here all right," said Bowdy.
They stared open-mouthed for a full second, then a roar of delight
echoed through the dug-out and the sleepers awoke. Bubb rose to his
feet, whirled his clasp knife round his hand, endeavoured to dance a
jig, and only stopped when his head came in forcible contact with the
roof for the third time. Fitzgerald chuckled; a glow of satisfaction
lit up his handsome face, and his eyes rested lovingly on the sandbag
which stood in an angle of the wall near the door. Then he lay back,
rested his head on the wall and stared at the candle. In that position
he looked a very charming boy, and he knew it. In civil life he must
have been very fond of society, the company of notable people, and
above all of pretty women.
Again he looked at the sandbag in the angle of the wall, but his eyes
were not the only ones fixed on that object. And no wonder: the sandbag
contained the rum jar.
"Well, wot about a tot?" asked Bubb.
Bowdy rose and took the sandbag into the middle of the room, where he
uncovered the precious jar and filled a mess-tin of liquor. He handed
the tin to Bubb.
"Cheero!" said the Cockney, and drank. He passed the tin round and
wiped his lips. "There's some guts in rum," he muttered, and his voice
was full of emotion. "Gawd! it doesn't 'arf warm up the inside of a
bloke. Now, wot about a Christmas dinner?" he continued. "Bully ain't
wot one would call très bon, is it? Christmas dinner of bully beef!
Gor'blimey! that's no blurry good!"
"It's a funny thing that a full belly always is associated with
happiness," said Fitzgerald, shaking his head and laughing loudly. Rum
went easily to his head. "If a man gets married, he feeds well, and if
a child is born to him, he stuffs himself with viands. It's always his
belly."
"Always," said Bubb, reaching a second time for the mess-tin.
"It doesn't matter what Fitz says," remarked Bowdy Benners, sinking his
chin into the collar of his sheepskin coat. "What I say is this: We
must have a Christmas dinner to-morrow."
"How can we get one?" Fitz enquired.
"Easy enough that," said Bowdy. "I know an old woman of the Café
Calomphie. A parcel of good things could be got there for a few francs.
I could go down to Les Brebis in an hour."
"But they're shelling the road," Fitzgerald remarked. "Blowing holes in
it, and the houses are flying about the streets. Not only that, but
you're not supposed to go away from here. And again, all shops are
closed at nine o'clock. It's well past eight now...."
"But that doesn't matter," said Bowdy. "The woman of the café is a
great friend of mine."
"Ye're a sly old dawg, Bowdy," said Bubb. "No one 'ud fink that to look
at yer."
Bowdy went red in the face, and proceeded to buckle his equipment, his
hands trembling a little over the job.
"We'll have a collection, anyhow," said Fitzgerald, and he flung a coin
into his mess-tin. Several coins followed, and in the end the
magnificent sum of twelve francs fifty was collected.
Bowdy put the money in his pocket, took a last long-drawn pull at his
cigarette, and went outside.
"I'll be back again in no time," were his final words.
The men turned their attention to the rum jar again; tongues were
loosened and stories of past Christmases went round the dug-out. Bubb,
strong on the traditions of the regiment, told the story of the
Brigadier's kit inspection at St. Albans the Christmas previous.
"The 'ole Brig come round when 'e was inspectin' us, and 'e looked at
my pack," said Bubb. "'That's the neatest pack I've seed in the 'ole
battalion,' says the Brig. ''Ave yer got everything that's laid down in
orders in that 'ere pack?' 'e says to me. 'Everything,' I sez. 'I know
that the contents of a nice pack is always nice and clean,' 'e says.
'I'll just 'ave a look at yer pack. Take it off and take out everything
and lay them out,' 'e says. Gor' blimey! I did wot 'e ordered me, an'
my bloomin' pack was full of straw. 'Twas lighter to carry than the
or'nary caboosh. Fourteen days' spudhole," Bubb concluded.
Fitzgerald was singing a song and waving an empty mess-tin over his
head. The song was one of his own making, a Rabelaisian production with
a snappy chorus. All joined in and drank in turn. Suddenly they heard
the dull rumble of approaching shells and the loud explosions of the
missiles in the fields outside. Fitzgerald lit a cigarette and finished
a chorus.
"They're strafing again," he said. "The damned pastime will never come
to an end."