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[pg 83] CHAPTER VI CHRISTMAS EVE <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> (From "The Lost Rum Ration.") </div> </div> 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 [pg 84] 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 [pg 85] 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. [pg 86] 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. <div class="poem"> <div class="stanza"> "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." </div> </div> "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 [pg 87] 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, [pg 88] 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 [pg 89] 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 [pg 90] 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 [pg 91] 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 [pg 92] 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." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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