CHAPTER VII

CHRISTMAS DAY

Blurry well freezin' and cold as sin, Christmas Day in the mornin'; The big guns welcome the Saviour in, Christmas Day in the mornin'; Used to have fingers and used to have toes, Used to have ears as well as a nose, But now I don't think that I've any of those Christmas Day in the mornin'.

Wish we was safe in a stall to-day, Christmas Day in the mornin'; Watching the cattle munchin' their hay, Christmas Day in the mornin'; The Prince of Peace was born, we're told, Snug in a stall in the days of old; Lord, look down on us 'ere in the cold, On Christmas Day in the mornin'.

(_From "Carols of Good Will."_)

The dawn was at hand, the dawn of Christmas Day. Fitzgerald was standing on the firestep looking over No Man's Land towards the enemy's trenches. It was his hour on sentry-go. The rain was still falling, and his hands and feet felt very cold, but he was powerless to restore any warmth to his body by moving about. To leave the firestep for a moment was dangerous. He knew that if he stuck in the mud of the trench he could not extricate himself, for he felt utterly worn out. He had been warm enough when he went on watch owing to the rum which he had drunk, but now he was shivering as if his whole being had been stricken with ague. He tried to warm his legs by striking one against the other, but his feet felt so heavy that he desisted after two or three ineffectual endeavours to release them from the mud. The slightest movement was a monstrous futility, and now that it had become so difficult to move he did not want to remain still, and he had the greatest desire in the world to be free-footed and doing something.

The Germans were shelling the sector on the right, and the chill, wet morning was lit up by the lurid flashes of bursting explosives. The air was full of the rumbling and crashing of the conflict; shells sped across the trench, careering towards some distant objective, probably the village, where old Bowdy was routing out the essentials for a Christmas dinner. And Bowdy had not returned yet; some nine hours had gone by since he departed on his mission.

"Probably he has got blown to pieces," Fitzgerald muttered. "Poor old Bowdy."

Then he passed, without further thought of Bowdy, to memories which came into his head at random. He thought of his home, away up a little glen in Galway, of the neighbours there, of Doalty Fadhan, the great gambler, who always won when he turned his coat outside in, of Eamon Hudagh, who got drunk at Glenagh Fair and lost his clothes somewhere at night; in the morning he came across the hills in a red flannel petticoat; of Paddy Brogan who cleared out the same fair with a stone in the foot of a woman's stocking. "I wish I was in Glenagh now," Fitzgerald said. "A good turf fire, a bit and a sup and the neighbours coming in for the night's raking." Then all these memories and desires floated together and jumbled themselves up in his head, and he fell asleep. He was awakened by a feeling that everything was not as it should be. For the unusual there was only one place to look, out on his front, and his eyes were already fixed on the grey, formless level which lay between his trench and the enemy's. Nothing changed there, everything just.... Then Fitzgerald saw a huge bulk take shape on his right front, twenty yards from the trench and fifty yards away from the spot where he stood. The bulk rose upright, like a gigantic monster of some pre-Adamite age, paused for a second as if considering something, then it burst in twain, and Fitzgerald flopped down into the mucky trench, half blinded and deafened by the flash and thunder of the exploding mine.

The earth had vomited its entrails out, a million rocks rioted through the air and ricochetted off the parapet; the dawn was thick with flying rubbish, the greater part of which seemed to be falling into the trench, dropping with a sickly splosh into the muck. The world was falling down around the ears of the Irishman.

"Out and man the mine crater!"

The order came along the trench like a half strangled whisper. Fitzgerald rose from the muck and spluttered the message along to the next bay, then gripped his rifle and clambered up and across the parapet.

Most of the men were already out and rushing towards the crater of the mine. Fitzgerald had a vivid impression of flying figures in sheepskin coats, of rifles in air, of bursting shells, of men stumbling, falling and rising, of hoarse-voiced oaths and imprecations, of queries and answers. "Not our mine, is it?" "I thought we were too far apart." "Are we to get into the blurry 'ole 'fore the gas clears away?" were a few of the remarks which came to his ears.

A corporal halted near him and shouted something about the risk the men were running. "We'll be poisoned by the fumes in the crater," he said. "We're coming across too soon. Far too soon," he muttered; "far too blurry soon!"

But no one paid any heed. To stop on the open was dangerous, and the Germans were out already. They could be seen, dark figures breaking through the enemy's barbed wire entanglements. Presently they would be engaged with the British in a hand-to-hand encounter for the possession of the crater.

Fitzgerald reached the rim of the hole and stood there for a moment looking down. Heavy coils of thick smoke wound snake-like along the bottom, where the black earth was illumined by ghastly phosphorescent lights that trailed up the sides in thin sluggish streaks. A few soldiers were already going down into the place and halting from time to time, taking stock of the scene before them. All were spluttering and coughing, and a few had pulled their gas helmets down over their heads and faces. "This is no blurry bean-fast, I can tell yer," Spudhole muttered as he tried to clamber back, crawling with difficulty almost knee-deep in the rubble. As he moved the clay shot away from beneath him, and he found himself in the unenviable plight of being able to advance a foot, only to find himself slipping back a yard.

The enemy shelled with unceasing persistency, and men were getting struck on the rim of the crater. Anywhere was better than where they were standing--they flopped into the crater, making futile efforts to save themselves, from rolling to the bottom, by clawing at the clay of the sides. Once down, however, they found to their relief that breathing was easier than they had anticipated.

"What now?" somebody enquired, looking vaguely round.

"What indeed? What's to be done?"

"We'll get killed like blurry rats down 'ere.... The Alleymongs are coming over in droves...."

"It's better to fight them on the top than to let them stone us to death down here."

Sergeant Snogger, in a sheepskin coat, which was freshly ripped across the shoulder by a bullet or shell splinter, rolled down the side of the crater and landed at the bottom. In a moment he was on his feet.

"Up to the top, boys!" he cried. "Don't stand here arguing like fishwives. Up to the top or you'll be damned unlucky."

Immediately the men were crawling up like ants, but with extreme difficulty. Their heavy boots, their equipments and rifles impeded their movements, each man was a khaki-clad Sisyphus, battling against an incline such as the patient Sisyphus never experienced. The men, grunting and swearing, seemed to be making no headway, the scaling of the craterside, about sixty feet in depth, was a Herculean task for men strong of wind and limb, for them it was a task of despair.

"We'll never get there," Bubb grunted. Then his eyes sought the top. "Gor' blimey!" he muttered, "there they come."

A man, dressed in German uniform, stood on the rim of the crater, a rifle in his hand, and looked down. As the soldiers watched, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at the crush in the bottom of the crater.

The movement was his last. Bowdy Benners arrived at that moment, dressed in full marching order, his rifle in his hand and the bayonet fixed. The "point" was delivered at the shoulder, and Benners' long arms put all the zest of a strong body into the movement. The German came clean over the rim of the crater and rolled down to the bottom, clawing at the air with frenzied fingers.

Bowdy lay down at the top, and his rifle became active. Round after round sped across the open towards the foe, who were now coming up in bulk and getting very close to the crater.

"Keep it up, Bowdy!" cried Snogger. "Are they near?"

"They're not far away," said Bowdy without looking round. "Devil blow me blind, they'll be here in a second if you don't come up and give me a hand.... Ha! They've stopped now, a shell has caught a couple."

"All right, Bowdy, we're here," the sergeant shouted reaching the summit.

The main body of Germans, advancing in open order, was still some fifty yards away. As far as could be ascertained at the moment, the delay (they should have been across the open three minutes ago) was due to a heavy curtain fire which had greeted them just as they came out of their trenches. The fire caught them at the barbed wire entanglements, concussion shells tore up the wires and swept them around the bodies of the attackers, and the impartial shrapnel rained viciously down on the huddled heaps of wounded.

The quick were advancing, a dispirited party of men, in open order, glad to get away from their own trenches, which were suffering cruel chastisement. Some were willing to fight even yet; five or six had flung themselves down on the ground and trained their rifles on the British positions, opening a wild erratic fire of slight intensity. Cold hands never hold a rifle steady on a Christmas morning.

The men in the crater lay down behind the parapet which the exploding mine had formed and opened fire with deadly effect.

"That'll knock the blurry stuffin' out o' them," Spudhole remarked. "There they come now, their 'ands up in the air." It was even as he remarked. The advanced line of Germans put their timorous hands over their heads and stepped diffidently towards the mine. "Kamerad! Kamerad!" they whined, their arms shaking as if stricken with palsy. The snipers threw their rifles away and joined in with their mates. All were sick of the job.

"Take them prisoners," said Sergeant Snogger. "There's nothing else to be done."

An hour later when the wounded had been carried back to the trench and the prisoners were marched off to the village at the rear, the victors were left to themselves, in undisputed possession of their hard-won crater.

The Christmas morning scene was one never to be forgotten: the rain-swept crater, the crumbling clay, the fumes of gunpowder, the dead bodies, the monotonous hum of ragtime choruses, the shells bursting across the top, the dirty rifles and the dirtier men who endeavoured to clean them. Bowdy Benners was there with a full pack and a bulging haversack. Fitzgerald and Spudhole were deep in a discussion on some nonsensical subject; but the discussion served its object, it brought the men's minds away from the stark reality of their surroundings. Snogger sitting on his haunches, was giving details of the fight to his platoon commander, Captain Thorley.

Bubb drew up towards Bowdy and asked him for a drink from his water-bottle. Benners handed it to him with a solemn look. Spudhole drank.

"Good?" asked Bowdy.

"Wonderful stuff," said Spudhole.

"Hand it round," said Bowdy.

All drank from the water bottle in turn, and each man winked knowingly when he drank. None of the men had expected any rum that morning, the rations of the night before had been so short; the limbers met with a mishap when coming up to the Vallé Dump. Of course, all were aware that Bowdy had come into possession of the rum by illegitimate means. However, no enquiries were made.

"Now what about a smoke before dinner?" Bubb remarked, fixing a knowing glance on Bowdy. "'As anybody got a fag to spare? Many a pore bloke 'as 'gone West' since I 'ad my last fag."

Fitzgerald fumbled about in his haversack and found a box, a little tin box, lying snug and dry amidst a crush of papers and broken biscuits. Some fifty cigarettes were enclosed within. He handed them round.

They lit them up. The drink and the smoke exercised a cheering effect upon the men. A look of pleasure stole over every face and the men burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter when Spudhole, standing on a platform of clay, placed his arms akimbo and wished all a merry Christmas. "If we 'ave to spend the day 'ere, we must spend it 'ere, we must stick it 'ere, and there's no more to be said," he laughed. "We'll get relieved to-night," he added; "that's if we're lucky."

"Suppose we build a dug-out and light a fire," said Snogger. "There's 'arf-a-dozen poles standin' over the top; we've got waterproof sheets, trenchin' tools and good chalk to work in."

Drawing their tools from their equipment, the men set to labour with zeal, hollowed out a shelter in the chalk, roofed it over and lit a fire. The latter was the most difficult feat, and several entrenching tool handles had to be cut into thin spales and placed over the flames before the fire burned properly.

"Devil blow me blind if that's not very clever," said Bowdy Benners when the flames were dancing merrily against the wall of the dugout. "It almost puts me in mind of Christmas away in Blighty. Now we'll see what we've in hand for a meal for our Christmas dinner. I'll look in my pack."

He opened his pack and took out the treasures, which he piled against the wall of the dug-out. The pack contained three large loaves, cut into thick chunks, eight tins of sardines, a tin of condensed café-au-lait, two bottles of champagne and several slabs of Menier's chocolate. The bulging haversack was another treasure wallet; it contained apples and pastry in abundance, also a tin of lard, which would presently be used for frying bully beef.

During all the morning the artillery fire had not wholly slackened, but now a quiet moment held the line. Dinner was prepared. First the men made tea, using the water from their water-bottles and boiling it in mess-tins over the fire. Then they cooked their bully beef on the mess-tin lids and cut the bread into nice thin slices. It was Fitzgerald who proposed that all slices should be thin, and none gainsaid his whim. The first course consisted of sardines and bread; the second course of bread and fried bully. Tea was served with every course. Followed pastry for dessert, and fruit was served out in dainty portions. They brought the meal to an end by drinking French wine and English rum, and lighting up their cigarettes.

During the meal the platoon commander was deep in talk with Sergeant Snogger and when the Christmas dinner was over he came forward and spoke to the party.

"My boys," he said, "this, I suppose, is the most interesting Christmas you've ever spent."

Bubb: "Too interestin' for me, sir."

Platoon Commander: "Yes, I suppose it is. But I hope that neither you nor any of us will spend Christmas under such conditions again. Such things must be at times, I suppose, and seeing that it came to our turn, I must admit that we did as well as any platoon in the British Army. You stuck to your posts like bricks and reaped honours from a fight where the odds were very much against us. Rifleman Benners at a critical moment showed great resource in putting one of the enemy out of action. For this we must thank him."

Platoon: "Hear, hear. Good old Bowdy!" etc.

Platoon Commander: "I haven't much further to say except that I'm going to recommend Rifleman Benners for the D.C.M. I am not going to make any inquiries as to where he spent last night and the early hours of this morning. As all you men assert that he was in the trenches I'll take your word for it! I'm not going to inquire where the champagne, bread and other things came from, but if I may, I'll say that I've never in all my life enjoyed a meal half as well as I enjoyed my Christmas dinner in the Loos Salient."

That night the Irish were relieved.

A month later the D.C.M. was given to Bowdy Benners.