NowItCanBeToldCHAPTERV

chapterv

iheardnocarolsinthetrenchesonchristmasevein1915,butafterward,whenisatwithapintofwaterineachofmytop-boots,amongacompanyofmenwhowerewettothekneesandslatheredwithmoistmud,afriendofmineraisedhishandandsaid,“listen!”

throughtheopendoorcamethemusicofamouth—organ,anditwasplayinganoldtune:

godrestye,merrygentlemen.letnothingyoudismay,forjesuschrist,oursaviour,wasbornonchristmasday.

outsidethewindwashowlingacrossflanderswithadolefulwhine,risingnowandthenintoasavageviolencewhichrattledthewindow-panes,andbeyondtheboomingofitslowernoteswasthefaint,dullrumbleofdistantguns.

“christmaseve!”saidanofficer.“nineteenhundredandfifteenyearsago...andnow—this!”

hesighedheavily,andafewmomentslatertoldafunnystory,whichwasfollowedbyloudlaughter.andsoitwas,ithink,ineverybilletinflandersandineverydugoutthatchristmaseve,wherementhoughtofthemeaningoftheday,withitsmessageofpeaceandgoodwill,andcontrasteditwiththegreat,grimhorrorofthewar,andspokeafewwordsofperplexity;andthen,afterthatquicksigh(howmanycomradeshadgonesincelastchristmasday!),caughtatajest,andhadthecourageoflaughter.itwasqueertofindthespiritofchristmas,thelittletendernessesoftheoldtradition,thetoysandtrinketsofitsfeast-day,inplaceswheredeathhadbeenbusy—andwherethespiritofevillayinambush!

soitwaswheniwentthrougharmentiereswithineasyrangeoftheenemy'sguns.alreadysixhundredcivilians—mostlywomenandchildren—hadbeenkilledthere.but,still,otherwomenwerechattingtogetherthroughbrokenwindow-panes,andchildrenwerestaringintolittleshops(onlyafewyardsawayfrombrokenroofsandshell-brokenwalls)wherechristmastoyswereonsale.

awizenedboy,inapairofsoldier'sboots—afrenchhopo'mythumbinthegiant'sboots—wasgazingwistfullyatsometinsoldiers,andinsidetheshoparealsoldier,notabitlikethetinone,wasbuyingsomechristmascardsworkedbyafrenchartistincoloredwoolsforthebenefitofenglishtommies,withtheaidofadictionary.othersoldiersreadtheirlegendsandlaughedatthem:“myheartistoyou.”“goodluck.”“totheess!”“remindfrance.”

themanwhowasbuyingthecardsfumbledwithfrenchmoney,andlookedupsheepishlyatme,asifshyofthesentimentuponwhichhewasspendingit.

“thepeopleathomewillbegladof'em,”hesaid.“is'poseonecan'tforgetchristmasaltogether.thoughitain'tthesamethingouthere.”

goinginsearchofchristmas,ipassedthroughafloodedcountrysideandfoundonlyscenesofwarbehindthelines,withgunnersdrivingtheirbatteriesandlimberdownaroadthathadbecomeariver-bed,fountainsofsprayrisingabouttheirmulesandwheels,militarymotor-carslurchinginthemudbeyondthepave,despatch-ridersside-slippinginawildwaythroughytracks,supply—columnschurningupdeepruts.

andthenintothetrenchesatneuvechapelle.ifsantaclaushadcomethatway,rememberingthosegrown-upboysofours,theoldmanwithhiswhitebeardmusthaveliftedhisredgownhigh—waist-high—whenhewadedupsomeofthecommunicationtrenchestothefiring-lines,andhewouldhaveeredandslithered,nowwithonetop-bootdeepinsludge,nowwiththeotherslippingoffthetrenchboardsintofivefeetofwater,asihadtodo,graspingwithfutilehandsatslimysandbagstosaveaheadlongplungeintoicywater.

andthisoldmanofpeace,wholovedallboysandthelaughterofyouth,wouldhavehadtoduckverylowandmakesuddenboltsacrossopenspaces,whereparapetsandearthworkshadsilteddown,inordertoavoidthosesnipingbulletswhichcamesnappingacrossthedeadgroundfromarowofslashedtreesandafewscarredruinsontheedgeoftheenemy'slines.

butsentimentofthatsortwasoutofplaceintrencheslessthanahundredyardsawayfrommenlyingbehindriflesandwaitingtokill.

therewasnospiritofchristmasinthetragicdesolationofthesceneryofwhichihadbriefglimpseswhenistoodhereandtherenakedly(ifelt)inthoseuglyplaces,whentheofficerwhowaswithmesaid,“it'sbesttogetamoveonhere,”and,“thisroadissweptbymachine—gunfire,”and,“idon'tlikethiscorner;it'squiteunhealthy.”

butthatabsurdidea—ofsantaclausinthetrenches—cameintomyheadseveraltimes,andiwonderedwhetherthegermanswouldfireawhizz-bangathimorgiveaburstofmachine-gunfireiftheycaughttheglintofhisredcloak.

someofthesoldiershadthesameidea.inthefront-linetrenchasmallgroupofyorkshireladswerechaffingoneanother.

“goingtohangyourbootsupoutsidethedugout?”askedalad,grinningdownatanenormouspairofwadersbelongingtoacomrade.

“likely,ain'tit?”saidtheotherboy.“fatherchristmaswouldbeabloodyfooltocomeouthere...they'dbefullofwaterinthemorning.”

“you'llgetsomepresents,”isaid.“theyhaven'tforgottenyouathome.”

atthatword“home”theboyflushedandsomethingwentsoftinhiseyesforamoment.inspiteofhissteelhelmetandmud-staineduniform,hewasagirlish-lookingfellow—perhapsthatwaswhyhiscomradeswerechaffinghim—andifancythethoughtofchristmasmadehimyearnbacktosomevillageinyorkshire.

mostoftheothermenwithwhomispoketreatedtheideaofchristmaswithcontemptuousirony.

“ahappychristmas!”saidoneofthem,withalaugh.“plentyofcrackersaboutthisyear!tomsmithain'tinit.”

“andihopewe'regoingtogivethebochessomechristmaspresents,”saidanother.“theydeserveit,idon'tthink!”

“notrucethisyear?”iasked.

“atruce?...we'renotgoingtoallowanymonkey—tricksontheparapets.tohellwithchristmascharityandallthattosh.we'vegottogetonwiththewar.that'smymotto.”

othermensaid:“wewouldn'tmindaholiday.we'refeduptotheneckwithallthismuck.”

thewardidnotstop,althoughitwaschristmaseve,andtheonlycaroliheardinthetrencheswastheloud,deepchantofthegunsonbothsides,andtheshrillsopranoofwhistlingshells,andtherattleonthekeyboardsofmachine-guns.theenemywasputtingmoreshellsintoabitoftrenchinrevengeforaraid.totheleftsomeshrapnelshellswerebursting,andbehindthelinesour“heavies”werebusilyatworkfiringatlongrange.

“onearthpeace,good-willtowardmen.”

themessagewasspokenatmanyalittleserviceonbothsidesofthatlonglinewheregreatarmieswereentrenchedwiththeirdeath-machines,andtheriddleoflifeandfaithwasrungoutbythechristmasbellswhichcameclashingontherain-sweptwind,withthereverberationofgreatguns.

throughthenightourmeninthetrenchesstoodintheirwaders,andthedawnofchristmasdaywasgreeted,notbyangelicsongs,butbythesplutterofrifle-bulletsallalongtheline.