The Penguin Book of First World War Stories (37 page)

‘General French
¹⁷
commanded the BEF at the time – decent old stick. Said afterwards that if he'd been consulted about the truce, he'd have agreed for chivalrous reasons. He must have reckoned that whichever side beat, us or the Germans, a Christmas truce would help considerably in signing a decent peace at the finish. But the Kayser's High Command were mostly Prussians, and Lieutenant Coburg told us that the Prussians
were against the truce, which didn't agree with their “frightfulness” notions; and though other battalions were fraternizing with the Fritzes up and down the line that day – but we didn't know it – the Prussians weren't having any. Nor were some English regiments: such as the East Lancs on our right flank and the Sherwood Foresters on the left – when the Fritzes came out with white flags, they fired over their heads and waved 'em back. But they didn't interfere with our party. It was worse in the French line: them Frogs machine-gunned all the “Merry Christmas” parties… Of course, the French go in for New Year celebrations more than Christmas.

‘One surprise was the two barrels of beer that the Fritzes rolled over to us from the brewery just behind their lines. I don't fancy French beer; but at least this wasn't watered like what they sold us English troops in the
estaminets
. We broached them out in the open, and the Fritzes broached another two of their own.

‘When it came to the toasts, the Captain said he wanted to keep politics out of it. So he offered them “Wives and Sweethearts!” which the Lieutenant accepted. Then the Lieutenant proposed “The King!”
¹⁸
which the Captain accepted. There was a King of Saxony too, you see, in them days, besides a King of England; and no names were mentioned. The third toast was “A Speedy Peace!” and each side could take it to mean victory for themselves.

‘After dinner came the burial service – the Fritzes buried their corpses on their side of the line; we buried ours on ours. But we dug the pits so close together that one service did for both. The Saxons had no Padre with them; but they were Protestants, so the Reverend Jolly read the service, and a German divinity student translated for them. Captain Pomeroy sent for the drummers and put us through that parade in proper regimental fashion: slow march, arms reversed, muffled drums, a Union Jack and all.

‘An hour before dark, a funny-faced Fritz called Putzi came up with a trestle table. He talked English like a Yank. Said he'd been in Ringling's Circus over in the United States. Called us “youse guys”, and put on a hell of a good gaff with conjuring
tricks and juggling – had his face made up like a proper clown. Never heard such applause as we gave Herr Putzi!

‘Then, of course, our bastard of a Brigadier, full of turkey and plum pudding and mince pies, decides to come and visit the trenches to wish us Merry Christmas! Captain Pomeroy got the warning from Fiddler here, who was away down on light duty at Battalion HQ. Fiddler arrived in the nick, running split-arse across the open, and gasping out: “Captain, sir, the Brigadier's here; but none of us hasn't let on about the truce.”

‘Captain Pomeroy recalled us at once. “
Imshi
,
¹⁹
Wessex!” he shouted. Five minutes later the Brigadier came sloshing up the communication trench, keeping his head well down. The Captain tried to let Lieutenant Coburg know what was happening; but the Lieutenant had gone back to fetch him some warm gloves as a souvenir. The Captain couldn't speak German; what's more, the Fritzes were so busy watching Putzi that they wouldn't listen. So Captain Pomeroy shouts to me: “Private Green, run along the line and order the platoon commanders from me to fire three rounds rapid over the enemies' heads.” Which I did; and by the time the Brigadier turns up, there wasn't a Fritz in sight.

‘The Brigadier, whom we called “Old Horseflesh”, shows a lot of Christmas jollity. “I was very glad,” he says, “to hear that Wessex fusillade, Pomeroy. Rumours have come in of fraternization elsewhere along the line. Bad show! Disgraceful! Can't interrupt a war for freedom just because of Christmas! Have you anything to report?”

‘Captain Pomeroy kept a straight face. He says: “Our sentries report that the enemy have put up a trestle table in no man's land, sir. A bit of a puzzle, sir. Seems to have a bowl of goldfish on it.” He kicked the Padre, and the Padre kept his mouth shut.

‘Old Horseflesh removes his brass hat, takes his binoculars, and cautiously peeps over the parapet. “They
are
goldfish, by Gad!” he shouts. “I wonder what new devilish trick the Hun will invent next. Send out a patrol tonight to investigate.” “Very good, sir,” says the Captain.

‘Then Old Horseflesh spots something else: it's Lieutenant Coburg strolling across the open between his reserve and front
lines; and he's carrying the warm gloves. “What impudence! Look at that swaggering German officer! Quick, here's your rifle, my lad! Shoot him down point-blank!” It seems Lieutenant Coburg must have thought that the fusillade came from the Foresters on our flank; but now he suddenly stopped short and looked at no man's land, and wondered where everyone was gone.

‘Old Horseflesh shoves the rifle into my hand. “Take a steady aim,” he says. “Squeeze the trigger, don't pull!” I aimed well above the Lieutenant's head and fired three rounds rapid. He staggered and dived head-first into a handy shell-hole.

‘“Congratulations,” said Old Horseflesh, belching brandy in my face. “You can cut another notch in your rifle butt. But what effrontery! Thought himself safe on Christmas Day, I suppose! Ha, ha!” He hadn't brought Captain Pomeroy no gift of whisky or cigars, nor nothing else; stingy bastard, he was. At any rate, the Fritzes caught on, and their machine-guns began traversing tock-tock-tock, about three feet above our trenches. That sent the Brigadier hurrying home in such a hurry that he caught his foot in a loop of telephone wire and went face forward into the mud. It was his first and last visit to the front line.

‘Half an hour later we put up an
ALL CLEAR
board. This time us and the Fritzes became a good deal chummier than before. But Lieutenant Coburg suggests it would be wise to keep quiet about the lark. The General Staff might get wind of it and kick up a row, he says. Captain Pomeroy agrees. Then the Lieutenant warns us that the Prussian Guards are due to relieve his Saxons the day after Boxing Day. “I suggest that we continue the truce until then, but with no more fraternization,” he says. Captain Pomeroy agrees again. He accepts the warm gloves and in return gives the Lieutenant a Shetland wool scarf. Then he asks whether, as a great favour, the Wessex might be permitted to capture the bowl of goldfish, for the Brigadier's sake. Herr Putzi wasn't too pleased, but Captain Pomeroy paid him for it with a gold sovereign and Putzi says: “Please, for Chrissake, don't forget to change their water!”

‘God knows what the Intelligence made of them goldfish
when they were sent back to Corps HQ, which was a French luxury
shadow
… I expect someone decided the goldfish have some sort of use in trenches, like the canaries we take down the coal pits.

‘Then Captain Pomeroy says to the Lieutenant: “From what I can see, Coburg, there'll be a stalemate on this front for a year or more. You can't crack our line, even with massed machine-guns; and we can't crack yours. Mark my words: our Wessex and your West Saxons will still be rotting here next Christmas – what's left of them.”

‘The Lieutenant didn't agree, but he didn't argue. He answered: “In that case, Pomeroy, I hope we both survive to meet again on that festive occasion; and that our troops show the same gentlemanly spirit as today.”

‘“I'll be very glad to do so,” says the Captain, “if I'm not scuppered meanwhile.” They shook hands on that, and the truce continued all Boxing Day. But nobody went out into no man's land, except at night to strengthen the wire where it had got trampled by the festivities. And of course we couldn't prevent our gunners from shooting; and neither could the Saxons prevent theirs. When the Prussian Guards moved in, the war started again; fifty casualties we had in three days, including young Totty who lost an arm.

‘In the meantime a funny thing had happened: the sparrows got wind of the truce and came flying into our trenches for biscuit crumbs. I counted more than fifty in a flock on Boxing Day.

‘The only people who objected strongly to the truce, apart from the Brigadier and a few more like him, was the French girls. Wouldn't have nothing more to do with us for a time when we got back to billets. Said we were
no bon
and
boko camarade
²⁰
with the
Allemans
.'

Stan had been listening to this tale with eyes like stars. ‘Exactly,' he said. ‘There wasn't any feeling of hate between the individuals composing the opposite armies. The hate was all whipped up by the newspapers. Last year, you remember, I attended the Nürnberg Youth Rally.
²¹
Two other fellows whose fathers had been killed in the last war, like mine, shared the
same tent with four German war-orphans. They weren't at all bad fellows.'

‘Well, lad,' I said, taking up the yarn where Dodger left off, ‘I didn't see much of that first Christmas Truce owing to a spent bullet what went into my shoulder and lodged under the skin: the Medico cut it out and kept me off duty until the wound healed. I couldn't wear a pack for a month, so, as Dodger told you, I got Light Duty down at Battalion HQ, and missed the fun. But the second Christmas Truce, now that was another matter. By then I was Platoon Sergeant to about twenty men signed on for the Duration of the War – some of them good, some of 'em His Majesty's bad bargains.

‘We'd learned a lot about trench life that year; such as how to drain trenches and build dugouts. We had barbed wire entanglements in front of us, five yards thick, and periscopes, and listening-posts out at sap-heads;
²²
also trench-mortars and rifle-grenades, and bombs, and steel-plates with loop-holes for sniping through.

‘Now I'll tell you what happened, and Dodger here will tell you the same. Battalion orders went round to Company HQ every night in trenches, and the CO was now Lieutenant-Colonel Pomeroy – DSO with bar. He'd won brevet rank
²³
for the job he did rallying the battalion when the big German mine
²⁴
blew C Company to bits and the Fritzes followed up with bombs and bayonets. However, when he sent round Orders two days before Christmas 1915, Colonel Pomeroy (accidentally on purpose) didn't tell the Adjutant to include the “Official Warning to All Troops” from General Sir Douglas Haig.
²⁵
Haig was our new Commander-in-Chief. You hear about him on Poppy Day – the poppies he sowed himself, most of 'em! He'd used his influence with King George, to get General French booted out and himself shoved into the job. His “Warning” was to the effect that any man attempting to fraternize with His Majesty's enemies on the poor excuse of Christmas would be courtmartialled and shot. But Colonel Pomeroy never broke his word, not even if he swung for it; and here he was alongside the La Bassêe Canal,
²⁶
and opposite us were none other than the same West Saxons from Hully!

‘The Colonel knew who they were because we'd coshed and caught a prisoner in a patrol scrap two nights before, and after the Medico plastered his head, the bloke was brought to Battalion HQ under escort (which was me and another man). The Colonel questioned him through an interpreter about the geography of the German trenches: where they kept that damned minny-werfer,
²⁷
how and when the ration parties came up, and so on. But this Fritz wouldn't give away a thing; said he'd lost his memory when he'd got coshed. So at last the Colonel remarked in English: “Very well, that's all. By the way, is Lieutenant Coburg still alive?”

‘“Oh, yeah,” says the Fritz, surprised into talking English. “He's back again after a coupla wounds. He's a Major now, commanding our outfit.”

‘Then a sudden thought struck him. “For Chrissake,” he says, “ain't you the Wessex officer who played Santa Claus last year and fixed that truce?”

‘“I am,” says the Colonel, “and you're Putzi Cohen the Conjurer, from whom I once bought a bowl of goldfish! It's a small war!”

‘That's why, you see, the Colonel hadn't issued Haig's warning. About eighty or so of us old hands were still left, mostly snobs,
²⁸
bobbajers,
²⁹
drummers, transport men, or wounded blokes rejoined. The news went the rounds, and they all rushed Putzi and shook his hand and asked couldn't he put on another conjuring gaff for them? He says: “Ask Colonel Santa Claus! He's still feeding my goldfish.”

‘I was Putzi's escort, before I happened to have coshed him and brought him in; but I never recognized him without his greasepaint – not until he started talking his funny Yank English.

‘The Colonel sends for Putzi again, and says: “I don't think you're quite well enough to travel. I'm keeping you here as a hospital case until after Christmas.”

‘Putzi lived like a prize pig the next two days, and put on a show every evening – card tricks mostly, because he hadn't his accessories. Then came Christmas Eve, and a sergeant of the Holy Boys who lay on our right flank again, remarked to me it
was a pity that “Stern-Endeavour” Haig
³⁰
had washed out our Christmas fun. “First I've heard about,” says I, “and what's more, chum, I don't want to hear about it, see? Not officially, I don't.”

‘I'd hardly shut my mouth before them Saxons put out Chinese lanterns again and started singing “Stilly Nucked”. They hadn't fired a shot, neither, all day.

‘Soon word comes down the trench: “Colonel's orders: no firing as from now, without officer's permission.”