by Ryan Byrnes
Also, I do in fact know your family. Your father and I went to school together when we were lads. Funny thing, how small the world is.
Attached is your payment.
Sincerely,
Mr. Michael Surrey
The Leamington Courier
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914
THE WESTERN FRONT
~ THE FRONT ~
The soldiers passed around cigarettes and sang angry songs. They were all rookies; only ten veterans remained from August. Tom was gone. Appleby was gone. Coffee Can Stoker was gone. Wallace, Wright, Somers, and Nash were gone. There were not enough soldiers left to teach the new boys, who arrived younger and shorter and scrawnier by the day. Food was running short because a shell punched the commissary into the earth, so they roasted rats over fires.
“I need to eat something green; that’s all I want.”
“I want to see my sweetheart. Soon’s I get back, I’m marrying her. Don’t care what her old man says.”
“I want to sit by the fire with my dog and a mug of good beer.”
“They can’t treat people like this. We need to start a union.”
“A union? It’s a war, for God’s sake.”
“What’s a union called during a war, then?”
“A mutiny.”
They fell silent.
“The Germans don’t want to fight either. The trenches are so close that I was talking with one of them about football the other day.”
“Seems only the officers want to fight. Why can’t they work it out on their own time?”
“What if we all just stopped fighting? What if we just refused?”
“That’s daft. No man would drop his gun when a thousand others are aiming at him.”
Silence again.
“When do you think Luther will come ’round?” He motioned over to the flooded dugout where they used to keep the radio. Inside, the white mud was frozen hard, and a dark figure crouched in the corner.
“No idea. I tried talking to him, but all he does is sit there curled up and stiff. He’s not even doing that rocking thing. Or rolling the mud into those damn little balls. Think he’s lost the will.”
“Was he wounded?”
“Just shook up. Spent the whole night in a crater with Stoker.”
“Shell shock. Poor bloke.” The others nodded. “Never should have been here in the first place.”
Captain Blanding emerged from his bunker in the reserve trench, his boots squeaking in the mud. After wishing each soldier a Happy Christmas Eve with a hearty handshake, he told them their attack would begin at sunrise. One man, who’d been grumbling while cleaning his bayonet, stood up and threw his rifle to the ground.
“I’m gonna die either way,” he declared to his friends as he drew his arm back and slugged the surprised captain in the jaw. “May as well die on my own terms.” The captain stumbled back and then steadied himself while the soldier rubbed his knuckles and waited for the fall out.
“Guards!” Blanding roared, and two armed men appeared and escorted the slugger away. The captain took a deep breath and straightened the lapels of his coat. “Men, we must remember this fight is bigger than you and me,” he said with his refined Oxford accent. “This is for king and country. For hearth and home. We have to put duty first, so I implore you to take heart. The Germans are hurting. If we break through their line tomorrow morning, the river valley will be ours. Just think. We’ll be victorious on Christmas Day just as you promised your families. Face this day with courage, ready yourselves like greyhounds in the slips—”
The men drowned his words in a low chorus of boo’s and pssh’s.
“Who does he think he is, telling me we’ll win the war tomorrow?”
“Is he quoting Shakespeare?”
Blanding was calm. With hands clasped behind his back, he scanned the huddled soldiers causing dissension in the ranks, and identified the three loudest voices. He called again for the guards and in moments two men bearing military police insignia appeared and dragged three men away.
“This is what you signed up for,” the captain proclaimed to the men who remained. “I have my own orders straight from the General, and they are to see that any man who actively opposes the war effort at this crucial time is shot for treason.”
Before the men had time to react, a gunshot sounded, and they all dove for cover, including Captain Blanding.
In the formerly idyllic village of Estaires, a British soldier and three little girls stepped over the threshold of the church and, in the glow of dozens of flickering candles, joined the families—wrapped tight in coats and gloves and scarves—packed close together. Sons and daughters tucked between mothers and fathers, who touched hands and gazed at each other, marveling at the bubble they had created between themselves. That bubble, the bubble of childhood, depended upon love and luck and was a gift unevenly shared. Sometimes the bubble would burst without a sound before it could be noticed. Knowing this, tears stung at the eyes of congregants as they sang of comfort and joy while the organ moaned and whispered through the notched pipes.
Outside, breath misted beneath the stars. Inside, the air was close and vibrated with hymns that were full and deep, wafting softly across the banners of purple cloth, wreaths of aromatic evergreen, old tweed, and new wool sheared off the lamb. The priest read about the babe that slept in straw, the lamb of God, and spoke of virtue and kindness great enough to persist through trial and tribulation yet small enough to make the tiniest child smile and sigh in delight.
The candle flames fluttered on their wicks, glinting off of the gold chalice the priest raised high, his hands tremoring with age. Chanted Latin echoed off of the walls. The people bowed their heads. They did not know Latin, and many could not read the hymns out of the song books, but they would sing from habit, nodding and smiling and thinking the same thoughts they had been trained to think every Sunday of their lives. They did not know the long history of kings and conquerors and wars beyond their village walls, but took comfort in the legacy of the earth beneath their feet, the grandmothers and grandfathers, the mothers and sons, and the fathers and daughters.
The organ spiked an octave, and the priest paced down the aisle with folded hands, passing under the gazes of various statues, plaster faces of anguish and majesty and hope. There was the Virgin Mary adorned with poinsettias, head bowed and arms framed in her drooping blue robes. There were Saints Peter and Paul, with the protruding beards of philosophers and sharp brows and hard pointed noses that seemed to smell the curling incense rising, the sweet soapy balsam of frankincense softening the air. The priest swung the clinking gold chain of the incense, and the song swelled as the people hummed the “Douce Nuit,” the silent night, the holy night, where all is calm and all is bright.
When the priest left, so did most of the people. They nudged their children awake and led or carried them out under the stars. When they arrived home and closed and locked their front doors, they’d find embers still glowing in the hearth next to the shoes that had been laid out. The children would scramble quickly to the fire, extinguishing it so that Peré Noël would not burn himself on his way down the chimney. The stairs pounded with little feet racing to bed so that Peré Noël would not pass them over. Doors slammed shut, bedsprings squeaked once, and there was no sound after that.
Back at the church, lights flickered out. Inside, the priest changed out of his robes and hung them in the closet. He blew out all of the candles, except those for the dead—those candles would be kept burning bright. He knelt before the cross and prayed for an end to the war, and when he turned, he saw the British soldier and three little girls waiting patiently for him to finish. After exchanging a few words, for the priest knew English, the girls were shown to the donated mattresses laid out along the walls where other bundled refugees and beggars prepared to take their rest.
The girls, whose heads swayed as they slept-walked, collapsed onto the bedding. They tried to ignore the sound of their stomach’s growling as the
soldier whispered to them of ice skating and magical snowmen and pulled a blanket, a coat, and an oilcloth out of his duffle bag. He unfurled the cloth over them, taking care to tuck in the loose ends until they were bundled. As he worked, the girls looked up at him through drooping, slow-moving eyelids. The youngest girl was nestled in the middle, between her two older sisters, and she stared at the candles for the dead and the shining wax that dripped off of them. Her eyes were wet.
“Don’t be sad,” the soldier whispered.
Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a leather doll of a bearded man in a red coat.
“Don’t forget this,” he said, handing it to her, and she took it, and buried her face in the doll’s red coat.
“Non Peré Noël,” she whispered.
The soldier sat on a chair next to the girls and stared at the doll. He checked his watch and realized he must leave soon. He had mail to deliver. “Bernadette,” he rested a hand on her forehead as her eyes fluttered. “Peré Noël wants you to sleep well.”
She managed a small smile and closed her eyes to sleep, or at least to pretended to sleep. The girls had laid their shoes out by their mattresses—six little leather shoes set in a tidy line. The shoes were empty. Reaching into his bag once more, the soldier pulled out two stacks of bronze boxes that he set in each shoe. The boxes were adorned with engraved laurels and pillars, entitled CHRISTMAS 1914.
Inside, he knew there were little butterscotch sweets and pencils and paper for drawing. He’d taken out the cigarettes and stuffed them in his pocket where they might come in handy. The soldier glanced at his watch again but still did not leave his chair. He remained to watch their slow breathing in the candle light and understood that he felt what his own father must have felt when he was a babe. Before his father died. Before the hardships of loss and loneliness and Luther. He sighed deeply and wiped his eyes. These little girls were like royalty, too special to be trusted with any other guardian, and his own needs melted away in comparison. He felt he must work for them, he must rise to their expectations, he must be better.
If only he could return the next morning.
Finally, he rose. He allowed himself one last backward glance and stepped outside. The lorry grumbled to life and the headlights swept through the stained glass as he turned down the road to Ploegsteert.
“Who fired that shot?” the officer called out.
“They’ve erected something, sir!” one of the snipers called from his post. “The Germans! Several somethings, along the trench line!”
The captain took the binoculars and called the men to their defensive positions. They imagined the Germans preparing artillery, screwing on their bayonets, loading their guns. They scrambled to their posts before the shells came, waking up their neighbors and calling out orders to inferiors. Some soldiers descended into the flooded dugout to collect ammunition. Luther still sat curled up in the corner. He never even looked up.
Looking through the binoculars, the Lieutenant spied the pointed helmets bobbing behind the German line, illumed by fires. Tall, dark shapes sprung up for a hundred meters in both directions. The sniper that sat beside the captain selected his ammunition with care and squinted at the shapes through one eye. Crack. One of them fell.
The soldiers shouted amongst themselves when the dark shapes began to sparkle with lights. The Germans held candles to them, and the fronds glowed green. Christmas trees.
While they all watched, two gloveless hands raised a sign out of the enemy trench. HAPPY CHRISTMAS, said the painted letters.
“It’s a ruse,” the captain grumbled, then shouted to the soldiers to hold still.
The sniper pressed his trigger, and the bullet snapped the air. The sign exploded into wood shards.
The Germans were quick to retaliate with song, and their voices swelled, hearty, and full of longing.
Wir sind drei Könige aus dem Morgenland,
Bringen Gaben aus der Ferne,
Über Feld und Quelle, Moor und Berg
Folgen wir jenem Stern.
Oh Stern des Wunders, Stern der Nacht,
Stern mit heller königlicher Schönheit,
Westwärts führend, weiter voran,
Führe uns zu deinem vollkommenen Licht.
The British soldiers mouthed the words in return. They still held onto their guns, glancing at their neighbors for assurance.
We three Kings of Orient are
Bearing gifts; we traverse afar,
Field and fountain, moor and mountain
Following yonder star.
Ooooo-oooo star of wonder, star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect light.
One after another, Christmas carols echoed over the field and into the dugout where Luther clutched his knees. A choir of soldiers singing in German and English sang through the night as Luther tilted his head up to the starlight and felt warmth return to his bones.
~ ETHYL BRAND ~
The hospital in Hazebrouck was usually full, but on Christmas Eve there were ten empty beds. Fancy that. That morning, we had shipped off the most recent batch of wounded to Calais by train, and nobody came to fill the beds. I took advantage of the break and headed to the doctor’s lounge, a tile room with a few chairs, a coffee grinder, and some playing cards. I checked my mailbox for any letters from High Command, a response to Luther's medical evaluation, permission for him to finally go home. Nothing of the sort. Maybe tomorrow. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sank into a wooden chair.
“What do you suppose is going on out there?” One of the nuns had followed me into the lounge. It was almost midnight, and I longed for some sleep. Instead of bed, I sat at the table, sweeping up the untidy pile of cards and bridging them for solitaire.
“Couldn’t tell you,” I shrugged. “I heard shells and gunfire up until last night, when it all stopped. Less firepower and less wounded, all on Christmas Eve. Think I like the sound of that.”
“The men are in good spirits. We have a battalion billeted in the village—you may not have heard gunfire, but I heard plenty of drunken shouting. Apparently, they’re putting on a play—A Christmas Carol or something like that.”
“The soldiers are putting it on? I wonder who’s playing the female characters.”
“The men, I supposed. A regular Globe Theatre, I guess.”
“Would you like to see it after our shift? I hear they’re doing another performance later today,” the nun said.
“I believe I would.” I downed my coffee and splashed another cupful into the mug. The nun scratched her chin as she studied the cards laid out before her, carefully drawing from the piles and stacking them.
“Ethyl, sometimes I watch you and I notice how quiet you are, even when all the others are losing their heads. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t care anymore. Do you think this is all futile, what we’re doing here in this hospital? I mean, we fix the soldiers up just so they can go back.”
Her eyes flickering over to me and then back to her coffee.
“Strange question for a woman of God to ask.” I took another sip, and the nun waited.
“There is a tribe in Africa that lives along banks of the Niger River,” I began. “According to their mythology, the Creator intended for them to be immortal, so he sent a dog from heaven to reveal the secret of eternal life. However, the dog was lazy and took a nap in the forest, and the Creator instead had to send a lamb as his messenger. The lamb journeyed to the tribe quickly, but the lamb forgot the message and changed the words. They believed the lamb. The next day, the dog arrived and told everyone the true message. They did not believe the dog. For this reason, the tribe never attained immortality, and the secret was lost forever.”
The nun laid her cards down.
“So you’re saying that we should spend more time listening to lazy people who run late?”
I shrugged.
Outside, a rubber horn awooga’d and t
he daily ambulance grumbled to a stop at the front doors. I sighed. So much for seeing the play. If there were injured needing transport from the front to the hospital, one of us nurses usually accompanied the driver to pick up the wounded.
“Mother Brand! Mother Brand!” A pimpled Red Cross volunteer appeared at the door. “I’ve got word that a patrol of soldiers near Ploegsteert was hit by a shell. One of the survivors is asking for you. He’s in bad shape, but says you must settle your debt to him, though I’m not quite sure what that means.”
“His name?”
“Rodney Stoker.”
I grabbed my coat off the rack as I rushed out the door. “Take me to him.”
CHRISTMAS DAY, 1914
THE WESTERN FRONT
~ THE FRONT ~
As the pink of dawn brushed the horizon, the soldiers fell silent. Waiting. It was Christmas Day.
Luther rose.
The men saw him emerge from his hidey hole and whispered to each other. Like a prisoner at the execution, like a priest at the procession, he hobbled toward the ladder leading to No Man's Land.
“Luther—you alright?”
“Where’re you off to, Luther?”
Luther approached the edge of the trench and stood on the ladder. Several voices flared up.
“Get down from there!”
“The Germans will shoot!”
“Someone grab him!”
They rushed to grab him, but he had already climbed halfway. His legs trembled as he hugged the ladder, whimpering.
“Stand down!” Captain Blanding called.
Luther looked back at him.
“Do not disobey your superior!” Captain Blanding’s voice cracked for the first time.
Luther lifted himself onto the next rung.
Captain Blanding pulled out his pistol, but Luther rolled over the top and scrambled to his feet. He raised his hands above his head and stepped over the frozen bodies, sobbing as he went. Now that he had gone, the soldiers fell silent and tracked his movements with open mouths and wide eyes, whispering secret words of encouragement.
