The Penguin Book of First World War Stories

by None

  ‘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 camarade20 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 rank23 for the job he did rallying the battalion when the big German mine24 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; bu
t 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” Haig30 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.”

  ‘After stand-to next morning, soon as it was light, Colonel Pomeroy he climbed out of the trench with a white handkerchief in his hand, picked his way through our wire entanglements and stopped half-way across no man’s land. “Merry Christmas, Saxons!” he shouted. But Major Coburg had already advanced towards him. They saluted each other and shook hands. The cheers that went up! “Keep in your trenches, Wessex!” the Colonel shouted over his shoulder. And the Major gave the same orders to his lot.

  ‘After jabbering a bit they agreed that any bloke who’d attended the 1914 party would be allowed out of trenches, but not the rest – they could trust only us regular soldiers. Regulars, you see, know the rules of war and don’t worry their heads about politics nor propaganda; them Duration blokes sickened us sometimes with their patriotism and their lofty skiting, and their hatred of “the Teuton foe” as one of ’em called the Fritzes.

  ‘Twice more Saxons than Wessex came trooping out. We’d strict orders to discuss no military matters – not that any of our blokes had been studying German since the last party. Football was off, because of the overlapping shell holes and the barbed wire, but we got along again with signs and a bit of cafê French, and swapped fags and booze and buttons. But the Colonel wouldn’t have us give away no badges. Can’t say we were so chummy as before. Too many of ours and theirs had gone west that year and, besides, the trenches weren’t flooded like the first time.

  ‘We put on three boxing bouts: middle, welter and light; won the welter and light with KOs, lost the middle on points. Colonel Pomeroy took Putzi up on parole, and Putzi gave an even prettier show than before, because Major Coburg had sent back for his greasepaints and accessories. He used a parrakeet this time instead of goldfish.

  ‘After dinner we found we hadn’t much more to tell the Fritzes or swap with them, and the officers decided to pack up before we all got into trouble. The Holy Boys had promised not to shoot, and the left flank was screened by the Canal bank. As them two was busy discussing how long the no-shooting truce should last, all of a sudden the Christmas spirit flared up again. We and the Fritzes found ourselves grabbing hands and forming a ring around the pair of them – Wessex and West Saxons all mixed anyhow and dancing from right to left to the tune of “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”, in and out of shell holes. Then our RSM pointed to Major Coburg, and some of our blokes hoisted him on their shoulders and we all sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow”. And the Fritzes hoisted our Colonel up on their shoulders too, and sang “Hock Solla Leeben”,31 or something… Our Provost-sergeant took a photo of that; pity he got his before it was developed.

  ‘Now here’s something I heard from Lightning Collins, an old soldier in my platoon. He’d come close enough to overhear the Colonel and the Major’s conversation during the middleweight fight when they thought nobody was listening. The Colonel says: “I prophesied last year, Major, that we’d still be here this Christmas, what was left of us. And now I tell you again that we’ll still be here next Christmas, and the Christmas after. If we’re not scuppered; and that’s a ten to one chance. What’s more, next Christmas there won’t be any more fun and games and fraternization. I’m doubtful whether I’ll get away with this present act of insubordination; but I’m a man of my word, as you are, and we’ve both kept our engagement.”

  ‘“Oh, yes, Colonel,” says the Major. “I too will be lucky if I am not court-martialled. Our orders were as severe as yours.” So they laughed like crows together.

  ‘Putzi was the most envied man in France that day: going back under safe escort to a prison camp in Blighty. And the Colonel told the Major: “I congratulate you on that soldier. He wouldn’t give away a thing!”

  ‘At four o’clock sharp we broke it off; but the two officers waited a bit longer to see that everyone got back. But no, young Stan, that’s not the end of the story! I had a bloke in my platoon called Gipsy Smith, a dark-faced, dirty soldier, and a killer. He’d been watching the fun from the nearest sap-head, and no sooner had the Major turned his back than Gipsy aimed at his head and tumbled him over.

  ‘The first I knew of it was a yell of rage from everyone all round me. I see Colonel Pomeroy run up to the Major, shouting for stretcher-bearers. Them Fritzes must have thought the job was premeditated, because when our stretcher-bearers popped out of the trench, they let ’em have it and hit one bloke in the leg. His pal popped back again.

  ‘That left the Colonel alone in no man’s land. He strolled calmly towards the German trenches, his hands in his pockets – being too proud to raise them over his head. A couple of Fritzes fired at him, but both missed. He stopped at their wire and shouted: “West Saxons, my men had strict orders not to fire. Some coward has disobeyed. Please help me carry the Major’s body back to your trenches! Then you can shoot me, if you like; because I pledged my word that there’d be no fighting.”

  ‘The Fritzes understood, and sent stretcher-bearers out. They took the Major’s body back through a crooked lane in their wire, and Colonel Pomeroy followed them. A German officer bandaged the Colonel’s eyes as soon as he got into the trench, and we waited without firing a shot to see what would happen next. That was about four o’clock, and nothing did happen until second watch. Then we see a flashlight signalling, and presently the Colonel comes back, quite his usual self.

  ‘He tells us that, much to his relief, Gipsy’s shot hadn’t killed the Major but only furrowed his scalp and knocked him senseless. He’d come to after six hours, and when he saw the Colonel waiting there, he’d ordered his immediate release. They’d shaken hands again, and said: “Until after the war!”, and the Major gives the Colonel his flashlight.

  ‘Now the yarn’s nearly over, Stan, but not quite. News of the truce got round, and General Haig ordered first an Inquiry and then a Court Martial on Colonel Pomeroy. He wasn’t shot, of course; but he got a severe reprimand and lost five years’ seniority. Not that it mattered, because he got shot between the eyes in the 1916 Delville Wood show where I lost my foot.

  ‘As for Gipsy Smith, he said he’d been obeying Haig’s strict orders not to fraternize, and also he’d felt bound to avenge a brother killed at Loos.32 “Blood for blood,” he said, “is our gipsy motto.” So we couldn’t do nothing but show what we thought by treating him like the dirt he was. And he didn’t last long. I sent Gipsy back with the ration party on Boxing Night. We were still keeping up our armed truce with the Saxons, but again their gunners weren’t a party to it, and outside the Quartermaster’s hut Gipsy got his backside removed by a piece of howitzer shell. Died on the hospital train, he did.

  ‘Oh, I was forgetting to tell you that no sparrows came for biscuit crumbs that Christmas. The birds had all cleared off months before.

  ‘Every year that war got worse and worse. Before it ended, nearly three years later, we’d have ten thousand officers and men pass through that one battalion, which was never at more than the strength of five hundred rifles. I’d had three wounds by 1916; some fellows got up to six before it finished. Only Dodg
er here came through without a scratch. That’s how he got his name, dodging the bullet that had his name and number on it. The Armistice found us at Mons, where we started. There was talk of “Hanging the Kayser”; but they left him to chop wood in Holland33 instead. The rest of the Fritzes had their noses properly rubbed in the dirt by the Peace Treaty.34 But we let them rearm in time for a second war, Hitler’s war, which is how your dad got killed. And after Hitler’s war there’d have been a third war, just about now, which would have caught you, Stanley my lad, if it weren’t for that blessed bomb you’re asking me to march against.

  ‘Now, listen, lad: if two real old-fashioned gentlemen like Colonel Pomeroy and Major Coburg – never heard of him again, but I doubt if he survived, having the guts he had – if two real men like them two couldn’t hope for a third Christmas Truce in the days when “mankind”, as you call ’em, was still a little bit civilized, tell me, what can you hope for now?

  ‘Only fear can keep the peace,’ I said. ‘The United Nations are a laugh, and you know it. So thank your lucky stars that the Russians have H-bombs and that the Yanks have H-bombs, stacks of ’em, enough to blow your “mankind” up a thousand times over; and that everyone’s equally respectful of everyone else, though not on regular visiting terms.’

  I stopped, out of breath, and Dodger takes Stan by the hand. ‘You know what’s right for you, lad?’ he says. ‘So don’t listen to your granddad. Don’t be talked out of your beliefs! He’s one of the Old and Bold, but maybe he’s no wiser nor you and I.’

  MURIEL SPARK

  THE FIRST YEAR OF MY LIFE

  I was born on the first day of the second month of the last year of the First World War, a Friday. Testimony abounds that during the first year of my life I never smiled. I was known as the baby whom nothing and no one could make smile. Everyone who knew me then has told me so. They tried very hard, singing and bouncing me up and down, jumping around, pulling faces. Many times I was told this later by my family and their friends; but, anyway, I knew it at the time.