The Silent Christmas
Page 5
Time to go back to 1911, and even further if she could. She opened up Findmypast and pulled up the 1911 census, typing the name ‘John Thomas Wright’ into the search box. This particular census had been taken on April 2 of that year, so if he was born in February, he should appear on it.
Unless he was born in a workhouse, then sometimes only the initials of the inmates appeared. It was strange: the late Edwardian workhouses had such a stigma attached to them that census officials didn’t even record the names of the inmates.
She pressed enter and almost immediately an answer popped up. She clicked on the result. A single page from the census appeared on her screen, all the information handwritten in a florid Edwardian style, complete with curlicues and flourishes.
Thomas Wright Head 25 Married Piecer Stalybridge
Norah Wright Wife 24 Married House Ireland
Hetty Wright Dau 4 Single Student Stalybridge
John Thomas Wright Son 2/12 Single Stalybridge
The address was listed as 22 Elgin Street. Where had she seen that before? Was it on the label that David Wright and his children had found? She would have to check when she saw him.
But she was pretty sure this was the correct family. The name, year of birth and town all matched. Even if there were more than one Wright in Stalybridge, it would be unlikely that both would have a son called John Thomas.
Jayne brushed her blonde hair away from her eyes. ‘So David’s great-grandfather was also called Thomas. I wonder if it was cut short to Tom?’ she said out loud.
The only reply she received was a loud miaow from Mr Smith. He was now sitting in front of the patio doors, his tail tracing a lazy letter ’s' on the floor.
‘It’s cold, are you sure you want to go out? Is it down to number nine again for dessert, or off to number twenty-seven for a quick dalliance with the ginger moggy?’
There was no answer, only a quick stroke of the glass with a white paw.
She yawned, stretched and got up to open the patio door. The night air was cold, with more than a hint of frost in the air. Immediately, the cat squeezed out and vanished into the dark of the night.
‘Enjoy yourself. I’ll leave the light on,’ she shouted after him, realising straight away how strange this might sound to her neighbours.
She closed the door, shutting out the December cold. The clock on the kitchen wall now read 10.30 p.m. Should she ring Vera to check on Robert? But the sound of Vera’s phone ringing might wake him up...
She took three deep breaths, deciding to wait until morning before calling. She must stop worrying. Vera knew exactly what to do – hadn’t she spent twenty years working as a nurse?
The ache of tiredness numbed Jayne’s eyes. She’d done enough research for tonight. At least she would have something to tell David when they met tomorrow morning.
Her body felt tired, dog-tired. The stresses of today must have affected her even more than she guessed.
As she leant in to switch off her computer, she stared at the census form from 1911.
That handwriting, it looked familiar – as if she had seen it before.
Then she shook her head. Can’t be. The census was taken over a hundred years ago. She couldn’t recognise the handwriting, could she?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thursday, December 24th, 1914 – Christmas Eve
Wulverghem, Belgium
Tom tightened the new grey scarf around his neck and pulled up the collar of his old overcoat. The tips of his ears were tingling with the cold. Stomping his feet did little good, but at least he could still feel them in the army boots.
He stared out over no-man’s-land. The sun was starting to set behind him, throwing the wire and the corpses lying across it into shadow.
Only thirty minutes left on this watch. With a bit of luck they would bring up some hot grub, a nice cup of cocoa and a tot of rum to warm him up. Then he would find somewhere dry to get his head down until his next watch.
‘Merry bloody Christmas, Tom,’ he whispered, watching his breath form misty clouds as it came out of his mouth. It was going to be cold tonight, perhaps the coldest night of the year.
He wondered what Norah was doing back in Stalybridge. Probably tucking the children into their beds. Hetty and John sleeping in the same room, with Alice being cradled by her mother, ever ready to provide a midnight feed. Or now that he wasn’t there, maybe all the children slept with their mother in the big bed? It wouldn’t surprise him.
Perhaps she was reading the catechism. Hetty would be having her first holy communion in the spring and his wife wanted to make sure their daughter was properly prepared, attending the special classes run by Father McNamara on Saturday morning before confession.
Usually, after the children had gone to bed on Christmas Eve, he would sit down and have a glass of pale ale while his wife set out trays of nuts and home-made biscuits and started preparing the goose. Later, she would go to Midnight Mass while he stayed at home to guard over the sleeping children. One day, they would all go together.
He looked up, checking the frost-rimed turnip field that was their only defence against Fritz. Off to the left, the solid crump, crump, crump of artillery. He didn’t know if it was theirs or the enemy’s and he didn’t care. At least the shells weren’t landing anywhere near their lines.
Bending down to gaze through the periscope, he scanned the German lines two hundred yards away. In the gathering gloom, the wire in front of their line was like the long branches of a hawthorn tree, most of its leaves blown away by the winds of autumn with just a few ragged spikes remaining.
He laughed to himself. The only thing they were blown away by was the shells of the 7.5s.
They had received a new batch of men from Blighty this morning – 450 bodies to finally bring the battalion back up to strength. He felt sorry for the poor sods. Fancy being told you have to leave England in the week before Christmas and then arriving at the billets behind the front lines on Christmas Eve. No doubt they would come into the line to relieve them soon, tasting the joys of life in the trenches for the first time.
Happy New Year, lads.
He heard a noise coming from the German lines, like a rustling sound.
Another raiding party? Surely the Germans wouldn’t try it on Christmas Eve?
He gazed out through the periscope. Something was happening on the enemy line in front of him. He could sense, but could not see, a hint of movement going from the left, and carrying on through their trench.
Were they reinforcing for an attack? But there had been no artillery bombardment.
‘Oi, Bert,’ he whispered to his sergeant, who was sleeping beside the brazier. ‘Summat’s up.’
‘Whazzat?’ Bert woke with a start. ‘Whassup?’
‘Something’s happening in the German line.’
Bert was on his feet and beside Tom Wright in seconds, staring through the periscope. ‘Summat’s going up along their line.’
‘Are they going to attack?’
‘Dunno. But I can see one of the Germans with his head above their trench. He’s carrying something.’
Tom sighted down the barrel of his Lee Enfield, following the direction in which Bert had pointed.
‘I can see him. Shall I shoot?’
Bert touched his shoulder. ‘’Ang on a minute, I’ll get the hofficer.’
As ever, Bert wouldn’t take a shit without the go-ahead from above.
Captain Lawson arrived a minute later.
‘What’s going on, Wright?’
‘There’s more of them now, sir. I’ve counted five of them out of their line. They seem to be putting trees on top of their trenches.’
‘Don’t be daft, man. It must be some sort of weapon. Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bert was right next to him.
‘Wake your men and get them into their firing positions.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered loudly.
‘But do it quietly.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered
.
Captain Lawson bent down and peered through the periscope, sweeping the German line from left to right. ‘They are putting something on the parapets of their trenches. I can’t see what it is.’
Captain Lawson’s batman handed him a pair of the latest stereo prism binoculars from Ross in London.
He put them to his eyes and said, ’Well, I’ll be blowed.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thursday, December 24th, 1914 – Christmas Eve
Wulverghem, Belgium
They were still all at their firing posts, staring across no-man’s-land at the German lines.
On the parapets of the trenches opposite, a row of five-feet-tall Christmas trees had been placed. Men were standing beside them lighting candles and carefully placing them in the branches.
Bert and Harry were next to Tom on the firing step of post three, their rifles still pointed forward towards the Germans. Captain Lawson had run back to the command post to report in.
‘Rum do, this,’ said Bert.
Harry stared across at him. ‘Speaking of rum—’
‘It’s not come up yet. Looks like it won’t tonight,’ interrupted Bert.
‘You’d think the one thing the bloody Army could get right was to give a man a drink at Christmas. I mean, it’s the one enjoyment in life the working man has, right?’
Neither of the others bothered to answer him.
The sky was gradually growing darker behind them, making the flickering light of the candles in the Christmas trees seem brighter, more luminescent.
Tom could see the unshaven face of one of the Germans as it was lit up first by the orange flame of his lighter, followed by the softer, yellow light of the candle.
Captain Lawson returned and stood next to him.
‘We’re to keep watching them and report back if there are any developments.’
‘What do you make of it, sir?’
The officer scratched his head through his peaked cap. ‘I don’t rightly know. It looks like they are celebrating Christmas.’
One by one the Germans jumped back in their trenches, leaving the Christmas trees and their flickering lights like a small forest growing out of the strands of barbed wire.
Only one German was left. He shouted, ‘Thank you for not firing, Tommy,’ in heavily accented English.
Tom recognised the voice of the sniper from last night. ‘It’s okay,’ he shouted back, ‘we’re saving our bullets for later.’
The man vanished from sight as he jumped down into his trench.
Captain Lawson scanned the German line through his binoculars once more. ‘I think you can stand the men down, Sergeant, but ask them to keep their rifles handy in case it’s a ruse.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Bert ran down the line of the trench, telling the men to step down. Grumbling, they all returned to gather around their warm braziers or lie on the straw in a dugout for the night.
Tom was relieved at post three by a young squaddie from Stockport and went back to sitting on his orange crate, warming his frozen hands on the fire.
‘Still no rum?’ asked Harry.
‘Shut up about the bloody rum. If it ain’t come up by now, it ain’t never coming up.’
As Bert finished his sentence, a Quartermaster Sergeant appeared at the end of the trench carrying a large pan of steaming cocoa, accompanied by a young soldier with a stone jar of rum with the black letters ‘SPD’ stencilled on the side.
Harry rubbed his hands. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He rummaged in his kit bag to find his metal cup for the cocoa.
The QM Sergeant finally got to them after twenty minutes.
‘Thought you’d never get here,’ said Harry, holding out his tin cup.
The sergeant ladled the hot, steaming cocoa into it, filling up Tom and Bert’s cups next.
The young soldier with the stone jar was standing next to his sergeant.
‘Time for my rum.’ Harry put his cocoa down and took a small empty glass from the young soldier. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve run out.’
The QM Sergeant smiled. ‘We’ve run out. Your mates back there had the last drop.’
‘Would you believe it? The bloody army couldn’t organise a bloody piss-up in a bloody brewery.’
The QM Sergeant smiled again. ‘Just kidding. It’s double rations tonight, courtesy of the bloody army.’
The young soldier poured a double tot into the glass, which was greedily swallowed by Harry. ‘That tickled the throat,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Couldn’t have more, could I?’
‘Sorry, Oliver Twist, got the rest of your company to go round.’
The young soldier handed Bert and Tom their rum rations, before moving on to the next brazier.
‘I’ll sleep well tonight...’
‘Shush, what’s that?’ Tom pulled his scarf away from his ears. ‘Hear it?’
The others listened too.
‘It sounds like singing, coming from the German trenches, I think.’
The rest of the men, including the QM Sergeant, had stopped what they were doing and were all listening.
The song became clearer and louder.
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft. Eynsam wacht
Nur das traute heilige Paar.
Holder Knab’ im lockigten Haar,
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Gottes Sohn! O! wie lacht
Lieb’ aus deinem göttlichen Mund,
Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund.
Jesus! in deiner Geburt!
‘They’re singing Silent Night,’ said Bert, ‘only the words are strange.’
‘It’s German,’ answered Tom. ‘They’re singing the carol in German. I heard it once sung by a woman at our church in Stalybridge. She was from Bavaria, I remember.’
The whole trench was silent now, each man listening to the words and tune of the carol as it drifted across no-man’s-land.
Finally, the song came to a beautiful end, with the repeated last phrase.
Jesus der Retter ist da!
Jesus der Retter ist da!
A few seconds later, a voice shouted from their lines. ‘It’s your turn, Tommy.’
‘What’s that, Fritz?’
‘It’s your turn to sing, Tommy.’
All the men from the platoon were staring at Tom. He tried hard to remember the words, then began singing, hesitantly and a little off-key at first.
‘Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright...’
His voice became stronger as he remembered more and more of the words. Gradually, the other men joined in. Particularly loud was the QM Sergeant, who had a fine baritone.
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child!
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!
It was the Sergeant who continued when Tom couldn’t remember the second verse.
Silent night! Holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight!
Glories stream from Heaven afar,
Heavenly Hosts sing Alleluia!
Christ the Saviour is born!
Christ the Saviour is born!
After the last repeated line, the men stopped singing and turned to each other, laughing.
From across no-man’s-land, the sound of clapping and cheering, followed by the same German voice as before. ‘Not bad, Tommies, not bad.’
A few seconds later, another Christmas carol rang out from the German trenches, this time louder, with more voices.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum
Wie treu sind deine Blatter
Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,
Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie treu sind deine Blätter.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen.
Wie oft hat nicht zur Weihnachtszeit
Ein B
aum von dir mich hoch erfreut.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen.
This time the end of their carol was followed by cheers and clapping from the British side. The applause had barely ended before the QM Sergeant began singing in his deep baritone.
O come, all ye faithful,
Joyful and triumphant!
O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem.
Come and behold Him,
Born the King of Angels!
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
Christ the Lord!
All the men joined in, singing at the top of their voices, making sure their song was heard in the trenches opposite.
When they had finished, there was another round of applause in the distance, followed by a melody they had heard before.
Bert grabbed Tom’s arm. ‘They’s singing the National Anthem. Are you sure they’re German?’
Tom listened.
Heil dir im Siegerkranz,
Herrscher des Vaterlands!
Heil, Kaiser, dir!
Fühl in des Thrones Glanz
Die hohe Wonne ganz,
Liebling des Volks zu sein!
Heil Kaiser, dir!
‘The words sound German.’
‘It’s a German song, basically saying how wonderful the Kaiser is.’ It was Captain Lawson speaking. He had managed to creep up on them silently again. ‘A very nationalistic song.’
‘Really?’ said Harry. ‘I’ll give them a song for their wonderful Kaiser.’
He immediately began singing.
Four-and-twenty virgins come down from Inverness,
And when the Ball was over,
There were four-and-twenty less,
Singin' balls to your partner, your ass against the wall,
If ya never been had on a Saturday night,
Ya never been had at all!
All the other men joined in except the QM Sergeant, who looked on, red-faced.
There was doin' in the parlour,
There was doin' on the stones,
But ya couldn't hear the music for the wheezin' and the