by M J Lee
And then the image of Harald, ball tucked under his arm, strolling jauntily through the wire back to the German trenches and whistling ‘Oh Tannenbaum’ came back to him.
He whispered a simple prayer beneath his breath, hoping both he and Harald survived this war.
For their friendship.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sunday, December 24, 2017 – Christmas Eve
Cheetham Hill, Manchester
Jayne met David and his son outside the antique-cum-bric-a-brac-cum-militaria store in the north of Manchester.
She knocked on the front door and it was immediately answered by the spotty-faced youth called Gerald.
‘I hope Herbert’s not done a runner.’
The grey hair and stubbled chin of the antique dealer looked over his assistant’s head.
‘You know, you have a disappointing opinion of my character and human nature in general, Mrs Sinclair.’
She brushed past him to enter the shop. It was still as dirty as ever. ‘Years of experience dealing with people such as yourself, Herbert.’
‘I’ve been going straight for five years,’ he said indignantly.
‘Just means you haven’t been caught for five years.’ Before he could answer, she asked, ‘Do you have any coffee in this godforsaken hole, preferably served in a clean cup?’
He looked down his nose at her. ‘Follow me.’
All of them danced between the furniture, weaving their way to a curtain behind the till.
Herbert pulled it open with a flourish to reveal a small, clean and well-stocked dining room and kitchen, with a microwave oven, convection oven and a brand new coffee machine standing on a counter.
‘I am impressed, Herbert. You surprise me.’
‘I like a nice cup of coffee in the morning, Mrs Sinclair. What would you like?’
He held open a box filled to the brim with Nespresso capsules.
‘I hope these didn’t fall off the back of a lorry.’
‘Actually, I bought them in the Trafford Centre, if you must know. A friend works there.’
Jayne frowned, but chose a golden capsule.
‘Dulsão. One of my favourites too.’ Herbert chose a strong Kazaar for David and an Indriya for himself.
‘Before we start on the coffee, where are the football, label and button, Herbert?’
The antique dealer opened a suitcase sitting on the counter. Inside were two cloth bags and a plastic folder. He handed the folder to Jayne.
Through the clear plastic, she could see the green printing and recognised it now as a stylised Christmas tree with the words Weihnachtenfest Baum at one side.
‘Thank you, Herbert.’
‘I thought it best to protect it, given it’s so valuable.’
‘How much is it worth?’ asked David tentatively.
Herbert shrugged. ‘Whatever people will pay for it. These are extremely rare. I was offered six hundred quid for it last night.’
‘You told me four hundred,’ said Jayne.
‘He upped his offer this morning, Mrs Sinclair. But I reckon if we put it in an auction, the sky’s the limit.’
‘But we’re not selling, are we, Martin?’ David said forcefully.
Herbert raised his eyes to the ceiling and then reached for a small cloth bag. ‘I took the trouble of giving this a light polish. I hope you like it.’ He handed over the silver button, now gleaming.
The raised letters for the 35th Regiment were cleaned of all blemishes. Before they could thank him, he opened the other cloth bag, producing a small but beautifully formed leather ball.
‘It only needed a bit of tender loving care. Still a few cracks in the leather, but with the gentle touch of Herbert’s hands it was soon looking great.’
‘I did it,’ piped up a voice from behind them. Gerald had his hand up.
‘My assistant helped. Under my guidance, of course.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Martin. ‘It looks like a real football.’
‘Thank you for all your help,’ said his father.
‘Think of it as my Christmas present for your son.’
Jayne shook her head. ‘Herbert, you never cease to surprise me.’
The old man looked embarrassed, mumbling, ‘I’ll make the coffee.’
As the wonderful aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, Jayne explained what she had discovered, with Herbert’s help.
‘So it seems your great-grandfather, David, took part in one of the most famous events in the First World War – the Christmas Truce. I downloaded the Cheshire Regiment’s war diaries from the National Archives this morning. Both the first and the sixth battalions were in the trenches opposite the Germans on Christmas Day as part of the Fifth Division. I also checked in a couple of histories of the period. Apparently, the 6th Battalion played a game of football against the 35th Regiment.’
Martin held up the ball.
‘So this football was the one they used.’
Jayne shook her head. ‘It could have been the one they used, but without documentary evidence we will never know.’
Martin’s face fell.
His father put his arm around his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, at least we know your ancestor fought in the war and was a hero in the trenches.’
Martin frowned. ‘But it would have been nice for Chris to know that this ball was used then. Somebody actually played a game of football with it. Cheer him up in the hospital.’
‘I may be able to help.’
Jayne turned to Herbert Levy, who was standing next to the Nespresso machine. ‘This is a morning of surprises.’
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’ Jayne asked.
Herbert twisted his head. ‘So this is what it feels like to be you, Mrs Sinclair, always knowing something that other people don’t.’ He stood taller. ‘Hmm, I like this feeling, a sense of superiority...’
‘What is it, Herbert?’
‘I checked last night. There is a Military Museum in Chester, which holds all the archives for the Cheshire Regiment. I called them this morning and as it’s Christmas Eve, they are only open until three p.m. today.’
‘Good, maybe you can pay them a visit one day with Martin and Chris,’ said Jayne.
Herbert held his hand up imperiously. ‘I haven’t finished yet. I talked to one of their volunteer researchers and they have a war diary written in 1914 by an officer of the 6th Battalion. A Captain Lawson, apparently. It mentions the football game, but they wouldn’t tell me any more.’
Jayne checked her watch. She was due back at the hospital at three p.m. to relieve Vera.
She made a quick decision, putting her coffee down on the bench. ‘Come on, David and Martin.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Where else? Chester. It’s only an hour away.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sunday, December 24, 2017 – Christmas Eve
Cheshire Military Museum, Chester
The museum was a sandstone Georgian building in the middle of Chester, surrounded by the walls of the medieval castle.
‘Is the castle real?’ asked Martin, staring up at the battlements.
‘Of course,’ answered Jayne. ‘Chester has been around for at least two thousand years. It was one of the major cities of Roman Britain and was then called Deva. Ever since, it’s been occupied.’
‘Romans? We studied them at school. Hadrian’s Wall and all that.’
They parked up outside the museum next to a statue of Queen Victoria and opposite the Crown Court.
A tall, straight-backed man with white hair and a military bearing was waiting for them in the hall, wearing a maroon polo shirt with the museum’s logo prominently displayed.
‘Jayne Sinclair?’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Reg Atkinson, volunteer researcher. I’m here to help you today. I believe you’re interested in World War One?’
‘Actually, a specific part of World War One. The Christmas Truce.’
Reg Atkin
son smiled. ‘Mister Levy said you were interested in that period. May I ask why?’
‘My great-grandfather was there,’ said Martin. ‘Tom Wright was his name. Or, at least, we think he was there. We found these things in a box in the attic.’ He held up the bag with the label, the football and the button.
‘Do you have anything in the archives that could help us?’ asked Jayne.
‘Do you know which battalion he served in?’
‘The 6th, we think.’
‘Well, they were in the front line at Christmas.’
‘We know, the war diaries told us as much.’
The volunteer researcher looked directly at Jayne. ‘And may I ask your interest in this man?’
‘I’m a genealogical researcher, looking into Tom Wright for his great-grandson.’
David stuck out his hand and Martin waved.
‘That’s wonderful. We don’t hold any records for soldiers here, but we do have some individual diaries for 1914, written by the officers of the regiment. They are far more descriptive and personal than the official records. I remember one in particular has an entry on the Christmas Truce. Would you like to see it?’
Jayne nodded. ‘It sounds perfect.’
‘We have to complete the form and I’m afraid there is a donation of twenty pounds for research. It all goes to help the museum.’
‘That’s no problem.’ Jayne reached for her wallet but was stopped by David.
‘I’ll pay, Mrs Sinclair, you’ve done enough.’
With the forms completed and the research fee paid, they walked through the museum, past models dressed in the various uniforms of the regiment thorough the ages, to the World War One exhibition area.
Inside was a lifelike mock-up of a trench, complete with periscope, entrenching tools, sandbags, dugouts and vicious-looking barbed wire.
‘The Cheshire Regiment served in all the major battle grounds of the First World War, with over eight thousand men giving their lives. Virtually every town and village in the county suffered casualties. If you come this way, I’ll take you through the archive section.’
They were shown into a small book-lined room with three large desks in the centre.
‘If you wait here, I’ll get the diary. Sorry, but you’ll need to wear gloves when handling it.’ He pointed to a pile of freshly laundered cotton gloves. ‘It was given to us by Captain Lawson’s widow in his memory.’
Jayne thought for a moment. ‘Before you go, Mr Atkinson, you might want to see the objects left by Martin’s great-grandfather, Tom Wright.’
‘I’d love to.’
Martin opened the bag while Reg Atkinson put on a pair of gloves. The young boy pulled out the box with the button first. The old man examined it carefully. ‘Seems to be a uniform button of the 35th Landsturm Regiment. Definitely First World War. Interesting.’
Martin passed across the plastic folder with the label.
‘Also looks like First World War vintage. A label for something. I’m afraid my German is pretty spotty.’
‘According to our sources, it’s a Christmas-tree label from 1914.’
The eyes of the old man narrowed. ‘I see where you’re going with this.’
Next, Martin pulled out the football from its cotton bag.
The researcher’s eyes widened. ‘It’s not what I think it is...is it?’
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘We don’t know, that’s why we’re here. These footballs were given out to soldiers by the Daily Mirror in 1914.’
‘The 6th Battalion played football with the Germans in no-man’s-land during the truce...’
‘Now you know why we need to check your archives. Was this the ball they used?’
Reg Atkinson’s hand moved to his mouth. ‘I’ll be right back.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sunday, December 24, 2017 – Christmas Eve
Cheshire Military Museum, Chester.
Reg Atkinson was true to his word, returning five minutes later accompanied by another volunteer researcher.
‘This is Henry, he’ll be helping me.’
Henry rubbed his hands. ‘It’s the most exciting Christmas we’ve ever had.’
Reg was carrying two box files in his gloved hands. ‘Before we look at the diary of Captain Lawson, you said that your great-grandfather’s name was Tom Wright, didn’t you?’
Martin nodded.
‘Do you remember his regimental number?’
Without any prompting, Martin recited it by heart. .
A quick knowing glance from Reg to Henry. ‘We thought so.’ He opened one of the box files. ‘These are original copies of the Cheshire Regiment’s magazine, the Cheshire Oak.’ He placed an old yellowing paper magazine on the table. ‘If you’ll turn to page twelve of the March 1918 edition.'
David opened it. On page twelve was a slightly blurred picture of a young man in uniform shaking hands with a nurse.
The caption read: ‘Private Thomas Wright 12725 says goodbye to one of the “angels” before returning to the Regiment in France.’
‘That’s…my...great-grandfather?’
‘I remembered seeing it when I catalogued the magazines.’
David continued staring at it. ‘He looks so young and fit here. I only vaguely remember him as an old man.’
‘We’ll look at Captain Lawson’s diary now. Unfortunately it only goes up to March thirteenth, 1915. He was killed in action on the fifteenth.’
Reg opened up the second box file and brought out a small orange diary, dated ‘1914’ in gold on the cover. Inside was one page for each day of the year.
‘He was a regular officer and marched off to war with the 6th Battalion when it was sent to France in November. As you can see, he was pretty diligent about keeping the entries.’
Finally, he opened the pages headed in neat handwriting ‘Christmas Eve, 1914’.
Jayne began to read out loud.
Christmas Eve, 1914.
Well, that’s another day over. Casualties were light, just one man shot this morning as he ran back to the support trench. He died of his wounds before the medics could get to him, but at least they removed his body. The rest of the day was quiet. We heard artillery but that seemed to be coming from the West. Thank heavens it was nowhere near us.
As dusk was falling, the most amazing events took place. Along the German lines, Christmas trees started to appear on the parapets of their trenches. Of course, I called the men to arms and thought about ordering a volley to be fired in their direction but decided to get orders from Divisional HQ. They told me the same thing was happening up and down the line and not to fire unless Fritz fired first.
I ran back to our trench and the Germans were singing carols. It was the strangest sound I’d ever heard! The lovely melody of Silent Night hovering over no-man’s-land. Just yesterday they were firing at us and today they are singing carols. No one will ever understand the workings of the teutonic mind.
Our lads joined in, with Quartermaster Sergeant Davies being an excellent leader of the Cheshire’s front-line choir.
If I live to see the end of this war, I don’t think I will ever experience a stranger day than today.’
She paused for a moment. ‘Can you imagine singing carols with the Germans? What an amazing time it must have been.’
She turned the page and began reading the next entry.
December 28, 1914.
I’m writing this from the billets in Bailleul. Three days ago, we passed Christmas Day in the trenches. The morning was foggy so I sent some men back to Stinking Farm just behind our line to see if they could catch the wild chickens that scratched the ground there. Private Harris was particularly good at diving on them from a great height. We managed to catch only five scrawny birds but they are better than nothing.
While we were away, one of our men, Private Wright, went out into no-man’s-land to parley with a German. I arrived back to see them both chatting away nonchalantly, smoking a cigar as if it was the most normal th
ing to do on earth.
I went out with Sergeant Simpkins and we were met by one of their officers, Von Kutzow, a Magdalen man. After agreeing on a truce until four p.m., the men spent the rest of the day mixing with the Germans. They were slightly older than us – a reserve regiment, though, like the Sixth. I managed to exchange a belt buckle, some cigars, schnapps, some tea tablets and twenty Turkish cigarettes for my old penknife and a bottle of whisky. I think I got the better part of the deal.
After we had buried the dead and eaten the chickens, Private Larkin produced a football from somewhere and the men began to play. The game was pretty chaotic - a kick and rush affair rather than something properly organised. But I’m afraid we were beaten by the 35th Regiment, even though Private Wright had a particularly fine game in goal. The Germans took the ball as a trophy for winning the game. At four p.m., we all shook hands and returned to our trenches.
Divisional HQ were not happy and we received a stern rebuke from above, commanding that it was never to happen again. The football game we arranged for New Year’s Day has been cancelled.
Merry Christmas.
‘So we know they played football; a sort of kickabout game like we would play in a park. And he mentions that Private Wright organised the truce and played in goal.’
‘Could that be my great-grandfather?’
‘Quite possibly, although there may have been other men with the surname Wright in his company. All it says was the Germans won the game, and as a prize, they were given the football.’
Martin picked up the plastic folder, which held the German label. ‘I wonder... Could the numbers “3-2” be the score for the match? Did the Germans win three-two?’
Jayne stared at the label. ‘Possible. It makes sense. It also explains why it’s written in different handwriting. A German must have written it.’
‘So if the Germans were given the ball, this can’t be the one they played with?’ said David.
Again, another glance between the two research volunteers.
‘We think we have the answer,’ said Reg. ‘Look in the box.’
