December MGWAT

[AlanCurragh]

Well, it's not long to Christmas and still no topic for December. I know that the choice should be reserved for the previous month's winner (or even someone who has contributed, which I'm not) but the poll has only just started this evening so I hope no-one minds if I suggest "The Christmas Truce" as a topic for December.

If I'm out of order suggesting this, please let me know and I'll let someone else more qualified suggest a topic.

If I had an iota of artistic talent, I'd have a go myself, but hopeful a few of you will be able to derive some inspiration in the next few weeks....

Thanks

Alan

[Landsturm]

Good job! Would have been my choice too

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

Ooh, there it is. I think I wrote something on this topic for one of my mum's assemblys with her primary school children! (Incidentally, her school has thirty-six children, is built of Westmoreland Green Slate from the mine just down the other side of the Kirkstone Pass - it is in a fertile green valley only a couple of miles from the woodland copse at the side of Ullswater where William Wordsworth first observed his 'host of golden daffodils' - a craggy mountain keeps watch over it, the slopes dappled and strewn with brown ferns and heather and evergreen trees - not that any of that has anything to do with the matter in hand, I actually mentioned it because the village community is so very insular, and so many of the young men are still what you could call farm labourers, and many of them live in miner's cottages just up the dale - I suppose I thought in many ways it probably hasn't changed a bit since the war, and it reminded me a little of Gunboat's description of the visage in his last entry). And no, that wasn't my entry, by the way!! What I was meaning to say before I got sidetracked was, perhaps I could look the little story out, although it might be a bit simplistic, as it was written for children aged seven to ten!

[Ozzie]

1917.

Christmas? What do I care for Christmas? Is Jesus here with me in this trench? He died upon the cross to save me and others. Huh! If he died to save me , then what the hell am I doing here?

If I put my head up to see who is trying to kill me, I might join Jesus in the promised land! Is Jesus directing those whiz bangs overhead so that one doesn’t get me? Is he saving my **** by divine intervention?

What about me Mum and Dad. I can see them now, going off to church, like they do every Sunday, praying that I’ll come home, safe and sound. Who could ever return home sound after seeing what we have seen?

I’ve seen more mates gone west than I’ve hot dinners lately! And what about the poor bugars that haven’t died, but should’ve, cause their bodies been so torn apart, that life after when this bloody war finishes, it ain’t gonna be worth livin’? Charlie had half his face blown away. I thought he wouldn’t live, but I hear they patched him up with some sort of new surgery, and shipped him home. What’s his wife think of her man now, only half the man she sent to war. He said he didn’t want to fight another countries war, but she harped at him, told him it was his duty. Well, he did his duty, and now where is he?

Jesus? Jesus ain’t been in my trench, cause if he had, he would have put his hand out and stopped those shells that took away my mate’s lives. He would have caught those ones that let gas blister men’s skin, and caused them to drown in their own poisoned lungs.

I remember the Christmases we had at home. Presents, the cricket game to run off the big lunch we had. All the relatives talking about the war and who would be next to join up. What fools we were.

Having a special bath out in the shed, just to get done up in our best clothes to go to church. I’ll never forget the Christmas the minister who was done on sherry, and couldn’t even get the words right to tell us why we should join the noble cause. He said, “ Got to fight those heathens, the ones who worship us.” He meant the Turks, not us, and how they pray to a different God, but, then he says all us boys should be ashamed of ourselves if we didn’t join up. Where is he now? That minister who spoke those words? He ain’t here in this trench.

We got an extra rum ration. But so bleedin’ what. Ain’t no food, cause the Hun blew up the cookers. Lucky shell for them, not so good for us.

Now they’re singing bloody carols. Know the tune, but they singing different words. Heard some idiots actually had a game of football with the Hun! Ain't we supposed to kill them?

It’s not right, Christmas. Peace on earth, goodwill to men? Where is the peace and goodwill in this bloody hell hole?

1967

He shuffled through the throngs of eager shoppers, who were busily scurrying to and fro with their purchases, their faces lit with Christmas cheer. None looked directly at him. If they did chance to see him, their eyes glanced away in a split second. Ignoring the rushing people, and deaf to the tinny PA Christmas carols, he paused and scratched at the skin that stretched tight across his skull. It was red and scaly, rent by a thick ropey mass of scars. His hair, lank and greasy, did not grow over the reminder of a time past, the reminder of what man can do to fellow man. A tear formed and dropped down his white puckered cheek, running down beside the mashed lump that served as a nose. He brushed away the moisture when it ran past his lips, where he could feel it. It was a nuisance, this constant streaming of his eyes.

A rubbish bin that stood in front of him caught his attention, and he moved slowly towards it, shifting his dirty grey blanket to his other arm. The blanket caught on the pin that held his most cherished possession, a tarnished lump of metal, fastened to the pocket of the stained shirt he wore. He tugged at the blanket, to free it, not hearing the tearing of the cloth, not seeing the medal free itself, and roll along the floor.

He peered down at the rubbish bin, overjoyed to see the thrown away remains of fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper.

He would eat today.

Kim

[AlanCurragh]

Katie - please do post you story - nothing wrong with a bit of simplicity! Unless of course you want to write something new?

Kim - that's a wonderful start - I especially liked the idea of the tear of the old soldier, not being the result of crying, but instead the streaming of his eyes...

Alan

[Landsturm]

"Armed with a Christmas tree"

pencil 2007,

British and German soldier meet in the no-man's land on the Western Front, December 25th 1914.

[Guest soren1916]

I like this one Landsturm

very atmospheric

[SFayers]

I particularly like the leaden sky Landsturm! As Soren says, very atmospheric.

cheers

Steve

[digger5410]

I originally put this in the chit-chat section I wasn't sure where it should go so with your indulgence here it is. I wrote it myself as something that came into my head whilst watching tv one night. I hope you enjoy it.

CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES

It was Christmas in the trenches

And round us lay the snow

The white it covered everything

It was 20 degrees below

When from over no man’s land

Came a sound we didn’t know

Old Bert looked at me oddly

I said “Well I dunno”

It was a sort of humming sound

Yet had a familiar ring

I peered across our rusty wire

But couldn’t see a thing

The tune I’d heard so long ago

Way back in Civvy Street

But the words were unfamiliar

It really had me beat

Suddenly a voice called out

From across that tortured ground

“Hey Tommie what’s the matter

Don’t you recognise that sound?”

I gripped me rifle tighter

And sighted at the voice

We’d had those tricks before y’see

So I’d shoot if I had no choice

“Yeah Fritz” I called “I know the tune

“But what the hell’s its name

We have different words ya know

But the tune is just the same”

Our Looie heard me shouting

And came running to the step

Ready for to bawl me out

He was really full of pep

“Old Fritz is singing something Sir

“I think that’s what it’s called

“But I’ve got me eyes well peeled Sir

“’Cos it’s getting me enthralled”

Old Bert me offsider

Then gave me arm a jolt

As he saw figures moving

And he slowly worked his bolt

“Please don’t shoot me Tommie”

Fritz called loud enough to hear

“We’re celebrating Christmas

We’ve got wine and cake and beer”

I gave me boss a puzzled look

And asked what we should do

He said to wait a minute

In case it was a stew

Fritz had tried that ruse before

But we knew better now

We’d woken up quite smartly

You learn quickly in this war

Our Looie grabbed a piece of sheet

And tied it to a plank

He stuck his head up nervously

Ah the privileges of rank

“Fritz I’m going into no man’s land

“This hadn’t better be a trick

“’Cos if it is I promise you

“Retribution will come quick”

“I’m coming out to meet you”

Fritz then yelled across

And a figure rose up from their trench

We were all at quite a loss

Fritz then said to his men

Something we couldn’t hear

And the shapes emerged, weaponless

With grins from ear to ear

We all rose and forward went

Our nerves still on alert

I knew I’d have no worries

For beside there was Bert

We all met in no man’s land

Neath a moon so clear and bright

When I suddenly recalled the tune

We called it “Silent Night”

We looked each other over

As we stood there in the snow

Just what we were expecting

Just then we didn’t know

But soldiers have a common bond

It’s grown o’er the years

They share the same indignities

And see their mates reduced to tears

It must have been a funny sight

To see us there in the pale moonlight

No fear as we met face to face

And became again the human race.

We gave him smokes he gave us beer

The war was cast aside

We sang sad songs from our youth

And unashamedly we cried

But suddenly a shot rang out

I still don’t know from where

We hit the ground in unison

It gave us quite a scare

So they raced back into their trench

As we stumbled back once more

The magic had been broken

And we cursed this rotten war

Then another tune started up

We knew this song quite well

It was our cannons, singing

“Welcome back to Hell”

Their cannons then did answer back

It was hours before they’d slack

Nothing now but fear and dread

And knew once more that peace was dead

The shrapnel whistled shrilly

Its banshee wail did trill

It was back to business again, as usual

And the fear an icy chill

But we’d had a bit of sanity

Amid the muck and filth and death

So we just huddled deeper

And sung below our breath

The carols we’d been singing

Just an hour or so before

But we knew that it was special

There’d be no encore

We hope this madness will end soon

And we’ll be humans once again

And we’ll sing and really mean it

“Peace on earth Goodwill towards men”

Rod

[Michael Johnson]

"Major, Sir!"

"Yes, Sergeant. What's happening?"

"It's the Huns, Sir. They're singing. And they've put out a sign saying "Merry Christmas". There have been a couple of invitations to come join them in No-man's-land. I've kept the lads put, but they're getting restless. Orders, Sir?"

"Could be a trick, I suppose. But maybe they mean it. Call for Mr. Sandler."

"Sir!"

(Lieutenant Sandler enters) "You wanted me, Sir?"

"Yes, Mark. What do you make of what the Germans are up to?"

"I think they're serious. I used to take courses in Germany summers at university. They're pretty decent chaps, whatever the papers may say. I speak German well - let me go out for a reconnaissance."

"Brigade isn't going to like it if we go fraternizing."

"Brigade doesn't have to know, Sir."

"Alright, Mark. But not alone. Take a platoon - sidearms only, and maybe a couple of bombs in every other man's pockets. Try to camouflage the shape. Two platoons at stand-to, just in case. Oh, and take some SRD and a case of plum and apple for trading."

(Mark smiles) "Do you think that's wise, Sir? That last might cause them to open fire!"

"Take a couple of our best scroungers with you. I want them to barter for shoulder straps. Have them note what style of bayonets - that will tell us about their rifles. Away you go, and good luck. Try to get something for our Mess dinner tomorrow - they must have some wine, at least. When you get back send out another platoon at your discretion."

(The Major sits at his table and begins to write)

Intelligence Report - December 24 1915

A reconnaissance patrol at platoon strength was sent out under Lieutenant Sandler to assess enemy strength and if possible to identify the unit opposite the battalion. The enemy appears to be lacking in aggressiveness.

[Landsturm]

Good work, Johnson! And Rod, welcome aboard... interesting, long poem.

BTW, 20 degrees below? Quite cold for Western Front, or am I wrong?

[Michael Johnson]

Thank you Landsturm.

I found this one difficult. If I were an artist, I would do a wooden cross with the details of Pte. Matthew Hall, 7th Northumberland Fusiliers, killed December 24, 1915, and buried at Railway Dugouts Cemetery.

No Christmas truce for him.

My piece focuses on the officers, and their somewhat conflicting emotions:

Distrust

Fear of higher authority

Wanting to get involved, or at least not deprive the men

Getting something themselves.

The Major takes precautions. He won't let Sandler go out alone. He gives Sandler free rein to let other groups go once it is proven to be safe. He asks nothing for himself, but only for the collective good (at least of the officers). And to cover himself he introduces the intelligence angle.

Katie, no doubt you'll read this before long.

I got a start yesterday when I picked up a file folder of my wife's (I think I've mentioned that she's an English teacher). The name on it was:

Katie Stewart

[digger5410]

Thanks Landsturm I suppose it is even in Fahrenheit but it was a figure that seemed to fit best and only being an amateur there's bound to be some rough edges lol

Rod

[squirrel]

Some very good stuff here this month - well done to all contributors.

Can't seem to get going on this one - diificulty rhyming anything with truce..........................

[jay dubaya]

The wife spotted it under a pile of chairs at the back of a junk shop and insisted that I come and have a look, it was after all, "Just what I've been looking for" she said.

The shop owner seemed very keen to get rid of the roll-top writing desk, and on close inspection it wasn't hard to see why. The front legs had been clumsily repaired and the desk had been exposed to water at some point - the rabbit skin glue joints on the lower drawers speaking for themselves. I was hoping that the wife understood the expression on my face. "How much do you want for it?" she asked the man, "Well it's very old" he said, "How does & £120 sound?" Deafening I thought, but the wife been all too good at haggling, finally paid £65.

"It'll need a lot of work" I said as we drove home.

The inlaws arrived as usual on Christmas Eve morning, and not wanting to be in the way, I decided to wander off to my shed.

The writing desk still being in the way of the door opening properly, I decided it was about time I at least had a good look at it. I removed the roll-top and started to remove the inner drawers, but the bottom one was stuck fast, not wanting to do any further damage I decided to give it a good thump from behind, the drawer flew out and broke into kindling on the floor, much to my dismay. It did however reveal a shallow space underneath in which lay a small red tobacco tin. My face lit up with excitement - a secret drawer. I reached in and removed the tin like a giddy schoolboy, a piece of lined notepaper was selotaped to the top which read, 'Tom's last letter - to be buried with me when my time comes'. Once opened I saw that there was a folded envelope inside. The address read Mrs. T. Holt, Woodlands, Edenfield, Bury, Lancashire. My scruples got the better of me and I opened the envelope and removed the letter, it was written in pencil and dated December 26 1914.

Dearest Nellie,

I write to you today in high spirits because something most wonderful has happened that I must tell you at once. We were standing in our trenches yesterday morning, crisp and quiet as a Christmas morning should be. I should like to tell you that we started it, but the truth Nellie, I'm ashamed to say, is that Fritz began it first. Little Jimmy saw a white flag waving from the trenches opposite. Then they started to call out across No Man's Land, "Happy Christmas Tommy! Happy Christmas!" Some of us shouted back, "Same to you Fritz! Same to you!" I thought that was that, we all did. But then Fritz appeared up there waving his white flag. "Don't shoot lads" I shouted, and no one did. Then another one appeared and another "Steady lads, keep you're heads down" I told them "It's a trick". But it wasn't .

"It's Christmas Day, Tommy. We have Schnapps. We have sausage. We meet you? Yes?" By this time there were dozens of them walking across No Man's Land and not a rifle between them. Macfarlane was the first up, "Come on lads. What are we waiting for?" And then there was no stopping them. I should have stopped them then and there, but I suppose the truth is that it never occurred to me at the time that I should. I stood on top to see hoards of grey coats and khaki coats meeting in the middle of No Man's Land. And I was one of them.

You cannot imagine, dearest Nellie, what I felt as I looked into the eyes of a Fritz officer, who approached me with his hand out stretched. "Hans Groller". He said , taking my hand and holding it firmly. "I am a school teacher from Dusseldorf. Happy Christmas Tommy."

"Sergeant Thomas Holt," I replied. "And a Happy Christmas to you too Fritz. I am a printer from Manchester in the north of England.

He spoke almost perfect English whilst we shared his sausage and my rum ration. He had married his sweetheart in the spring and was expecting their first child. As I looked around there were huddles of men everywhere, smoking, laughing, eating. We shared what was left of your wonderful Christmas cake, he said the marzipan was better than any in Germany.

Then, I think it was one of our lads brought out a football. The grey and khaki coats were dumped down in piles to make the posts, and then we were off England against Germany, Tommy against Fritz. It really was the best way to keep warm. Fritz won by two goals to one. Hans Groller generously said that our goal was much bigger than theirs.

The time came when the game had finished and the sausage and rum had long since run out , everyone knew it was all over. I wished Hans well and hoped that he would see his family soon and that the war would end so we could all go home.

Take care Thomas Holt I shall never forget this moment, nor you. He saluted as he walked away into the crowd of grey coats that were drifting back to their trenches. That night in our trenches we could hear them singing, it was beautiful, Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. Our boys gave them a rousing chorus of While Shepherds Watched, we exchanged a few carols before it all fell silent once more. We had our time of peace and goodwill, a time I shall never forget as long as I live.

My dearest Nellie, by Christmas next, this war will be nothing but a distant memory. I know by what happened today that both armies long for peace.

We shall be together again soon my Nellie, I'm sure of it.

Your loving Tom.

I folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. I wished that I hadn't opened it, but I had! I told no one of my discovery once I'd returned to the house. I think it was guilt that kept me awake all night, and I'd decided by the morning what I was going to do. Edenfield was only a couple of villages away, so I made my excuse and didn't go to church with the rest of them. Once I'd arrived in Edenfield I asked the first person that I saw, a young boy on his new bicycle, if he could point me in the direction of Woodlands. There were 9 houses, one of which had boarded windows. A lady walking her dog said that I looked a bit lost, so I asked her if she new a family by the name of Holt that once lived around here. "Only old Mrs. Holt, a 103 you know she's in a home now, there was a fire in her sitting room 6 months ago. That's where she lived," she said pointing to the boarded house. She told me that she was now in Fairfield Nursing Home in Ramsbottom.

I found Fairfield’s quite easily. There were paper chains and tinsel hanging from the walls and a lopsided Christmas tree by the reception desk. I could hear them singing carols in the dinning room, "Can I help you dear" the lady at the desk asked.

"I've come to see Mrs Holt" I said.

"Oh she'll be pleased to see you, she has no family you know, no one's visited".

I followed her down a corridor to a conservatory with soft chairs and climbing plants and left me there.

The lady was sitting in a wheelchair, wisps of silver hair tied in a bun, her hands resting on her lap, she was watching the robins in the garden.

"Hello". I said. She slowly turned to look. "Happy Christmas Nellie. I found this, I think it's yours." I opened the tin and placed the envelope on her lap. Her eyes immediately lit up, her face filling with a warm happiness. I explained about the desk but I don't think that she was listening. She sat stroking the letter gently with her finger tips. Suddenly she reached out and took my hand. "You told me that you'd be home by Christmas. And here you are, come closer Tom dear, sit down".

I sat down in the chair beside her. "I read your letter so often Tom, I always wanted you here with me. And now you are. Now you can read it to me, would you do that for me Tom dear."

[Ozzie]

Oh my. Jay, that is a brilliant piece of writing.

You made me cry.

Kim

[Landsturm]

Jay; YAY!

Great piece! Very touching. The talks about the rum sausages and schnapps reminded me of Oh! What a Lovely War scene

[susanhemmings]

Super entries this month already. Each piece so far brings a different angle. I have so enjoyed reading all the entries and landsturm - great piece as always.

Jay - I cried at the end of your piece - as well. Each of these entries are poignant in very different ways.

I would be honoured to vote for everyone (but won't of course)....

I don't think I can get my head in gear for this month, but will keep an eye on the posting. If the first lot are anything to go by it will be a cracking month. well done all.

Susan.

[Gunboat]

Absolutely excellent entries deeply moving all of them....

[Michael Johnson]

diificulty rhyming anything with truce.

"what the deuce!?"

[Pighills]

'Difficulty rhyming with truce'

- the tree was spruce?

[squirrel]

Came up with Bruce and puce as well but still no help.

What the deuce! Bruce's spruce is puce!

Can't see a WW1 connection there somehow.

[AlanCurragh]

...and they're weren't any moose on the Western Front to the best of my knowledge!

Fine set of entries so far - well done to all.

Alan

[Michael Johnson]

Looked at the badge of the 4th Canadian Mounted Rifles lately?

[AlanCurragh]

I stand corrected!