Heavenly Peace
The water dripped almost hypnotically through the gap in the sagging boards above him but ultimately had little or no adverse effect upon the sodden mould ridden mattress upon which he lay. He wondered whether he could afford himself further comfort by moving to the bunk below, which Williams had arisen from this morning but would not be returning to, but knew that he would not be making the effort to do so.
Instead Andrew stared at his boots, boots that he had not removed for several days now, knowing that if he even succeeded in taking them off he would never again be able to put them back on. The trenchfoot had gradually worsened, as it had for all of them. The applications of whale grease, whilst it lasted, had done little or nothing to ease the condition. The last time he was examined he had not recognised his own feet, almost hadn’t recognised them as feet at all, so swollen and blue were they, the fungal rot which would lead inevitably to gangrene already setting in.
“Why on Earth don’t we get the papers?” the Londoner Fitzsimmons exclaimed from where he was seated at the small table, swilling around and around the cold remnants of tea in his little tin cup, “how can we fight a war when we don’t know what’s going on in the world?”
“Need to know basis, Fitz me old son,” Holdstock’s West Country drawl emanated from the bunk at angles to Andrew’s own, “and we don’t need to.”
“Well, at least I could read the bloody sports page!”
The only newspapers that ever reached them instantly became the property of Captain Judd and were normally at least three weeks out of date. The last one had recently been converted into jack-o-lanterns to bedeck the officer’s quarters during the festive period, but already most of them had reverted to mulch amongst the muck of the floorboards.
Anyway, he had no wish to know what was going on elsewhere - didn’t want to think about a real world that was still going about its business. For him, this was the world and it physically hurt him to imagine any other. The continuing nightmare actuality that consisted of mud and muck and fear and death encompassed his existence and to his mind there was little or no hope of any other kind. The last thing he wanted to see was pictures of Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly all lit up and full of revellers and carollers.
He thought that his heart had at last ceased its fluttering and that his limbs were no longer shaking, even though it had been several hours since his return from Trench No. 4.
It had fallen to Taffy Williams to dart across the open space between trenches at the point where rock had unexpectedly made digging impossible and where explosives had failed. His task: to forward the latest orders down the line. Their random fire had not, unfortunately, distracted the German snipers and Williams had been shot in the head halfway across the narrow divide. They had waited forty five minutes before Andrew had followed in his footsteps.
He had half ran, half crawled through the mud, barely halting to scoop up the sealed orders from Williams’ open palm, sparing hardly a glance for the shocked expression upon his face. Having spent all of ten seconds in No. 4 he had darted back, his bowels loosening uncontrollably as he pitched back into their own trench.
As he lay there now, reliving it once again, he thought he heard a faint shout from outside, almost drowned out by Fitzsimmons’ latest rant.
“Quiet Fitz!” he shouted out, “listen.”
“Back from the dead are you chap?”
“Just listen a minute will you?”
Fitz sat stock still momentarily before they all heard it. A call that was going up and down the line. But it seamed to carry no urgency, it was certainly no call to arms.
“Best go and see, I suppose,” Holdstock murmured and so Andrew eased himself out of his bunk and back down onto his feet which, he realised, were still slightly shaky after all. He followed the two of them out into the open trench and the chilly night air, his breath appearing in front of his face.
Glenigan was there already, pressed up strangely against the opposite wall. He beckoned to them excitedly, “Listen will you? Listen!”
It drifted across to them on the still air. The words were, of course, foreign, but the instantly recognisable melody conveyed so much unexpected sentiment and compassion that his breath caught in his throat. He fell against the earthen wall beside Glenigan, felt Holdstock’s hefty hand fall upon his shoulder, and listened.
“Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute heilige Paar.
Holder Knab im lockigten Haar,
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!”
The tears began to stream down his cheeks. Christmas was the last thing he had expected to find here in hell.
The singing was followed by calls, again in words that he knew not, but they were unmistakably beckoning in their nature.
“They’re calling to us,” he stuttered, “they want us to come over!”
“Over the top!” Fitz exclaimed, “I hope you’re bloody joking!”
But Andrew was already on his way down the trench, to the artillery staging where he knew he could clamber once more up into the open. He no longer cared for the bullets that might be homing in on him. If it was to be an end to him then that would be fine too. He no longer had the strength to carry on.
Captain Judd shared out the last of the cigars and whiskey amongst the mixed British and German troops as they gathered around the newly filled grave. Andrew turned to face the man who was shaking his hand. “Frohe Weihnachten!” the soldier said. “Merry Christmas,” he replied.
The Captain turned to preside over the burial, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…”
Instead Andrew stared at his boots, boots that he had not removed for several days now, knowing that if he even succeeded in taking them off he would never again be able to put them back on. The trenchfoot had gradually worsened, as it had for all of them. The applications of whale grease, whilst it lasted, had done little or nothing to ease the condition. The last time he was examined he had not recognised his own feet, almost hadn’t recognised them as feet at all, so swollen and blue were they, the fungal rot which would lead inevitably to gangrene already setting in.
“Why on Earth don’t we get the papers?” the Londoner Fitzsimmons exclaimed from where he was seated at the small table, swilling around and around the cold remnants of tea in his little tin cup, “how can we fight a war when we don’t know what’s going on in the world?”
“Need to know basis, Fitz me old son,” Holdstock’s West Country drawl emanated from the bunk at angles to Andrew’s own, “and we don’t need to.”
“Well, at least I could read the bloody sports page!”
The only newspapers that ever reached them instantly became the property of Captain Judd and were normally at least three weeks out of date. The last one had recently been converted into jack-o-lanterns to bedeck the officer’s quarters during the festive period, but already most of them had reverted to mulch amongst the muck of the floorboards.
Anyway, he had no wish to know what was going on elsewhere - didn’t want to think about a real world that was still going about its business. For him, this was the world and it physically hurt him to imagine any other. The continuing nightmare actuality that consisted of mud and muck and fear and death encompassed his existence and to his mind there was little or no hope of any other kind. The last thing he wanted to see was pictures of Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly all lit up and full of revellers and carollers.
He thought that his heart had at last ceased its fluttering and that his limbs were no longer shaking, even though it had been several hours since his return from Trench No. 4.
It had fallen to Taffy Williams to dart across the open space between trenches at the point where rock had unexpectedly made digging impossible and where explosives had failed. His task: to forward the latest orders down the line. Their random fire had not, unfortunately, distracted the German snipers and Williams had been shot in the head halfway across the narrow divide. They had waited forty five minutes before Andrew had followed in his footsteps.
He had half ran, half crawled through the mud, barely halting to scoop up the sealed orders from Williams’ open palm, sparing hardly a glance for the shocked expression upon his face. Having spent all of ten seconds in No. 4 he had darted back, his bowels loosening uncontrollably as he pitched back into their own trench.
As he lay there now, reliving it once again, he thought he heard a faint shout from outside, almost drowned out by Fitzsimmons’ latest rant.
“Quiet Fitz!” he shouted out, “listen.”
“Back from the dead are you chap?”
“Just listen a minute will you?”
Fitz sat stock still momentarily before they all heard it. A call that was going up and down the line. But it seamed to carry no urgency, it was certainly no call to arms.
“Best go and see, I suppose,” Holdstock murmured and so Andrew eased himself out of his bunk and back down onto his feet which, he realised, were still slightly shaky after all. He followed the two of them out into the open trench and the chilly night air, his breath appearing in front of his face.
Glenigan was there already, pressed up strangely against the opposite wall. He beckoned to them excitedly, “Listen will you? Listen!”
It drifted across to them on the still air. The words were, of course, foreign, but the instantly recognisable melody conveyed so much unexpected sentiment and compassion that his breath caught in his throat. He fell against the earthen wall beside Glenigan, felt Holdstock’s hefty hand fall upon his shoulder, and listened.
“Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute heilige Paar.
Holder Knab im lockigten Haar,
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!”
The tears began to stream down his cheeks. Christmas was the last thing he had expected to find here in hell.
The singing was followed by calls, again in words that he knew not, but they were unmistakably beckoning in their nature.
“They’re calling to us,” he stuttered, “they want us to come over!”
“Over the top!” Fitz exclaimed, “I hope you’re bloody joking!”
But Andrew was already on his way down the trench, to the artillery staging where he knew he could clamber once more up into the open. He no longer cared for the bullets that might be homing in on him. If it was to be an end to him then that would be fine too. He no longer had the strength to carry on.
Captain Judd shared out the last of the cigars and whiskey amongst the mixed British and German troops as they gathered around the newly filled grave. Andrew turned to face the man who was shaking his hand. “Frohe Weihnachten!” the soldier said. “Merry Christmas,” he replied.
The Captain turned to preside over the burial, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…”