by Zach Neal
Joy to the world. The words echo in my head, a mockery of
the vista that greeted my eyes.
Already the cold had soaked into my very soul,
into every pore, every cell, muscle fibre and bone.
Christmas 1915. Have you ever spent Christmas underground?
Or in a trench, gazing out at midnight over No Man’s Land? When the only
Christmas illumination is a flare, hanging in the sky for a brief moment,
throwing into sharp relief every pimple, every pus-filled wound in the bosom of
the Earth?
I was glad to be on guard duty. Christmas Eve, it was so
much easier to take than sitting in our cold, smoke-filled dugout where
everything, every little piece of garbage and trash ended up in our home-made
stove. Where everyone smoked all the time, from dawn to dusk. Where your eyes
literally stung all the time.
Where everyone took turns to read a letter from home, except
me.
Where every one tried so hard to cheer everyone up. Where
fake smiles tried to tell lies that the eyes could not conceal.
She gave us smokes, nice little tins. The Queen Mother.
Embossed, stamped with a design, a gift from the monarch to her humblest
servants. You know: Georgie Porgie’s mum.
Smoking keeps up your morale, it’s warm, familiar, and you
control when you smoke.
No one can tell you not to smoke when you advance at twelve
paces to the minute.
No one is there to tell you not to smoke as you huddle in a
hole, wondering where the rest of the company might be.
Is there a company left? Are you the only one? Is the enemy
going to use gas again this time? When will we be able to smoke again? Only
living people can smoke, and so we smoke as a reminder that we are not dead
yet.
Who is that?
Just a friend, going to use the latrine, our concession to
“sanitation.” It only works a certain times -- no rain, for example; or no
recent bombardments. “Cold, eh?”
“Tough shit,” he replies without a trace of humour or “good
cheer,” yet neither is there any rancour. It is simply a fact.
“Tough shit,” I agree. May as well skip the small talk.
The moon is out. Clouds scud by, and shadows creep across
the land.
On the one hand, I like to keep my head down. German snipers
don’t take Christmas off. A guy in the next company found out the hard way this
morning.
He was drunk. He stood up carelessly, thoughtlessly. That’s
all it takes. Now he is dead.
There is somebody out there, yet the nature of the noises
they make tells me it is a Boche stretcher party. Sometimes I wish I dared to
go out there and talk to them.
“Take your time,” I would tell them.
“I won’t start anything.” It would be appreciated, by the
German stretcher party, I’m sure. It must be nerve wracking to wonder who’s on the
parapet tonight and what kind of a mood they might be in.
They are brave men, undoubtedly frightened men. They try to
get their comrades out of the muck, and to bring them back, alive, wounded; or
dead.
They wish to give the dead a decent Christian burial.
That’s right; the Huns are Christians too, just like us. Just exactly like
us…don’t tell anyone I said that.
There is no such thing as a “Christian” burial out here, but
they try.
I don’t understand people some times. Well, they try hard.
Several days ago I saw a cemetery that had suffered during a
bombardment. Not a pretty sight, for most of the corpses were recently
buried…”and the dead shall rise again.”
Who would have thunk it?
Will angels fly over the battlefield tonight? Will my mail
come someday? Will I get shot? How about a nice little leg wound? That would be
nice, take me out of here. Any goddamned place. Any place at all, except a
prisoner of war camp. I have too much hate for that. I doubt if I could swallow
it all and survive in there. Who would want to?
I squat down for a smoke. You can see a man smoking for
miles, under certain conditions, I have shot at the most indirect little glow a
hundred yards away. It reminds them. Be
careful. I ain’t always so nice. God, let me out of here. Any fucking way…
You can’ t be too careful around here. Even the smell of
tobacco can help a man who wants to kill you. I never pop my head up over the
same look-out spot twice.
Fuck, it is cold. Luckily for us. The crap in the bottom of
the trench freezes, it is easier to lay the duckboards. Things around here
smell better. Not much, but better.
Christmas. Jesus. Where was I a year ago? I thought I was
lonely then. Now I’m lonely.
Scared, too. Not many guys are going to live through this
one. The numbers don’t lie. Ten percent casualties…that’s a lot. Especially
once or twice a week…how long can it go on? Twenty per cent casualties? Once a
month? How long can it go on?
A major campaign is coming up. Casualties of 50% in some
units are expected? How long can it go on? Don’t ask me. I know I will not be
there to see the end of it all.
Some guy, I can’t remember his name told me to think like
that. It is easier, and he was right.
He died soon after of some flux or pneumonia thing. I am not
a doctor, so there you go.
The hours pass, and I just keep moving. Exhaustion is a
constant companion. The enemy knows we need to sleep. We know he needs to
sleep. The artillery rounds go back and forth, messengers of hate. Somewhere
they have it written down, the policy on shelling.
“Strategy is when you never let the enemy know you are out
of ammunition, but keep on firing,” it’s probably in the “General’s Handbook.”
I like that one, I’ll tell it to Pete later. Anyone else who’s awake. It seems
genuinely funny. Not good to be seen or heard giggling out here, your friends
have enough worries.
Never let them see you low on shells. How do you do that? Never
let them see you stop firing. And they played by the same rule. Lots and lots
of bombs and shells sitting around in the rain, snow and sleet, gathering rust,
no good to anyone that way.
That’s something I can tell you for sure about our enemy.
They have enough shells on hand to “waste” several an hour. Our boys send back
several an hour. Plenty of shells for everyone, no need to panic, you’ll get
yours. Just be patient. Sign up early, avoid the June rush, as some wag had
said, once upon a time.
We know they’re still there. Haven’t run away in the night.
Haven’t gone home to be with their families for Christmas.
I wonder what mom is doing, my dad, where is he right now.
My brothers will be with Mom, I hope, no way to know for sure. My mail isn’t
getting through, most of the other men have been getting theirs , but several
of us are in the same boat. “Up shit
creek without a paddle,” as the boys used to say when we smoked in the woods
beside the school house at our lunch hour. Don’t get caught boys; there are
snipers out here now.
Did I run away from home to escape something? What about my
Uncle Ed? When his dad died, he was quite a young man. My grandpa died, Uncle
Ed was seventeen. He took over the little family business, the family tombstone
business, that seems fucking ironic, here in northern end of the battle line.
He looked after his mother, (my Grandma) helped her to raise his younger
brothers and sisters and now Uncle Ed helped look after my mom. My brothers and
our little piss-pot of a farm.
Ed never got married, never had a home of his own. Never
even changed the name of the business; it still had grandpa’s name up there.
Never moved the location, never even got rid of the old wagon or bought any new
tools.
He just picked up where Grandpa had left off and got on with
it.
Did Ed ever think of “running away?”
Did Ed think of “joining up” and going off to war? I bet he
did, I thought with a curious, silly grin.
No one can tell you the truth if you don’t want to listen.
My old man, when I went to see him in Richmond, at the farm
equipment dealership where he was the sales manager and part owner; he told me,
“Don’t be a fool.”
“They’ll ask for you when they need you,” (he was right
about that.)
All my friends were signed up, were about to sign up, or
hoped to obtain parents permission to sign up, or had devised; or where in the
process of devising; all sorts of stratagems to get past any block or hindrance
to signing up.
There is a momentary sucking sound, about fifty yards in
front of me. It stops, starts, stops, starts, then fades away. Sounds like the
German stretcher party found yet another one. Good for you, take him home to
where he belongs…no one who has seen it considers that any man should have to
bear this, yet bear it we must.
There is only one way to go home, for most of us here.
Every so often I move to another position, wondering if this
is the time when some cagey bastard will have his sights lined up on this
particular notch in the indistinct wall of sand bags, tree trunks, and earth,
earth, earth.
I smoke about eight cigarettes for every four hours on
guard. I don’t smoke at half-hour
intervals. I might smoke one now, one in fifteen minutes…or better still,
seventeen minutes, then another in forty-two minutes.
You know me, “Always thinking.”
I listen well. Indistinct as a sound may be, if you
carefully and quietly move your position, maybe you can hear it some more, and
triangulate the source.
If it gets too close, then worry. What if a flare pops off
behind my head, and silhouettes me against the sky? Your ears are very
important, more than some will ever know. I worked one summer in a sawmill. I wore
ear plugs. Most of the guys didn’t. Most men are fools, aren’t they? I have
noticed that. Don’t get me wrong: it’s all just a part of the grand spectacle
of life. I love them just the same, in spite of all the trouble they have caused
me and sometimes you have to kill some of them. That’s just the way it is.
There is no morality anymore, and why pretend otherwise?
So don’t try to fucking lie to me. Lie to someone else. But
not me.
Always aware. My heart pounds, and I try not too breathe too
loudly. Someone might hear.
My very breath can give me away. If an enemy raiding party
is out there, they are being damned
quiet about it.
I relax and move on somewhere. It is not a game, I do not do
it to pass the time or keep warm. Our very lives depend on it. I know too well,
from experience, just how a trench raid is conducted. Oh no, it is not a pretty
thing. Carried out in a quiet and efficient manner, it is short, sharp and
brutal.
You don’t need guns if you get up close. A rifle is useless
at night in close quarters, unless a man really knows what he is about. A
shovel is best…a shovel, sharpened like an axe. In the trenches, the shovel is
man’s best friend, not the dog, not the pipe, not the rifle, that’s for sure.
A rifle is not much use against the enemy artillery, or our
own, for that matter. Only the shovel can save us.
We read the “Merchant of Venice” in school. Shylock, he
couldn’t get justice, because the magistrate ruled, that he did not have a
right to spill a drop of blood in the taking of it. Even though the magistrate
admitted Shylock was entitled to the “pound of flesh.”
The teacher taught us; “you can’t get your pound of flesh
without spilling a drop of blood,” i.e. revenge is bad. Well, tell me something
I don’t know.
Did she miss the point? What is justice? A man is arrested
for burglary…he is sent to jail. Maybe he did it, let’s say.
Now his wife and kids have to go hungry. There’s your drop
of blood, Your Honour.
There’s your drop of blood. And why did he have to steal in
the first place? Is it because he couldn’t feed his wife and kids? Every crime
is a political statement. Even Jack the Ripper knew that. Shakespeare knew it
too.
There is no justice, that is the truth. And that is why wars
happen.
Without looking, without counting, I would bet there are ten
thousand guys out here all within a half dozen miles each way. Yet the night is
deadly still, as I feel the tiny lick of snowflakes on my face, up around my
eyes which are the only things exposed.
And not one of them had any choice in the matter.
Right here, right now, I am the only justice, I am the only
God. And I choose…to hold my fire. I think I’ve seen that fat-faced mutt
before, he was kicked in the butt by a “Fritzie” corporal one day. I almost
feel like that one’s a buddy.
The moon has gone again. You ought to be more careful,
fat-faced man.
The enemy stretcher party has moved away, and now would be
the time for a raid; they probably co-ordinate things like that, it only makes
sense. But I hear nothing.
The sergeant passes by. He never talks to me out here, but
he has to check on some of the men, and it is his duty after all. He would
prefer not to have to, no doubt. Sarge isn’t such a bad guy once you get to
know him. He has a wife and three kids…and would like to see them again.
My watch, it tells me there is one hour to go, then I can
sleep for a while, and thank God for that.
Sleep is the last refuge of the truly unhappy.
I wonder when my mail will come. Maybe never.
Fuck.
They say – I think it was St. John of the Cross, “Salvation
can be gained through suffering.”
Are you sure? Times like this a man would welcome a transfer
to submarines…it would be warmer and drier. A transfer? Where would I go? Out
of the frying pan and into the fire…right? Who knows. It just might be worth
it, to be warm and dry for a while.
Even if it’s just for a little while.
END
