CHAPTER VI
CHRISTMAS EVE
The sergeant's water bottle's full,
But it is strange to see
The sergeant on the 'ear'ole for
Some water for his tea.
But ain't it strange when night is on
And we are out o' sight,
The sergeant takes his bottle out
And swigs from it all night
Cold water—
Co-o-old water—
Co-o, o-o, o-o, o-o, co-o-old water.
(From "The Lost Rum Ration.")
It was about seven o'clock in the evening and an unusual silence brooded over the Loos Salient. In the trenches the silence always broods; the soldiers, not knowing what the moment may bring forth, are uneasy; and the eternal hidden menace of the Unknown is intensified by the stillness. The evening was intensely dark; black, impenetrable shadows bulked in the trenches and became the colour of the parapet, parados and bay. Objects quite near at hand took on strange fantastic shapes and looked like men lying asleep on the firesteps; only a closer examination would show that the phantoms were sandbags or ammunition boxes. Many of the boys were smoking; the lighted cigarettes glowed like rubies set in an illimitable spread of ebony.
It was raining; a soft, almost caressing rain dropped sleekly and helplessly down on the firing line. In this manner it had been falling for hours; the trenches were filled to the firestep with slush and muck; the duck-boards were afloat, and men changing their position in the trench clambered out over the top and walked along the reverse slope of the parapet. Now and again a wayfarer stuck in the clinging quicksand of the trench floor, only to free himself when he succeeded in climbing out of his Wellington boots.
Fitzgerald sat down on the firestep and sank into the soft mud. So complete was the stillness that he could distinctly hear all the varied sounds of the night mingling together in a long-drawn, slumberous murmur. The far-off death lullaby of a heavy shell, the soft, quivering croon of the damp wind, the sough of a boot as a soldier walked along the trench; the vague murmurings from a near dug-out, the enervating sizzle of falling rain, and the varied, indefinable night movements of Nature blended sleepily together in a slumber that made for nightmares and fevered dreams.
Fitzgerald dozed off, only to wake in an instant by hearing voices speaking very close to him.
"Spudhole, my rifle is full of dirt; half a sandbag of chalk has gone down the barrel," said the voice of Bowdy Benners.