"They're strafing again," he said. "The damned pastime will never come to an end."
CHAPTER VII
CHRISTMAS DAY
Blurry well freezin' and cold as sin,
Christmas Day in the mornin';
The big guns welcome the Saviour in,
Christmas Day in the mornin';
Used to have fingers and used to have toes,
Used to have ears as well as a nose,
But now I don't think that I've any of those
Christmas Day in the mornin'.
Wish we was safe in a stall to-day,
Christmas Day in the mornin';
Watching the cattle munchin' their hay,
Christmas Day in the mornin';
The Prince of Peace was born, we're told,
Snug in a stall in the days of old;
Lord, look down on us 'ere in the cold,
On Christmas Day in the mornin'.
(From "Carols of Good Will.")
The dawn was at hand, the dawn of Christmas Day. Fitzgerald was standing on the firestep looking over No Man's Land towards the enemy's trenches. It was his hour on sentry-go. The rain was still falling, and his hands and feet felt very cold, but he was powerless to restore any warmth to his body by moving about. To leave the firestep for a moment was dangerous. He knew that if he stuck in the mud of the trench he could not extricate himself, for he felt utterly worn out. He had been warm enough when he went on watch owing to the rum which he had drunk, but now he was shivering as if his whole being had been stricken with ague. He tried to warm his legs by striking one against the other, but his feet felt so heavy that he desisted after two or three ineffectual endeavours to release them from the mud. The slightest movement was a monstrous futility, and now that it had become so difficult to move he did not want to remain still, and he had the greatest desire in the world to be free-footed and doing something.
The Germans were shelling the sector on the right, and the chill, wet morning was lit up by the lurid flashes of bursting explosives. The air was full of the rumbling and crashing of the conflict; shells sped across the trench, careering towards some distant objective, probably the village, where old Bowdy was routing out the essentials for a Christmas dinner. And Bowdy had not returned yet; some nine hours had gone by since he departed on his mission.
"Probably he has got blown to pieces," Fitzgerald muttered. "Poor old Bowdy."