View source for XIX CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES

<CENTER><FONT SIZE="+3"></FONT><FONT SIZE="+3">XIX</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2"></FONT><br><br>

<FONT SIZE="+2">CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES</FONT><br><br></center>

<br><br>WINTER had arrived and it was icy cold. The trenches, all of
which had underground water, had been turned into mere mud holes.
The cold at night was intense, and we had to do 48 hours' work
with 12 hours' sleep. Every week we had to make an attack the
result of which was in no proportion to the immense losses. During
the entire four months that I was in the Argonnes we had a gain
of terrain some 400 yards deep. The following fact will show the
high price that was paid in human life for that little piece of
France. All the regiments (some of these were the infantry regiments
Nos. 145, 67, 173, and the Hirschberg sharpshooting battalion
No. 5) had their own cemetery. When we were relieved in the Argonnes
there were more dead in our cemetery than our regiment counted
men. The 67th regiment had buried more than 2000 men in its cemetery,
all of whom, with the exception of a few sappers, had belonged
to regiment No. 67. Not a day passed without the loss of human
lives, and on a &quot;storming day&quot; death had an extraordinarily
rich harvest. Each day had its victims, sometimes more, sometimes
fewer. It must appear quite natural that under such conditions
the soldiers were not in the best of moods. The men were all completely
stupefied. Just as they formerly went to work regularly to feed
the wife and children they now went to the trenches in just the
same regular way. That business of slaughtering and working had
become an every day affair. When they conversed it was always
the army leaders, the Crown Prince and Lieutenant-General von
Mudra, the general in command of the 16th Army Corps, that were
most criticized..

<br><br>The troops in the Argonnes belonged to the 16th Army Corps,
to the 33rd and 34th division of infantry. Neither of the two
leaders, neither the Crown Prince nor von Mudra, have I ever seen
in the trenches. The staff of the Crown Prince had among its members
the old General-Fieldmarshal Count von Haeseler, the former commander
of the 16th Army Corps, a man who in times of peace was already
known as a relentless slave driver. The &quot;triplets,&quot;
as we called the trio, the Crown Prince, von Mudra, and Count
von Haeseler, were more hated by most of the soldiers than the
Frenchman who was out with his gun to take our miserable life.

<br><br>Many miles behind the front the scion of the Hohenzollerns
found no difficulty to spout his &quot;knock them hard!&quot;
and, at the price of thousands of human lives, to make himself
popular with the patriots at home who were sitting there behind
the snug stove or at the beer table complaining that we did not
advance fast enough. Von Mudra got the order &quot;Pour le m&eacute;rite&quot;;
they did not think of his soldiers who had not seen a bed, nor
taken off their trousers or boots for months; these were provided
with food and shells, and were almost being eaten up by vermin,

<br><br>That we were covered with body lice was not to be wondered
at, for we had scarcely enough water for drinking purposes, and
could not think of having a wash. We had worn our clothes for
months without changing them; the hair on our heads and our beards
had grown to great length. When we had some hours in which to
rest, the lice would not let us sleep.

<br><br>The air in the shelters was downright pestiferous, and to that
foul stench of perspiration and putrefaction was added the plague
of lice. At times one was sitting up for hours and could not sleep,
though one was dead tired. One could catch lice, and the more
one caught the worse they got. We were urgently in want of sleep,
but it was impossible to close the eyes on account of the vermin.
We led a loathsome, pitiful life, and at times we said to one
another that nobody at home even suspected the condition we were
in. We often told one another that if later on we should relate
to our families the facts as they really were they would not believe
them. Many soldiers tried to put our daily experience in verse.
There were many of such jingles illustrating our barbarous handicraft.

<br><br>It was in the month of December and the weather was extremely
cold. At times we often stood in the trenches with the mud running
into our trousers' pockets. In those icy cold nights we used to
sit in the trenches almost frozen to a lump of ice, and when utter
exhaustion sometimes vanquished us and put us to sleep we found
our boots frozen to the ground on waking up. Quite a number of
soldiers suffered from frost-bitten limbs; it was mostly their
toes that were frost-bitten. They had to be taken to the hospital.
The soldiers on duty fired incessantly so as to keep their fingers
warm.

<br><br>Not all the soldiers are as a rule kept ready to give battle.
If no attack is expected or intended, only sentries occupy the
trench. About three yards apart a man is posted behind his protective
shield of steel. Nevertheless all the men are in the trench. The
sentries keep their section under a continual fire, especially
when it is cold and dark. The fingers get warm when one pulls
the trigger. Of course, one cannot aim in the darkness, and the
shots are fired at random. The sentry sweeps his section so that
no hostile patrol can approach, for he is never safe in that thicket.
Thus it happens that the firing is generally more violent at night
than at day; but there is never an interval. The rifles are fired
continually; the bullets keep whistling above our trench and patter
against the branches. The mines, too, come flying over at night,
dropping at a high angle. Everybody knows the scarcely audible
thud, and knows at once that it is a mine without seeing anything.
He warns the others by calling out, &quot;Mine coming!&quot; and
everybody looks in the darkness for the &quot;glow-worm,&quot;
i.e., the burning fuse of the mine. The glowing fuse betrays the
direction of the mine, and there are always a few short seconds
left to get round some corner. Thee same is the case with the
hand grenades. They, too, betray the line of their flight at night
by their burning fuse. If they do not happen to arrive in too
great numbers one mostly succeeds in getting out of their way.
In daylight that is not so hard because one can overlook everything.
It often happens that one cannot save oneself in time from the
approaching hand grenade. In that case there is only one alternative---either
to remain alive or be torn to atoms. Should a hand grenade suddenly
fall before one's feet one picks it up without hesitation as swiftly
as possible and throws it away, if possible back into the enemy's
trench. Often, however, the fuse is of such a length that the
grenade does not even explode after reaching the enemy's trench
again, and the Frenchman throws it back again with fabulous celerity.
In order to avoid the danger of having a grenade returned the
fuse is made as short as possible, and yet a grenade will come
back now and again in spite of all. To return a grenade is of
course dangerous work, but a man has no great choice; if he leaves
the grenade where it drops he is lost, as he cannot run away;
and he knows he will be crushed to atoms, and thus his only chance
is to pick up the grenade and throw it away even at the risk of
having the bomb explode in his hand. I know of hand grenades thrown
by the French that flew hither and thither several times. One
was thrown by the French and immediately returned; it came back
again in an instant, and again we threw it over to them; it did
not reach the enemy's trench that time, but exploded in the air.

<br><br>Though in general the infantry bullets cannot do much damage
while one is in the trench it happens daily that men are killed
by ricochet bullets. The thousands of bullets that cut through
the air every minute all pass above our heads. But some strike
a tree or branch and glance off. If in that case they hit a man
in the trench they cause terrible injuries, because they do not
strike with their heads but lengthwise. Whenever we heard of dum-dum
bullets we thought of those ricochet bullets, though we did not
doubt that there were dum-dum bullets in existence. I doubt, however,
if dum-dum bullets are manufactured in factories, for the following
reasons: first, because a dum-dum bullet can easily damage the
barrel of a rifle and make it useless; secondly, because the average
soldier would refuse to carry such ammunition, for if a man is
captured and such bullets are found on him, the enemy in whose
power he is would punish him by the laws of war as pitilessly
as such an inhuman practice deserves to be punished. Generally,
of course, a soldier only executes his orders.

<br><br>However, there exist dum-dum bullets, as I mentioned before.
They are manufactured by the soldiers themselves. If the point
is filed or cut off a German infantry bullet, so that the nickel
case is cut through and the lead core is laid bare, the bullet
explodes when striking or penetrating an object. Should a man
be hit in the upper arm by such a projectile the latter, by its
explosive force, can mangle the arm to such an extent that it
only hangs by a piece of skin.

<br><br>Christmas came along, and we still found ourselves at the same
place without any hope of a change. We received all kinds of gifts
from our relations at home and other people. We were at last able
to change our underwear which we had worn for months.

<br><br>Christmas in the trenches! It was bitterly cold. We had procured
a pine tree, for there were no fir trees to be had. We had decorated
the tree with candles and cookies, and had imitated the snow with
wadding.

<br><br>Christmas trees were burning everywhere in the trenches, and
at midnight all the trees were lifted on to the parapet with their
burning candles, and along the whole line German soldiers began
to sing Christmas songs in chorus. &quot;0, thou blissful, 0,
thou joyous, mercy bringing Christmas time!&quot; Hundreds of
men were singing the song in that fearful wood. Not a shot was
fired; the French had ceased firing along the whole line. That
night I was with a company that was only five paces away from
the enemy. The Christmas candles were burning brightly, and were
renewed again and again. For the first time we heard no shots.

<br><br>From everywhere, throughout the forest, one could hear powerful
carols come floating over &quot;Peace on earth---&quot;

<br><br>The French left their trenches and stood on the parapet without
any fear. There they stood, quite overpowered by emotion, and
all of them with cap in hand. We, too, had issued from our trenches.
We exchanged gifts with the French---chocolate, cigarettes, etc.
They were all laughing, and so were we; why, we did not know.
Then everybody went back to his trench, and incessantly the carol
resounded, ever more solemnly, ever more longingly---&quot;O,
thou blissful---&quot;

<br><br>All around silence reigned; even the murdered trees seemed
to listen; the charm continued, and one scarcely dared to speak.
Why could it not always be as peaceful? We thought and thought,
we were as dreamers, and had forgotten everything about us. Suddenly
a shot rang out; then another one was fired somewhere. The spell
was broken. All rushed to their rifles. A rolling fire. Our Christmas
was over.

<br><br>We took up again our old existence. A young infantryman stood
next to me. He tried to get out of the trench. I told him: &quot;Stay
here; the French will shoot you to pieces.&quot; &quot;I left
a box of cigars up there, and must have it back.&quot; Another
one told him to wait till things quieted down somewhat. &quot;They
won't hit me; I have been here three months, and they never caught
me yet.&quot; &quot; As you wish; go ahead! &quot;

<br><br>Scarcely had he put his head above the parapet when he tumbled
back. Part of his brains was sticking to my belt. His cap flew
high up into the air. His skull was shattered. He was dead on
the spot. His trials were over. The cigars were later on fetched
by another man.

<br><br>On the following Christmas day an army order was read out.
We were forbidden to wear or have in our possession things of
French origin; for every soldier who was found in possession of
such things would be put before a court-martial as a marauder
by the French if they captured him. We were forbidden to use objects
captured from the French, and we were especially forbidden to
make use of woolen blankets, because the French were infected
with scabies. Scabies is an itching skin disease, which it takes
at least a week to cure. But the order had a contrary effect.
If one was the owner of such an &quot; itch-blanket &quot; one
had a chance of getting into the hospital for some days. The illness
was not of a serious nature, and one was at least safe from bullets
for a few days. Every day soldiers were sent to the hospital,
and we, too, were watching for a chance to grab such a French
blanket. What did a man care, if he could only get out of that
hell!
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