Winds of Eden by Catrin Collier Read Free Book Online Page B

shoulders and set it on the mat. ‘At ease.’
    â€˜Welcome, Major Crabbe, Captain Smythe, sirs, and a Merry Christmas,’ the sergeant offered them a tin plate that held half a dozen crackers.
    â€˜We would pour you a drink, sirs, but all we have is chlorinated Tigris water with a dash of lime. You’re welcome to try it.’ Private Evans picked up his flask and tin mug in readiness.
    â€˜We’re here to offer you Christmas cheer, not the other way round.’ Crabbe eyed a line of socks pinned to the side of the trench with tent pegs. One had no foot and a wag, he suspected Private Evans, had placed a bucket beneath it with another crayoned sign,
    THANK YOU SANTA. OVERFLOW TO FALL BELOW.
    Peter crouched down, opened his kit bag and fumbled through the contents with his mittened hands. He pulled out five packs of cigarettes, a couple of bars of chocolate and a bottle of Turkish brandy and placed them in the pail.
    â€˜Thank you, sirs. That’s jolly nice of you,’ Sergeant Lane picked up the brandy.
    â€˜Never thought I’d see Santa wearing an officer’s uniform, Major Crabbe, Captain Smythe.’
    â€˜He comes in all guises, Private Evans. These are from the late Lieutenant Colonel Downe’s personal private store, and they’re to be shared between two dozen.’
    â€˜We’ll drink a toast to him, sirs. May he find a good stock of brandy as well as peace in heaven.’ Private Evans took the cigarettes from the pail and handed them out.
    â€˜Amen to that,’ Crabbe voice wavered with suppressed emotion.
    Peter averted his eyes. ‘We have more Dorset dugouts to visit, so if you’ll excuse us.’
    â€˜Yes, sirs. Thank you, sirs, and Merry Christmas.’
    Peter and Crabbe continued walking to the outer defences to a tuneless ‘ For they are jolly good fellas … ’.
    When they reached the front line they distributed the store of cigarettes, whisky, brandy and chocolate they’d taken from Harry’s private supply and supplemented with donations they’d begged from fellow officers.
    They passed sappers trying to divest themselves of dirt accumulated during a day spent digging, deepening, and widening the trenches that had become ‘home’. Men with torn and bloodied hands and faces who’d returned from laying swathes of barbed wire in no-man’s-land, waiting their turn for a bucket of cold water and sliver of soap. They stepped over corporals and privates curled in blankets who were trying to sleep on the damp, frozen ground.
    Peter tripped as they left the forward line to enter the fort to be greeted by, ‘I’m not a bloody football.’
    He crouched down, slid back the shutter that concealed the flame of his oil lamp, and saw a hump of soldier swathed in full uniform, blankets, muffler, mittens, balaclava, and boots stretched on the ground.
    â€˜And we’re not bloody privates, private!’ Crabbe snarled.
    â€˜Sorry, sirs.’ The man recognised Crabbe’s voice and jumped up. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to come along here.’
    â€˜Not on picket duty, are you, corporal?’ Crabbe questioned.
    Sleeping on duty was a capital offence, punishment to be carried out immediately.
    â€˜No, sir. Just finished duty in a forward redoubt, sir. It’s taking in water so I thought I’d find somewhere drier to kip.’
    Crabbe gave the man a pack of cigarettes and a bar of chocolate. ‘There’s brandy up the line. Glad to see you kept your boots on.’
    To the medics’ annoyance a command had been passed down on Christmas Eve ordering the ranks to keep their boots on day and night, and not to remove them under any circumstances and penalty of court martial. The doctors had warned that adherence could lead to crippling infections, but the staff had ignored the advice.
    Peter glanced over his shoulder at the corporal as the man rolled himself, chocolate,