A Festive Ceasefire

 

The main lights dim and a soft spotlight focuses on a large armchair set against a back drop of a Victorian parlour. In the armchair sits Mrs Poo. She is dressed as her ancestor, Captain Poo, in army uniform, and even has a small moustache attached to her upper beak because she felt it added to the armed forces vibe. The ghost of Captain Poo is perched on the footstool at her feet. She is wondering if the presence of the small moustache is wholly necessary but does not say anything because her focus is on hearing her story being told, for when her story is told, the memory of her life will not fade.

Mrs Poo opens a large storybook.

‘It is 1917 and Captain Poo of the Queen’s Own Yorkshire Dragoons, was sitting in a trench bunker. It was freezing – ice lined the trenches and the soldiers were permanently wet and cold. They were running short of supplies and all wishing this war would come to an end. To make matters seem worse, it was Christmas Eve and everyone was missing their families and thinking of the festivities that would be happening at home without them. Although they knew they would be remembered in their families’ thoughts and prayers, absence is a cruel cross that all must bear.

‘Well, this is cheerful,’ whispers Tango Pete to Mrs Miggins.

‘It’s the reality of war,’ sighs Mrs Miggins. ‘War achieves nothing but misery. It really is the most stupid and pointless of activities.’

Mrs Poo continues. ‘Captain Poo set her mind to thinking how she could relieve the sadness in the trenches, even if it was just for the festival of Christmas Day, and as she took her turn on patrol, she gazed up at the sky for inspiration. It was a clear and frosty night and the sky is smothered in stars. It was so peaceful up there in the wider Universe, so unlike the horror and noises of battle here on Earth. Her patrol finished at 2 a.m and, with a heavy heart, she returned to her bunk uninspired.

At 6 a.m, Captain Poo woke but not to the usual sounds of battle – to the sound of silence. It was eerie in its presence, sinister even. Something has happened, she thought. She rose from her bunk and ventured into the trenches. There, standing by one of the trench ladders, was Lieutenant Pigeon, her second-in-command.

‘Can you hear that, Ma’am?’ said Lieutenant Pigeon. ‘It’s all gone quiet. I don’t like it one bit. Something is afoot, and it’s not this lumpy thing on the end of my leg.’

Gradually, they were joined by the other soldiers in their platoon – Dicky Ticker, Buffy Orpington, Squidgy Bumfluff and more. And they all stood still, in the bigger stillness, all of them afraid to move and spoil this moment of calm.

‘Merry Christmas, Captain Poo,’ whispered Lieutenant Pigeon, and he reached out and shook her wing with his.

‘Merry Christmas to you, too, old chap,’ she returned, and, taking their cue from their officers, seasons’ greetings began to spread in whispers along the trench amongst the platoon.

And then they heard a voice above the trenches.

‘Guten Morgen, englische Soldaten! Frohe Weihnachten euch allen!’

‘What’s that?’ said Dicky Ticker.

‘Sounds German to me,’ said Buffy Orpington. ‘I think they’re wishing us Merry Christmas.’

And then – ‘Wir nennen einen Tag des Friedens!’

Lieutenant Pigeon, who spoke a bit of German, turned to Captain Poo. ‘Ma’am, they want to have a day of peace.’

‘A ceasefire for Christmas Day,’ said Captain Poo.

‘It’ll be a trick,’ warned Dicky Ticker. ‘You can’t trust those Germans, Ma’am. Look what they did to the form and taste of the good old sausage. Not like our dependable British banger, that’s for sure.’

There was a muttering of consent amongst the ranks. There’s one thing that should never be messed with and that’s a sausage. Yet something inside Captain Poo, some gut instinct, sensed this call for a truce might be genuine.

‘What if it’s real, though,’ she said. ‘What if the Germans are just as fed up of all this senseless fighting as we are? They are human beings like us, after all. They feel and think the same. They are only in their trench, like we are in ours, because of the commands of pompous military bigwigs who are probably sitting in their cosy camps as we speak scoffing eggs and bacon, and toasting themselves with champagne.’

As she spoke, Captain Poo could feel a ball of anger rise within her. Thousands of people dying because of the political whims of the elite few. Where’s the fairness in that?

‘I say we take a chance and go up into No Man’s Land,’ she announced.

At that exact moment, an object flew over the top of the trench and landed with a plop in the mud. Everyone ducked and waited for the explosion. But no – nothing happened and the object, small and round, sat in the mud, wrapped in old newspaper.

Tentatively, Lieutenant Pigeon picked up the object and unwrapped it. He looked at Captain Poo.

‘Gingerbread, Ma’am,’ he said.

Well! Captain Poo knew then that all would be well, that today, Christmas Day, would be one of respite and peace from this war.

Everyone scurried back into the bunker and gathered up what small parcels of Christmas cheer they had received from their families. And then they climbed carefully up the trench ladders and into No Man’s Land.

Standing there already was the opposing platoon of German soldiers, quietly and bearing their own meagre parcels of food. And it wasn’t long before human spirit and camaraderie broke through the sides of opposition, and they were all shaking hands and exchanging Christmas greetings.

And then you’ll never guess what they played?

‘Football?’ shouts someone from the audience.

Mrs Poo looks at them in disgust. ‘Certainly not!’ she says. ‘Have you any idea how cold it was? Far too cold for shorts, that’s for sure. And running around on all that dangerous ice? I don't think. No, the soldiers built a huge fire instead, and engaged in a jolly good bridge tournament. Who wants to play football on Christmas Day when you can sit around with other decent folk, chatting, smoking pipes and sharing food?’

The audience murmurs in agreement. Mrs Pumphrey wonders if the soldiers had a tin of Quality Street to share. Or a box of sticky figs with those weird little wooden forks.

‘What a lovely story,’ says Mrs Miggins, coming onto the Victorian set. ‘Thank you, Captain Poo. It must have been a Christmas you remembered for the rest of your life.’

‘It certainly was,’ says Captain Poo. ‘I was dead by New Year’s Day. After we returned to our own trenches, I tripped over that block of gingerbread that the German’s had flung over, and impaled myself on some barbed wire. Sepsis and a lack of decent medical facilities soon sent me packing across the Rainbow Bridge.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Miggins, who hadn’t been expecting that non-festive turn of events. ‘Perhaps we’ll move on to the next ghost story…’

And she waves her wing for a change of scene.