Chapter 21 #3
“Cheers,” she told them both, handing back the drink.
There were handshakes and pats on the back as if they were merely old school rivals and not soldiers bent on killing each other for days and weeks and years on end.
Somewhere, deep within the crowd, a voice that could only belong to Rook began to sing “Silent Night,” and the rest of the soldiers quieted down, joining in with their respective tongues.
English, German, and Italian—Ash looked around at everyone singing, different languages but all the same song, and for a moment she couldn’t tell who was on her side and who was on theirs.
They were all just people, and she wondered—if they could get the generals in a field together, the Kaiser and the King, singing Christmas carols under a moonlit sky and sharing strong drink that warmed them from the inside out—could the whole thing be over with by Tuesday?
Unable to hold back any longer, Ash found the harmony, finally allowed to sing along with the boys. They lifted their voices together as one, for the men who’d been slain on both sides, for their hopes and aspirations, for their families far away.
And when the song ended and peaceful silence blanketed the battlefield, she felt like weeping—until another roaring cheer went up from the intermingled crowd. Someone had brought out a football just as Rook had suggested.
His hand landed heavy on her shoulder. “Dry your eyes, Little Bird. We need your fleet footwork on the pitch. For England!” he roared, with such gravitas it might as well be the Olympics.
Back home, Ash had always watched the boys play, heartbroken to be excluded. But she was one of them now, and, as with the singing, she finally had her chance.
Cooper scrounged some boards and netting out of the trench to use for goals, and soon they were ready.
The Germans were very fit, and they were all much bigger than Ashley, but it was a friendly match and no one tackled very hard.
When she slipped and fell after nearly scoring, a German stood over her, offering a hand up, and together they ran back to rejoin the action.
Dusty kept time on the sidelines, while Lieutenant Hawkins glowered at them all from the edge of the parapet, fists shoved deep in his pockets.
Opposite him, along the German line, one of their officers glared out in much the same way, arms crossed angrily over his chest. At one point he nodded to Hawkins, who nodded back, each approving of the other’s disapproval.
Everyone else, though, lined the makeshift pitch whooping and hollering and cheering the players on.
The score was tied two on two when one of the Italians tripped over a tackle and twisted his ankle.
He was helped off the pitch by a Scot on his left side and a German on his right, and though he insisted he was uninjured, his commander forbade him rejoining the fray, leaving the Allies one man down.
Rook called on a few different fellows to sub in, but everyone’s head was thick with drink, so Captain Davies removed his greatcoat and jogged onto the field of play to the loudest cheering yet.
“Give ’em hell, sir,” Rook said.
“It’s been quite some time since school,” the captain replied skeptically.
“Easy as marching, sir,” Cooper assured him.
The game resumed, and Captain Davies held his own. He could mark his man well enough, and rusty or not, his footwork was as good as anyone else’s except for Coop.
“You’ve been holding out on us, sir,” Ash called as she ran past him, grinning.
Then, with the Germans closing in fast, the captain passed Ashley the ball, and she turned and kicked it as hard as she could towards the goal. It slipped in, though barely, and the Allied crowd erupted as loud as Big Bertha’s screaming shells.
Dusty blew the whistle—Allies winning, three to two.
“Brilliant shot,” Captain Davies said, wrangling Ash around the neck with one arm. “You may have a bright future after the war, but we must have a very serious discussion about which team you join, and why it should be Wolverhampton.”
“Only as good as the assist, sir. And I suppose it’s West Ham for me,” Ash told him.
“Abominable,” he scoffed, releasing his hold and shoving her playfully away.
In truth, West Ham was the hometown favorite, rivaling only Millwall, but after knowing Cooper, Ash would be a fan of The Arsenal to her dying day.
As the sun threatened to show itself in the eastern sky, the opponents shook hands with their counterparts one last time.
They exchanged chocolates and pots of jam, and then headed back into their burrows to prepare for the rain of fire that would likely descend the moment the Yuletide spell was broken.
“Thank you,” Ash whispered to Rook, settling back against the trench wall, listening to the blessed silence, a half-drunk smile upon her face. She felt as though, in refusing to fire, Rook had brought about a miracle that night. And she had needed it. They all had.
The ever-present smirk turned up one corner of his mouth. “Happy Christmas, Little Bird.”
“And God bless us, every one,” she whispered.