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It was a quiet, clear night, for once. No guns, no gas, no sorties. Crowley wondered who was responsible. Not the generals, that was for sure - they'd been crapping their upper-class underpants in 1914 when the soldiers started singing and playing football, afraid that Tommy and Fritz might realise they were just both malnourished, hoodwinked boys who had far more in common with each other than with the bastards in London and Berlin who'd sent them off to die. No, the generals wouldn't want the men given a chance to start thinking on Christmas Eve.
"Evening, sir."
"Evening, Byrne," Crowley said absently, looking up into the cold, star-filled sky.
He could feel Corporal Byrne hesitating, wondering how he could persuade his captain to go and take some rest. The men's concern for him infuriated and amused him by turns, although he was finding it harder and harder to see the humour in it. What he needed, he thought, was some leave miles from the front. A few nights undisturbed sleep would do him the world of good. He could forget about everythi--
"Cigarette, sir?"
Crowley turned, wondering how best to refuse. The cigarettes the men had were disgusting. Byrne was looking at him hopefully, as if Crowley'd be doing him a favour. With an internal sigh Crowley took a cigarette and accepted a light.
"Not a bad night, Captain," Byrne said.
"At least the mud's frozen," Crowley said. "It makes a change to walk on top of it for once."
"It does that, sir," Byrne smiled. Then, "It's getting late, Captain. Shouldn't we turn in?"
"In a little, Byrne," Crowley said. "I'm waiting for something."
"For what, sir?" Byrne asked. "D'you think the shelling's going to start up?"
"No," Crowley said, letting his attention drift. "No, I'm waiting for something else."
Byrne stood silently by him, too polite to ask questions though Crowley heard them anyway. The minutes ticked by and at last the sky lit up from horizon to horizon and the whole earth rang with music. Crowley stared up, entranced, and after a moment found he was tapping out the beat on his thigh. He forced himself to stop and put his hand in his pocket to remind him not to start again.
"Merry Christmas, Byrne," he said quietly. "Good night."
"Merry Christmas, sir," Byrne said to his retreating back.
Crowley picked his way down the trench over the frozen mud and past the shallow dug-outs that were all his men had towards his own cold bed where he knew he would lie awake, thinking about war.
All around, he heard voices singing of peace on earth.