Work Text:
A summons from headquarters was generally about as welcome as a gang of drunken wasps at the all-England cake decorating championships, but nonetheless, it beat staying in the dugout. Blackadder took his time making his way over to Staff HQ, where he found Captain Darling industriously scribbling at his desk. "Busy day, Darling?" he said.
"Well, yes, actually. I just spent all morning drawing little curly borders on the general's Christmas party invitations- now see here, Blackadder!" He belatedly remembered just who he was talking to. "This kind of flagrant insubordination will not stand!"
"Oh, well, in that case I'll sit." He took a seat, but there was barely time to witness Darling twitch before the door to the inner office swung open and General Melchett emerged. He was wearing a skewed party hat with a napkin tied around his neck, and accompanied by the sounds of the late-stage cocktail party going on within. Blackadder bounced back up out of his chair. "Ah, General Melchett. Not keeping you from any vital contribution to the war effort, I hope?" he said.
"Just a little discreet and tasteful celebration to keep everybody's peckers up," the general said, removing the napkin to reveal he was wearing a pair of comedy breasts beneath. "The Hun may be huddled in their damp, miserable trenches eating cold sausage, but we'll show them our goose is cooked!"
"I see," he said. "And while our men are huddled in their damp, miserable trenches eating cold corned beef?"
"Proves the fighting spirit of the valiant British Tommy!" Melchett said, proudly thrusting out his augmented chest. "In fact, there's only one thing that could dent their morale now."
"The ceaseless bombardment, appalling conditions, and dull depression as reality sets in that once again the war will not be 'over by Christmas'?" Blackadder suggested.
"Don't be ridiculous, man," he said. "I'm talking about the carol singing!"
"The carol singing," he echoed carefully.
"This is serious, Blackadder," Darling interjected, all but quivering with indignation. "There are reports of Germans singing Silent Night all the way up and down the front line!"
"Ah, yes. Sarcastic bastards." The last time he'd had a silent night he'd been temporarily deaf after Baldrick had decided to keep their explosive stocks dry by lighting a nice fire in the ammunition dump.
"This is the greatest threat to the British Army's morale since Field Marshal Haig's pet tortoise Alan went off his lettuce!" Melchett said. "We can't have the Boche corrupting our good, clean English Christmas carols by singing them in German."
Darling raised his pencil helpfully. "Ah, actually, sir, I believe Silent Night was originally written in German," he said.
"Argh!" Melchett jumped backwards in shock and pointed at him accusingly. "They've even got to you, Darling. Is no one safe from this insidious propaganda?"
"Sir, the Germans may very well be attacking our line with weaponised Christmas carols, but I'm not entirely clear what you expect our men to do about it," said Blackadder. "Perhaps we could send over a polite note asking them to go back to shelling?"
"It's obvious," the general said. "We need our boys to out-sing the Germans. Give them a taste of their own medicine!"
"Well, considering we've been consistently failing to beat them at warfare all this time, I suppose it's not a bad idea to change the game," he said. "In fact, I only foresee one possible problem. 'Our boys' are about as musically talented as an elephant with a head cold that's managed to get its trunk stuck in a concertina."
"Ah, well, that's where we bring out our secret weapon," Melchett said triumphantly. "It just so happens Darling here is one of the stars of the Women's Auxiliary Balloon Corps choir." He gave his aide a hearty clap on the shoulder that sent him staggering.
Blackadder turned and raised a single fine eyebrow.
"Look, Mrs Wilberforce can't sing the soprano parts all by herself," Darling said defensively.
"He'll accompany you back to the trenches tonight to lead the troops in a rousing Christmas sing-song," Melchett said. "In fact, I insist that you throw them a right roaring knees-up. Have the men decorate the trenches and play some of those terribly amusing party games with balloons and lampshades. That ought to put the wind up Jerry's skirts!"
The silver lining to this deeply unwelcome news was that it was clearly even less welcome to Darling. "But, sir!" he said, dismayed. "What about the party here?"
Melchett gave him an avuncular pat on the shoulder. "Yes, yes, I know you were prepared to sacrifice your evening to keep this old walrus company - the boredom of entertaining French girls all night long, the need to keep on drinking endless glasses of wine. Well, never fear! Instead of being stuck here picking at all those bitty vol-au-vents and disgustingly sugary confections, you'll be down there in the dirt with all the regular Tommies, getting stuck into some properly filling British grub."
"Which, indeed, is often filled with British grubs," Blackadder said. "Bringing me, with the appropriate sense of foreboding, to the matter of feeding the troops at this Christmas party."
"Ah, yes." The general gave a benevolent smile. "I'm sure our resources can stretch to a couple of Christmas puddings."
"So that would be two puddings between the two hundred and twenty-seven of us?" he checked.
"Don't be ridiculous, Blackadder! Think for a few seconds, man," he said. "You'll have Darling with you."
"Oh, of course, how silly of me. Two hundred and twenty-eight."
*
"Right," Blackadder said to Baldrick and George once he was back in the dugout. "We've got two hours to organise a Christmas piss-up that'll hopefully get us all of smashed quickly enough to endure Darling's warbling. I am, as deeply as the thought depresses me, relying on you two for ideas."
"Oh, whizzo!" George said joyfully. "A jolly old Christmas bash! The ones we had at school were always a real scream. Pouring custard down old Stinky Batwick's trousers, matron patching up the injuries after we all went sledging through the mud into the thorn bushes... The headmaster always used to tie a festive little sprig of holly round his cane."
"Well, I can see why you were all screaming," he said. "Unfortunately, I don't think even our troops are quite stupid enough to go sledging through barbed wire in No Man's Land. Any other ideas?"
"Well, do we have decorations?" George said.
"Nope."
"Presents?"
"Nope."
"Candied fruit and almonds to put in people's stockings?"
"George, if we made the men eat anything that had been in their socks, the entire British Army would be dead of trench fever within the week," Blackadder said. "And anyway, we don't have any of those things, either."
"Well, gosh, that is a stumper, isn't it?" George said. He sat down and rested his chin on his fist, intellectual resources thoroughly exhausted.
"My Uncle Baldrick was a party planner," Baldrick volunteered.
George straightened up. "I say, sir, that's a stroke of luck, isn't it?" he said, turning to look at Blackadder.
"Yes. I wouldn't be so optimistic if I were you, George," he said wearily.
"Yes, you see, he always used to say, 'Why don't we have a party?'" Baldrick elaborated.
"I see." Somehow the low expectations never sank quite low enough. "And did any of these proposed parties ever actually take place?" he asked.
"Well, no, actually," he admitted. "'Cause nobody liked him."
"Yes. Once again, Baldrick, your family tree manages to single-handedly prove heredity yet cast serious doubt on the theory of evolution."
Baldrick was undaunted. "Anyway, not to worry, Captain B," he said. "It just so happens that I have a miniature Christmas tree secreted away for just such an occasion." He tapped the side of his nose.
"Well, I hope you haven't got it up there, or none of us are going to have a very merry Christmas," he said.
"No, sir, it was cunningly disguised amid my collection of amusing novelty root vegetables." Baldrick went over to retrieve a cloth-wrapped lump and unveiled it with a flourish.
Blackadder inspected it. "Yes. Not to get overly technical on botanical matters, Baldrick, but that is, in fact, a turnip."
"No, sir," he said, "because if you look very closely, you will see that I have decorated it with festive garlands."
"You mean the vegetable peelings?" He sighed internally, and then externally as well. "Right. Well, it's bloody awful, but it's probably the best that we can do." He stood up to head back out into the trench. "Better bring the amusing root vegetables as well. It's about the only entertainment we've got around here."
"Well, hurrah, huzzah and a big hip-hip-hooray!" George said as he followed. "We're already on our way to a right rollicking party. See, sir? It's never as bad as you think."
Yes, that was true, he supposed.
It was always bloody worse.
*
Two hours later found him unenthusiastically perusing the buffet table of what Baldrick had termed 'canopies'. Being made out of old bed curtain material would certainly make sense of the taste.
His brief moment of sanctuary was ruined as George bounded in. "Enjoying the party, sir?" he said brightly.
"George, I've had gastric surgery I enjoyed more than this," he said.
"Oh, come on, sir, stop being such a negative nellie and have another rat sausage," he said, giving Blackadder a friendly biff on the shoulder. "The novelty root vegetables were an absolute riot, and I personally thought the carols were a smashing success. The trenches are positively buzzing."
"No, George, that's the flies," Blackadder said. "And the only people who could have enjoyed that carol concert are tone-deaf public schoolboys who've been taught that bellowing like a wounded donkey is the best way to show school spirit." Which would explain rather a lot. He took a healthy gulp from his glass - or unhealthy, considering it was filled with the dubious swampy concoction that Baldrick considered punch.
"Still, I suppose it's about what you can expect from your average work Christmas party," he said. "Stuffing yourself with bad food and worse booze in the company of the same colleagues you can't wait to get away from during the day, until you wake up the next day with a crashing hangover, no trousers, and the haunting impression of having snogged someone wildly unsuitable in a stationery cupboard."
"That's the spirit, sir!" George said. "Now, why don't you come out and mingle with the boys? Private Baldrick was just about to show everybody his collection of exotic skin diseases."
"Thank you, but I already have plans to disembowel myself with a rusty pitchfork," he said politely.
He managed to make it through another glass of punch before he found himself once again cursed with company.
"Ah, there you are, Darling," he said. "I was wondering where you'd got to."
"Hiding from me in my moment of triumph, Blackadder?" Darling said as he entered the dugout, a definite bounce of smugness to his step. Git.
"Oh, did you have one?" he said. "I'm afraid I must have missed it while I was shielding my ears from your caterwauling."
"You can say what you like, but you have to admit that the men were all singing along," he said loftily.
"Yes, they were desperately trying to drown you out."
"Come, now, I saw you almost shed a tear when you heard my solo," Darling said.
"Yes, well, that note was painful to the human ear," Blackadder said. "I'm expecting to receive a strongly worded letter of complaint from the Germans tied to their next bomb."
Darling plucked one of the offerings from the buffet table, and found his next comment forestalled as it took him rather longer than expected to chew through. "I say, these shrimp puffs are a trifle rubbery," he said, massaging his jaw.
Probably because they were in fact Baldrick's Slug Surprise. Blackadder picked up another bowl to offer him. "Try the sausages. They're much fresher." Baldrick had been stalking that rat all morning.
"Oh, thank you." He took two. "You see, Blackadder, things would be a lot more civilised if we could get along." As he popped the sausages into his mouth, his face went through a series of interesting contortions.
"There's nothing bloody civilised about this war, Darling," he said. "One moment it's impromptu Christmas duets across No Man's Land, the next it's back to the never-ending struggle to push the front line forward fast enough that Alan the tortoise doesn't have to keep turning round." It was enough to drive a man to, well, drinking even more of Baldrick's punch. He raised his glass. "Here's mud in your eye."
Given Baldrick's usual method of procuring his ingredients, very likely literally.
*
Blackadder woke the next morning with mud in his eye, not to mention in his ears, mouth and nostrils. He levered himself off the floor of the dugout.
"Eurgh," he said, wiping his face. "My mouth tastes like Baldrick's pet hamster crawled up and widdled in it."
"Funny you should say that, sir," Baldrick spoke up from the corner where he sat darning his socks, "because actually..."
"I say, Cap!" George crashed into the room with all the shouty enthusiasm of a man who didn't know the meaning of the word 'hangover'. Of course, if they got into words George didn't know the meaning of, they'd be here all day. "Corking party last night, what? Absolutely top-hole!"
"George, if you don't stop talking, I'll put a cork in your top hole," Blackadder said. As he stood up, he became aware of a definite draught around the ankles, knees and wobbly bits. He cast around the dugout floor. "Now, where are my trousers?"
His lieutenant appeared rather stymied by the dilemma of how to answer this while obeying orders to keep quiet. Blackadder was fairly sure that any input he might have on the matter was not worth the effort of resolving it for him.
A moment later, a decidedly rumpled Captain Darling appeared in the doorway, lurching and clutching his head. "Ah, Blackadder," he said queasily. "Think I might have... missed my car back to headquarters last night."
Blackadder was immediately and immensely cheered by the sight of his pencil-pushing nemesis's equal suffering. "Good morning, Darling. Sleep well?" he said.
Darling's brow wrinkled as he squinted with a bleary lack of focus. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "I seem to have a vague memory of... snogging somebody in a storage cupboard?" He held up a pair of military-issue trousers. "Does anyone know who these belong to?"
"Ah," said Blackadder.
Well, one mystery solved.