Happy Christmas Pete
By Eddie French
1st Battalion, The Kings Regt,  NI 1973-5

Three shots rang out in the still night air. I gripped my rifle a little tighter and looked through the slit in the corrugated steel wall in front of me.

It looked almost beautiful out there. The frost had settled heavily on everything around. White light from the outdated street lamps added to the Christmas card image out in front. I looked for signs of trouble within my arc of observation then quickly radioed in a 'shots heard' report.

Low velocity, probably large calibre hand gun.

Not on my patch.

Sighing resignedly, I settled back into the shadows to wait out the rest of my watch. I checked the time, reading the illuminated fingers of my watch easily in the semi darkness of the tiny observation post.

Ten O’clock. Two hours left, then it was sausage baps and a cup of strong, hot tea.

I might even manage to write a quick letter home before I fall onto my bunk for a couple of hours sleep.

The cold really started to bite during the second hour. Thin steel and sand bags do little to insulate a body from cold night air, and two by three yards of enclosed space leaves little room for warming exercise. I stamped my feet and blew warm air into my gloved palms.  Keeping well back from the weak light coming through the observation slit, I lifted my rifle and used the optics of the night sight to sweep the area in front one more time.

There was little else to do.

Pretty soon I would start talking to 'Pete'.

Pete was a bundle of rags stuffed into a combat jacket, wearing a black visored helmet on his 'head'.
He was placed right up against the slit. All of the sangars had a Pete. All of the Petes had bullet damage around the head and shoulders.

Sounds of a scuffle drifted in from the street below. I moved across the floor to better the angle for seeing out in the direction of the disturbance.

Drunks; a petty squabble. The sound faded slowly as they moved on down the street. Deathly silence soon enveloped my little world once more. The minutes ticked away ever more slowly, my mind drifted away once more, seeking comfort in the past.

I'm a kid again, I've sneaked downstairs to give the presents under the tree their customary prodding, feeling and shaking. I've opened a few chocolates hanging so temptingly from the lower branches and ever so carefully reshaped the sliver and gold wrappings, placing the now empty shapes back exactly as they were before, mum and dad will never know.

The shocking concussion ripped apart my thoughts with sudden, merciless violence. Seconds later the tin sheets of the sangar rang with the staccato sounds of shrapnel peppering the outer walls. I had jumped so hard I was back against the rear wall. Pete slid down the wall beside me, his head shredded by the flying bits of red hot metal.

Bomb blast, within fifty meters. I gathered my wits enough to send the contact report then picked up Pete’s head, dusted him down, re-shaped him a little and forced him back onto the bare spike shining somehow obscenely in the light of the observation slit. The machinations of the Q.R.U. down the street, sealing off the area of the blast, help pass a little time. They wont go through it for real until first light. After an hour things have quietened down again.

I'm a very grown up sixteen year old. We have been chased from the pub by the red nosed manager but we've got an adult to get us a couple of bottles of cider and we're having a ball. We are all wearing tinsel and Santa hats. We're kissing all the girls.

I looked at my watch again.

Midnight. December twenty fifth

My voice sounds harsh and scratchy, unnaturally loud within the enclosed sangar walls.

'Happy Christmas Pete.'