Concert

Angus Binnie

1944

Jack, a friend of mine, is an Assistant Governor at our local prison. When I met him in the street one December day some years back, he handed me a printed ticket. It was an invitation for two to the prisoners' Christmas Concert.

"Hope you and your wife will come, it's good fun if a bit rough and ready, just remember to bring earplugs, you'll really need them, no kidding."

He went off leaving me clutching the ticket and contemplating his 'health warning'. My wife and I attended all right but we went without any form of ear protection, not having seriously taken the advice Jack had given.

The concert blasted off to a rousing start and thereafter raged along at a furious pace. There were rude jokes, raucous remarks and crude sketches, each one aimed at wounding every authority figure in sight. All the short sketches were interspersed with deafening music and songs from prisoners' pop groups, each one outdoing the one before in both volume and questionable musicality. There was no doubt the prisoners were doing their level best to provide a memorable and fun occasion for their captive audience. Though I had to firmly remind myself often not to be over-critical of their efforts, it being the season of goodwill and all that, after all.

At least the performers, if not their audience, were certainly enjoying their one night of the year when they could indulge openly in a spot of anarchy and mayhem. There was no denying the roof of the hall was being raised and we were none too happy about the walls holding out either. How we regretted not taking Jack's advice as we both would have appreciated earplugs now. Looking around the hall, some others had also developed a dazed look, best translated as - 'why did we let ourselves in for this?' and by the half-way stage we were almost prepared to wave white hankies in surrender. One prisoner even managed to do a streak on stage for a second or two, though the dignitaries and their ladies in the front row whooped and laughed with the rest of us.

Towards what we now fervently hoped would soon be the end of the concert, the hall and stage darkened completely and an uncanny silence descended. A single spotlight suddenly pierced the blackness to pick out one man in white shirt, black bow tie, white jacket, white trousers, motionless in profile with a silver trumpet to his lips........then, in the clearest, sweetest tones imaginable, the Christmas Carol, 'Still the Night, Holy the Night', was played to perfection. I was thankful not to be wearing ear plugs as this was a very moving and unexpected event. It seemed to affect everyone.

However, for me, the effect was absolutely dramatic as I found myself transported in time, carried back across the years to the Second World War and in the front line on Christmas Eve 1944. We were facing a German Panzer Division.

Our platoon, defensively spread out around Kreusrath village just inside the German border, had had hopes of being out of the front line for Christmas and New Year, but it was not to be. Fortunately, there had been little or no activity by the Germans other than some patrolling although our own artillery, having overlooked the fact it was Christmastime, constantly pounded their forward positions and supply lines. When the rumble from our big guns finally died away around 11 o'clock, there seemed nothing for it but to stay alert, listen and watch knowing the enemy to be only some 300 yards out from our trenches and fox holes.

It was cold, the ground icy and snow covered. Before midnight, the peace was broken by a German soldier shouting to us in a friendly voice,

"Halloo Tommee, halloo Tommee." No one responded, we had strict orders to stay silent and not react. He shouted again, got no response but his halloos were soon followed by the unmistakable notes of a silver trumpet, playing..........."Stillegenacht, Hielegenacht", 'Still The Night, Holy The Night'.

It sounded clear and beautiful coming across 'no-man's-land' to swamp every one of us in a sea of nostalgia. There was a great yearning amongst us to be home with our families and to be away from war. The carol hung for ever it seemed on the still, frosty air, never to be forgotten, never to be repeated, but now, all these years later, here it was again.

*

My friend, Jack, the Assistant Governor, told me afterwards that the trumpet player was a German chap but that fact came as no surprise to me.

end