ANOTHER Christmas approaches. This year, despite the fact that the depths of the depression already seem to have been plumbed, Christmas will be a lean one for many children. It will be a lean one for many adults, too, of course, but I say children because Christmas Day is so very much children’s day of days. Charitable organizations, of course, will do what they can towards bringing at least a ray of sunshine into the lives of those dependent on them. And in the van will be the U. S. Navy and the “Christmas Ship.” We are indebted to Admiral Rodman’s article, “The Christmas Ship” (Naval Institute Proceedings, July, 1931), for disclosing the origin of the custom, and for giving proper credit to those who originated it and when —the bluejackets of the U.S.S. New York in December, 1915. Admiral Rodman expressed the hope that the “Christmas Ship” idea would become the custom throughout all the ships of the Navy and that it would continue as one of the Navy’s most cherished traditions. This, I think, after only sixteen years, is already the case.
The following is an account of how the custom worked out in practice in a foreign land a few years ago when the title “U. S. Naval Forces, Europe,” was something more than a delightful memory.
On December 22, after a long stay in the shadow of the rock of Gibraltar, the U.S.S. Toucey, commanded by Commander W. C. I. Stiles, and her running mate, the U.S.S. Breck, commanded by Lieutenant Commander John Magruder, arrived in Marseilles. In the manner so often employed in European cities' crowded harbors, the two destroyers were moored alongside each other, anchored by the bow and moored by the stern to the dock. A float extended out from the dock alongside the Toucey. The Toucey’s accommodation ladder was put over the side at one end and at the other end, a ladder led from the float to the Quai des Beiges which, at that point, terminated Marseilles’ famous Rue de Cannebiere.
Prior to reaching Marseilles, the question of the usual navy Christmas party had been taken up and the bluejackets had decided, as did those on the original Christmas ship in Scotland in 1917, that children are children and that the Christmas party must be given. Consequently, as soon as the customary exchanges of official calls with the various Marseillaise dignitaries had been made, the plans for the Christmas party were put into execution. It was decided that the Breck would ask boys and the Toucey girls, so twenty-five little orphan boys, sons of sailors lost at sea, were invited to the Breck, and twenty-five little orphan girls were invited to the Toucey for Christmas dinner. The ages of the youngsters ranged from six to twelve.
Christmas Eve was spent in decorating the ships. Signal flags were strung artistically—more or less—in prominent places; bunting was draped here and there; branches of evergreens were lashed to the tops of the masts, the ends of the yardarms and the tops of the jack staffs and flagstaffs. Just over the gangway there was secured a large and unmistakable bunch of mistletoe with which, according to the magazine Judge, there used to be connected a quaint old custom. The wardrooms, chief petty officers’ quarters, and the crews’ compartments of the two ships were decked out in holiday attire, too, with the usual Christmas trimmings, red and green. By liberty call all decorating was completed, and soon after the early darkness of December blotted from sight all decorative efforts except those of an electrical nature. All lights of the two ships were turned on, including running, blinker, and searchlights. On the Breck, the electricians rigged up some extra illumination, and high on the Breck’s foremast an electric symbol of the Star of. Bethlehem blazed, golden against the black velvet of the night.
A graceful gesture towards France was made by showing the colors of France and America in conjunction with one another. On the Breck, floating to the evening breeze and standing forth in the bright rays of the Toucey’s searchlight was the Tricouleur of France. Then, on the Toucey, catching, not the “gleam of the morning’s first beam,” but the gleams from the Breck’s searchlight, were the American colors.
On the mainmast of each ship a red light flashed, in groups of two flashes. To the French people congregated on the quai to see the American ships, the red lights were but additional items of the show, which indeed they were; but to the naval personnel, knowing the real nature of the lights, it was somewhat startling to see two ships moored to the dock and to each other, steaming, according to the speed lights, at full speed (astern!
On Christmas day, from “turn to” till the arrival of the guests, the ships’ companies were busy with the remaining preparations. In the ships’ galleys, all was organized bustle, and in their vicinity, a delicious aroma of roasted turkeys and baked hams filled the air. Towards noon, sweepers were piped for a final “clean sweep down, fore ’n’ aft.” The stage was set for the appearance of the juvenile stars.
The Breck’s little boys arrived first. As eight bells, noon, were struck, they came into sight, marching down the dock in military formation despite the fact that they had some difficulty in making their way through the large crowd that was ship-gazing from the quai. They had to board the Toucey first, and as each miniature bluejacket came over the side, he turned towards the colors and briskly, smartly, trimly rendered the customary salute. The “Navy juniors” crossed over to the Breck, saluted again, and then were carried away on the shoulders of the Breck sailors.
Our little girl friends arrived a few minutes later. (I saw “our” because I was on the Toucey, and from now on I shall confine my account of the Christmas party to the Toucey phase of it.) All of the girls were dressed alike in blue serge dresses, black shoes and stockings, and broad brimmed brown hats. They were accompanied by two nuns whose faces plainly indicated that they were not quite sure whether attending the affair was the proper thing to do or not. By the time they had arrived abreast the destroyers, they had probably decided in favor of the negative, for the bluejackets at that point sent out cheers for the visitors. Not so, however, with the nuns’ little charges, for most of them were eager-eyed and seemed greatly thrilled over what, to them, was a real adventure, and they answered the bluejackets’ cheers with waves of hands. There were two or three “teetiners,” though, for whom the cheers of the sailors, the strange environment, and the unaccustomed excitement in general were too much, and by the time they had got aboard they had started to cry. The two Sisters of Charity were greatly distressed and considerably flustered by this unfortunate contingency, but several bluejackets stepped forward and applied for the job of soothing the tearful ones. I remember one bluejacket in particular. Gently, but firmly he pried one of the timid girls away from the sister to whom she was clinging, at the same time saying to the uncomprehending nun, “Here, let me have this one, and if I don’t have a grin on that face in two minutes my name ain’t McCaffery.” If the nun did not understand the sailor’s words, she easily recognized his meaning and she allowed the little orphan to be taken away. Nor was McCaffery unable to prove his name, for in less than the self-allotted two minutes, he was leading about the ship a willing little miss in whose face, lighted with a smile, there mingled wonder, joy, and delight at the peculiar individual who was so attentive to her. Likewise the others wtre chosen by their beaux and taken down to dinner—five to the chief petty officers quarters, ten and a nun to the forward compartment, and ten and the other nun to the after compartment.
About twenty minutes later I went down in the forward compartment to see how our guests were getting along. I was greeted with one of those sights that cause little chills to chase one another up and down one’s spinal column and cause one to be uncertain whether to laugh or cry. At the table were the nun, ten of les petite orphelines and some forty bluejackets. Each little girl was firmly seated on the knees of a happy, grinning bluejacket who had forgotten his own dinner in his delight at the way his protegee surrounded food with herself. “Gee,” said one of the men, “I never got such a kick outa anything in my life as I’m gettin’ outa this.” All of the girls were literally up to their ears in turkey, ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, peas, pickle, and oh, all the usual trimmings that go with Christmas dinner. The bluejackets saw to it that their guests’ plates never even approached emptiness. Every now and then a little girl would turn a pair of sparkling eyes on her self-appointed protector and laugh at something he had said. But before she herself could say anything, she was back in the plate of food again. Consequently, the sailors did most of the talking, the fact mattering not at all that none of the girls understood English. Nor did any of the men know French. But, somehow, hosts and guests got along splendidly. Though they did not comprehend the words, they understood the tune.
When the nun saw me she came over to speak to me. All misgivings were gone from her face, and instead there were written on it happiness and thankfulness. She fired a salvo of French at me that scored a few direct hits and two or three ricochets. I gathered that she was trying to thank me. I tried to tell her that I was not the one to thank, but that made no difference. She had something to thank somebody for, and if that somebody were not around, then there must be a substitute. I was the substitute and so she thanked me. Pier thanks were given in whirlwind French and as well as I was able to understand her, she was saying that she did not see why we were giving the party, but that she was profoundly grateful.
The scene in that compartment was worthy of the brush of a genius, or the pen of a great descriptive writer or poet. What a picture of that scene could a Victor Hugo have painted in words 1 What a picture of it could a Raphael have put on canvas!
A small living compartment on an American destroyer; bunks in tiers of three, neatly made up and secured, partially hidden behind the decorations of flags, bunting, branches of evergreen, and streamers of Christmas red and green. Bare wooden tables, where they are not covered with platters, dishes and accessories, gleam white from diligent scrubbing. Broad ribbons of universal gold slip in through the ports, putting golden bands along the deck, or wrapping them around stanchions. Seated around the tables are some forty American bluejackets in “liberty blues”; a French nun of the Roman Catholic faith, her fine face flushed with the fever of unwonted joyous excitement; and ten little French orphan girls in blue serge dresses enthroned on the knees of ten sailors. Pretty little girls they are, too, and healthy, with red lips, white even teeth, rosy cheeks, and for the most part, flashing black eyes and dark hair, though two or three have blue eyes and fair hair. In direct contrast to them are the sail- ormen with their weather-beaten faces and voices more accustomed to yelling above the wind, the sea, and ship noises, or to “ragging” each other than to talking with children. More at home manning a gun, a throttle, a deck scrubber, or guzzling “jamoke” on night watches than to feeding little girls. But the spirit of Christmas has caught them. There is a tender look on their faces and a soft note in their voices as they fall into that spirit which is personified by the charming little guests.
As I turned and climbed the ladder, the last lines of Bayard Taylor’s “Song in Camp” came to me:
The bravest arc the tenderest,—
The loving are the daring.
Even orphan asylum children have a limit as to the amount of food they can hold, and with the last available space for stowing edibles filled in, dinner came to a deferred and stuffed end. The party, however, was by no means over, for there remained the distribution of gifts.
A Santa Claus outfit had been bought in order to have everything as much like Christmas as possible. There was some debate at first as to whether or not there should be a Santa Claus. The French children have a Father Christmas, but he is not the definite person that Santa Claus is to American children. Above all, Pere Noel does not distribute gifts from a superabundant store as does Santa Claus, nor in fact, is Christmas a gift-giving day in France, anyway. New Year’s Day is the time when presents are given and received. Christmas to the French is more what it was intended to be originally—Christ’s birthday. The American consul, Mr. Frost, however, said to go ahead and have a Santa Claus. It would enhance the color of the party, and if the French children thought the old gentleman in their midst was St. Peter, what difference made it? So Santa Claus won, and an officer was selected for the honor of impersonating that august monarch of childhood.
There was a tree, too. A huge one, ten- feet high, and its decorations were such that it easily could have been the origin of the expression “all dressed up like a Christmas tree.” The tree was on the forecastle and there were assembled around it the bluejackets and their guests and the officers and their guests (three wives, two children, and Mr. and Mrs. American Consul). Suddenly a shout went up. Santa Claus had arrived. Santa Claus made his way to a point beside the tree and made a speech partly in English and partly in amazing French. When the speech was finished, despite the fact that they had understood but little of it, the sailors let out a huge yell of approval. The little girls, despite the fact that they had not understood any of it, caught on and applauded vigorously.
Then, the presents. Santa Claus reached into the pile of gifts and picked out a bundle. With much eclat he read out the name on the tissue-papered, red-ribboned package: “Mademoiselle Madeline Medan,” and Madeline, aged six, shyly stepped forward to receive her present—a dark blue sweater. (It has been ascertained previously that such a sweater would be considered regulation at the strict orphinelat.) Madeline’s hands were already filled with trinkets given to her by the bodyguard of bluejackets who had attached themselves to her, but somehow she managed to take care of the addition. (Every sailor and every chief petty officer had attached himself to one of the twenty-five girls. The distribution was about even and there was a great deal of good natured rivalry to see which court could give its lady fair the most.)
Another name was read out. This time, from the tissue paper so quickly and eagerly torn off, there emerged a doll. As instinctively as one rubs one’s fingers over an invitation to see if it is engraved, the little girl turned the doll horizontal to see if it would close its eyes. To her infinite delight, it did.
The white, red streaked pile at the foot of the tree rapidly grew smaller. Soon there was nothing of it left at all, and each little girl was the proud possessor of a sweater, a doll, and a box of candy, all given her by Santa Claus. Nor did Santa Claus forget the two nuns. I doubt if all the girls put together were as thrilled as those two Sisters of Charity were when, to their obvious surprise, their names were called out. When they opened their parcels and discovered several linen handkerchiefs, their years of self-discipline were of no avail to prevent their showing how deeply they were affected. Unable to speak, they bowed their thanks to Santa Claus, to the officers, and to the bluejackets as tears of grateful emotion streaked their cheeks.
After the distribution of the presents, pictures were taken. Then Santa Claus made a farewell speech, and disappeared for another year, though three-year-old Mary, daughter of the paymaster, never did receive a satisfactory answer as to how Santa Claus’s boots got into Lieutenant Olsen’s room!
The little girls had an act of their own to perform, so, not without some difficulty, the nuns persuaded them to part with their packages for a few moments and group themselves together for a song. They sang us a little French song about the sailors’ work at sea, accompanying the words with appropriate gestures. They sang well and were not in the least self-conscious in performing. Approving cheers went up as they finished. Then, the tallest of the girls stepped forward and said: “Merree Chreest- mas! Happee New Year! Ev’reebodee.” More cheers and applause.
The Breck’s distribution of gifts was a little later than ours, due, no doubt, to the fact that, somehow or other, little boys can eat more than little girls. Each boy was presented with an elaborate knife of many blades as his principal gift, and several other remembrances.
If one of the principal missions of the U. S. Naval Forces in Europe was one of good will, certainly the Christmas parties carried out the idea. The other ships, stationed elsewhere for Christmas, also had their parties for poor children, and such gestures of genuine friendship went much farther toward gaining the good will of the nations in which they were made than dozens of flowery speeches of high sounding, yet hollow and meaningless phrases. Nor were the Christmas parties carefully “diplomatted” affairs that were deliberately planned to make good impressions and thus boost trade with the home country. Each ship gave its Christmas party because such a party had become a navy custom, and, though away from home, each ship was merely “being itself.” And after all, that is probably one of the main reasons for the success met with and the appreciation showed.
The newspapers of Marseilles were full of the Dreck’s and Toucey’s Christmas parties, and great appreciation was expressed editorially in all the papers. The heads of the institutions whence the Christmas guests had come were superlative in their words of gratitude. The Mother Superior at the home of our little orphan girls wrote as follows:
Madame la Superieure de l'Orphelinat de la Providence et ses Religieuses prient Monsieur le Commandant et sa famille d’agreer leurs respectueux hommages et les remercient bien sin- cerement de leur generosite peu commune vers leurs petites orphelines.
Thanks, however were really unnecessary, for all hands enjoyed having les petites orphelines on board. When the time (to go back to the end of the Christmas party) arrived to say good-bye, the little girls dropped their bundles on deck, threw their arms around their benefactors and kissed them, pouring out the while torrents of French. Darkness was setting in, though, and the little girls were made to cut short their affectionate adieus. Slowly they walked over the side and climbed down the ladder to the float, and slowly they made their way along to the dock, looking back every few steps to wave their hands to the bluejackets—an intricate maneuver, considering the amount of excess cargo they were carrying. The men crowded to the gangway, the after-deck house, the fantail for a last word with their little friends, and responded to their waves of hands by waving their hats and cheering lustily. An immense crowd of people thronged the quai down to its very edge. As each girl reached the dock, she turned to wave a final good-bye, and was swallowed up by the crowd. The last little girl, the smallest of them all, climbed upon the dock assisted by a nun. She turned and blew a kiss, and then she, too, disappeared in the human sea. The party was over. Christmas night had come. The Star of Bethlehem shone down once more on the Tricolor and the Stars and Stripes. The ships again steamed at full speed astern, backing away from Christmas and into the New Year.
★
Every commander tries to get the initiative. He wants to have the first move. The reason is that the enemy must reply to your move, and in order to reply must first find out what your move was, what you have done. To find that out is the chief difficulty in war. Wellington once said that he had spent his time for years trying to get to know what was going on on the other side of a hill. Sherman described a general’s chief anxiety as caused by “what he can’t see the enemy doing.’’ The commander who has the initiative throws this difficulty on to his opponent, and in general the initiative is with the attacker. I say in general, because the attacker may lose this advantage by a false move; probably if neither side made any mistake—which is out of the question—the attacker would always have the initiative. Troops, it is generally believed, prefer to attack. The men are said to dislike the suspense of waiting for the enemy.—Wilkinson