Wartime Christmas Tales: A WWII Flash Fiction Anthology Read online

  Wartime Christmas Tales

  A WWII Flash Fiction Anthology

  Alexa Kang

  Dianne Ascroft

  Mary D. Brooks

  Anne Clare

  Eileen Joyce Donovan

  Chris Glatte

  Paula Harmon

  Alexa Kang

  Eilidh McGinness

  Geneviève Montcombroux

  J. L. Oakley

  Jennifer Pittam

  A. L. Sowards

  Margaret Tanner

  Phil Yates

  Copyright © 2020

  All rights reserved. All stories are copyright of their respective authors. The contributing authors have asserted their rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the authors of their work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author who is the owner of the copyright.

  To you, our amazing readers,

  and all the brave heroes and heroines of WWII.

  We wish you a holiday season

  of love, joy, and good health.

  Foreword

  As writers, we spend much of our time immersed in the Second World War era evoking the pain, agony and courage of people around the world caught up in the conflict. Although the year 2020 has been challenging, WWII reminds us the world has gone through global crisis before. Together, we will come through again.

  In this book, we have focused our writing on the holiday season. In this trying time of a worldwide pandemic, we want to bring a little holiday spirit to our readers. It is our little gift, and our wish to bring something positive to end the year.

  We hope you will enjoy stepping back into the wartime Christmases in these stories with us.

  Disclaimer

  This anthology is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in each story are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental. The author has made every effort to ensure that major historical facts are accurate, but has taken some artistic license for fictional purposes. This book is not intended to be used as reference material and in no way should it be treated as an authority on any subject on any account.

  Please Note: Our authors hail from around the globe so the stories in this collection were written using either U.S. English or UK English. Differences in spelling and punctuation reflects this.

  Contents

  A Letter Home

  Dianne Ascroft

  A Christmas To Remember

  Mary D. Brooks

  Christmas Stars

  Anne Clare

  The Gifts Santa Forgot

  Eileen Joyce Donovan

  Sniper Scope

  Chris Glatte

  The Day of the Party

  Paula Harmon

  Santa is Real

  Alexa Kang

  The Best Christmas Ever (1943)

  Eilidh McGinness

  Christmas is Not Always in December

  Geneviève Montcombroux

  The Man in the Cave

  J. L Oakley

  I Remember Very Well

  Jennifer Pittam

  The Christmas Spy

  A. L. Sowards

  Christmas Miracle in France

  Margaret Tanner

  The Raid

  Phil Yates

  About the Editors

  A Letter Home

  Dianne Ascroft

  Subgenre ~ Home Front Fiction

  County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland

  December 24th, 1943

  “Is this even the right road?” Tom Armstrong’s heavy black bicycle swerved close to the identical one beside him as he peered through a veil of light mist and drizzle at the small fields enclosed by rough hedges and the few houses sparsely scattered through the rolling countryside.

  When the 121st Infantry regiment sailed from Brooklyn for an unknown destination three weeks ago, Tom never imagined he would land in Northern Ireland, the country where his daddy and mama were born. It would do his mama’s heart good if she knew he was here. She would be wound tighter than a three-day clock until she heard he was safe. If only he could tell her where he was and plumb put her mind at rest, but that information would never get through the mail censor.

  “Trust me. I know the house.” Jimmy Taylor kept his gaze on the road as he cycled.

  “This better be worth the trouble.”

  “Sergeant Baker wants fresh eggs and y’all want to keep the cook happy. Your mama ain’t making you Sunday dinner any time soon.”

  Jimmy was right, but Tom didn’t want to think about it. Home wasn’t just over yonder. It was a long way from here. This was the first time he wouldn’t be home for Christmas and his mama sure would miss him. If he were honest, he missed her and his family too.

  “There it is.” Jimmy pointed at a two-storey, whitewashed farmhouse beside the road about fifty yards ahead of them.

  It looked like several others they had passed. The front door was squarely in the middle of the stone building, flanked on either side by a large window. The farmhouse was plain and solid, and not at all like his family’s clapboard house with the front porch that squeaked when he tried to sneak out after everyone was asleep. A handwritten sign propped beside the front door said Eggs for Sale.

  The rain was falling harder as Tom skidded to a halt behind Jimmy and followed him through the farmyard to the back door. A girl of about eight years of age opened the sturdy wooden door.

  Jimmy smiled at the child. “Hiya, sweetie. Is your mama home?”

  The girl stared silently at the two soldiers, then turned to look behind her at a middle-aged woman, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist as she came to the door.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Jimmy Taylor and this is Tom Armstrong.”

  “Hello, lads. Maggie Graham.”

  Jimmy flashed his most charming smile. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. We saw your sign, Eggs for Sale. We’d be obliged if you could sell us two dozen.”

  The woman folded her arms across her chest. “Aye, you’re in luck, but it’s a wonder I have any left for you at all. There’s been a right lot of soldiers round this week.”

  A mischievous grin played on Tom’s lips. “And I reckon we all looked alike.”

  Jimmy’s expression remained serious. “Except us two are the good-looking ones, ma’am.”

  The skin at the corner of the woman’s eyes crinkled and her lips turned up slightly. She opened the door wider. “Come in out of the rain, lads. Florrie, fetch in eggs from the byre, please.”

  An older girl with brown curly hair appeared and slipped past them, pulling her cardigan tightly around her and bending her head as she ran through the drizzle to the byre behind the house.

  Both men shook off the worst of the rain, removed their garrison caps and stepped inside, their heavy boots thumping on the tiled floor as they entered the kitchen. The spacious room was dominated by a black range and a large wooden table. Paper chains made from newspaper crisscrossed the ceiling. Tom thought of the popcorn strings his sisters threaded and hung on their tree each Christmas.

  “Sit
yourselves down.” The woman poured boiling water into a teapot and set it on the range.

  “Don’t go to any trouble for us, ma’am,” Jimmy said.

  “Ach, it’s no bother. We’re right glad you lads are here. Our side won’t win singlehanded. But I could scarcely believe how many of youse there were all the sudden.”

  “Our battalion got in last week,” Tom replied.

  “Ah, another battalion’s arrived. That’ll explain it then.”

  The older girl returned and set a basket full of eggs on the floor beside the table. She darted a glance at the soldiers then lifted cups and saucers down from the dresser while her mother cut thick slices of bread.

  “It must be a fierce long journey from America,” Mrs Graham said.

  “Yes, ma’am. It was no Sunday drive, that’s for sure,” Jimmy replied. “Even a week on the water is seven days too long.”

  Tom murmured agreement. It had been a hellish ten days crossing the rough Atlantic waters. He didn’t know which had been worse: the sickening swells of the winter sea or the constant fear that a U-boat would find and sink them before they reached Belfast.

  “Your families will be glad to know you got here safe.”

  “Yes, ma’am, though we can’t tell them where we are,” Tom said.

  “Well, write to let them know you’re safe. Your mum will be fretting.”

  Tom knew that was true. He remembered his last furlough before they shipped out and the clouded expression on his mama’s face as she said goodbye to him at the bus station. If it weren’t for that darn mail censor, he could wipe that frown clean off her face.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll write,” Tom replied.

  “Grand.” Mrs Graham set steaming cups of tea and a plate piled with bread, liberally covered in butter and jam, in front of the men.

  That’s mighty kind, Tom thought. They had been told that things like butter were stringently rationed here.

  “Have you brothers and sisters at home?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tom said. “There’s five of us and three still at home.”

  “My mama has four at home,” Jimmy said.

  “Your folks will be glad of their company. We’ve Florrie and Peggy here. Then there’s Rebecca, Helen, Sarah, Edna and wee Davy.”

  “Two of my sisters are Sarah and Rebecca too.” Tom smiled as he thought of his youngest sisters, who were always giggling about something and teased him relentlessly.

  “Our Rebecca took the wee ones to help their Gran today. Himself and the lad will be in soon.” Mrs Graham looked at the men. “How are you finding it here?”

  “It’s almost home for him, ma’am. He’s Irish,” Jimmy said.

  “Well, my daddy and mama are. From Dungannon. I’m Georgia born and bred, ma’am.” Pride crept into Tom’s voice.

  “Oh, aye, from Dungannon? Can’t say I know any folk there.”

  The sound of the back door closing and feet stamping on the mat drew Tom’s gaze to the kitchen door. A man and a young boy, their arms heaped with holly branches, crossed the room and set the greenery in a pile against the wall, then went to stand by the range.

  Mrs Graham introduced the men to her husband. Robbie Graham nodded to acknowledge the visitors as he rubbed his hands together at the range.

  “Sit yourself down. There’s tea in the pot,” Mrs Graham said to her husband.

  The man and young boy shuffled to the table. Mr Graham was broad shouldered and weather beaten from years of hard work. His hair was longer than that of the soldiers and beginning to grey. He rubbed his hand across his face to wipe away droplets of rain clinging to it and relaxed against the back of the wooden chair. Davy slumped against his chair in a pose almost identical to his father’s. The child was thin and wiry with the same features as his father. Seeing the two of them together reminded Tom of his daddy and how they gathered pine boughs and holly in the forest near their house each Christmas. The holly here was a darker shade of green than the ones that grew in the hilly country near his home. This year his twelve-year-old brother Johnny would be the one to help their daddy decorate the house for the holidays.

  “These lads are from the army camp up the road,” Mrs Graham said to her husband. Frowning, she paused, then addressed the soldiers. “I heard tell they put up tin huts for youse to sleep in. There wouldn’t be a bit of heat in them yoke.”

  “I can tell you there’s a mighty fine heat from the stove in our Nissen hut, ma’am.” Chuckling, Tom lifted his hand to display a narrow burn about two inches long. “I learned that tossing logs into it.”

  “Ach, that must be sore.” Mrs Graham tutted and stood up abruptly. “Just a wee minute.” She went to the large dresser against the wall and opened a drawer.

  Tom turned to Mr Graham. “I reckon it won’t matter much where we bunk, sir. We won’t be lying our heads there long. We’re fixin’ to get over to France as soon as we’re done training.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Yeah, after we climb every stone wall and tramp through every bog in this country.”

  “You’ll be here a wee while yet then,” Mr Graham said drily. “To my mind, I can’t see an assault on the continent before the spring. To give it the best chance. Be thankful. Winter in France would founder you.”

  “Were you in the last war, sir?” Jimmy asked.

  “Aye. I fought in France with the Inniskilling Fusiliers. Those were right cold winters.”

  Mrs Graham returned to the table and set down a tiny cloth sachet and a threaded needle. She sat down and reached her hand out to Tom. “I have a charm for healing burns. Give me your arm.”

  She unbuttoned Tom’s shirtsleeve, lifted the needle and sewed the sachet inside his cuff. “Keep this in your sleeve until the burn heals.”

  Tom silently watched her, swallowing the lump in his throat. The charm was like the one his mama had sewed into his sleeve when he burned his hand as a child trying to sample the oatmeal in the pot on the stove. He would write to his mama tonight to tell her about his new friend and the charm she had given him. That bit of news was all she would need to guess where he was and it would settle her nerves.

  Tom only realised he was staring at the older woman when she raised one eyebrow quizzically and said, “You ken what to do?”

  Tom nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry for staring but you sound so much like my mama. She has a charm for burns too.”

  His daddy and mama had lived in the States for twenty-five years but they had never lost their Irish accents. Listening to this woman speak, he could see his mama standing at the stove stirring the gravy for supper in their own kitchen.

  Mrs Graham’s gaze softened. “Well, I wouldn’t have her fretting. You lads must come to us for dinner on Sunday.”

  Smiles lit both men’s faces.

  “That would be swell. Thank you kindly, ma’am,” Tom said.

  “Now I reckon we better get back before Sergeant Taylor reports us A.W.O.L. How much are the eggs, ma’am?” Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins.

  “That’ll be eight pence.” Mrs Graham counted out the money in Jimmy’s outstretched hand.

  Followed by a chorus of goodbyes from the children, the soldiers left the kitchen and stepped out into the drizzle that continued unabated.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” Tom said.

  “We’ll see you on Sunday so. And a Happy Christmas to you.”

  “Y’all have a Merry Christmas too,” the men replied.

  As Tom mounted his bicycle, the words were already forming in his head for that letter he would write to his mama when he got back to the barracks.

  Dianne Ascroft writes The Yankee Years historical sagas, set in WWII Northern Ireland, and the Century Cottage Cozy Mysteries, set in rural Canada. She has a passion for Ireland and Canada, past and present. An ex-pat Canadian, she lives on a farm in Northern Ireland with her husband and an assortment of strong-willed animals.

  Find out more about Dianne at: https://www.dianneascroft.com


  A Christmas To Remember

  Mary D. Brooks

  Subgenre ~ WW2 Romance

  Chapter One

  Larissa, Greece

  December 24, 1943

  The snow was falling, and although I hated sludge, mud, and rain, I loved snow. I loved the smell of it and the memories of my mama's avgolemono soup and freshly baked bread. Every time it snowed, that smell would take me back to my mama's kitchen. The mere mention of my mama made my heart ache. I almost turned away from the window when I spotted SS Sturmbannführer Hans Muller out in the courtyard. I grinned when I saw a blob of snow from the gutters fall just in front of him—that evil bastard. I'm not one for praying anymore, but if I were, I would pray for an avalanche to fall on top of him.

  "Get away from the window, Zoe."

  "Where is the beast going?" I asked and turned to find the beast's daughter, Eva Muller, leaning on her cane and watching me from the door.

  "Athens."

  "Interesting." I turned back to the window in time to see Nurse Gestapo, also known in her human form as Nurse Edith, getting in the car with him.

  "Your father and Nurse Gestapo are both going to Athens?"

  Eva's face creased into a broad smile. "Yes."

  "You're on your own for the first time since you arrived in Larissa."