Star of Bethlehem, Diggers in Britain & A Drop o' Scotch

Star of Bethlehem, Diggers in Britain & A Drop o' Scotch

"AWAY in a manger, no crib for a bed" we used to sing at the Christmas service at Sunday school. That line alone gave me a child-like conception of the stable in which Christ was born, the wise men following the star, and everything associated with that first Christmas at Bethlehem. Lustily we sang, our eagerness to make our voices heard above our companions' often obscuring the simple beauty of the words.

Last Christmas morning I sang carols again. The eager faces of children were replaced by the serious faces of grown men. This time there was no child-like conception. I was in Bethlehem, at the exact spot where the manger served as a crib at the birth of Christ.

Indelibly implanted in my memories of the Middle East will always be that service at the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem, at Christmas. I was one who, this time inaudibly, helped several hundred others to sing Christmas carols in the cloisters of the church-carols that were broadcast to millions of people in the freedom-loving, Christian nations of the world. The spectacle is ever vividly alive.

In the teeth of rain, hail, and a cold, penetrating wind, we drove from Jerusalem through the ancient Jaffa Gate, across the five and a half miles of Judean valley and hill to Bethlehem. Forming a long white vein, Bethlehem was hardly imposing on first appearance. Cautiously we threaded our way through the narrow streets to the cobble-stoned square in front of a fortress-like block of buildings that comprise the Church of the Nativity. Actually this block is formed of three contiguous convents belonging to Latin, Orthodox and Armenian faiths.

It was Christmas Eve. Back in Australia business houses, emporiums and shops were full of gay Christmas crowds.

Everything would be hustle and bustle. In the quiet of the church I was about to see the spot that marked the birthplace of Christ, and later listen to the world-famous service that would begin in the Roman Catholic church of Saint Catherine at midnight.

My hands were trembling not from excitement or nervousness but from sheer cold. My first impulse was to run from the truck to the portico for shelter.

There was no such portico but only the aptly named Needle's Eye entrance, big enough to admit one person at a time and then only if the person stooped.

In the spacious Orthodox church, one of the oldest in the world, Australian, British, Czechoslovakian, Polish, Palestinian and other Allied soldiers were walking quietly about, waiting for the service to begin. To obtain a seat in the congregation many waited up to four hours.

Timber used for rafters and the variegated mosaics still bore signs of the vandalism of hundred of years ago. Moslems were reported to have damaged the roof in seeking lead for bullets. Crests sketched by the Crusaders caught my eye as I wandered through the monolithic columns of red limestone, towering on each side of the hall.

Every soldier who entered that rambling building made first for the traditional site of the Nativity. I did not have to inquire where it was. Uniformed men kept descending on one side of the grotto, and, after a few minutes, coming up on the other side. This, then, was the place where Christ was born. I paused at the top of the rude, slippery steps that spiraled down. I realized I had not yet formed any definite impression of what I expected to see. Already others were forming up behind me, and I followed my companions down the steps.

In the dimly lit grotto there were two bareheaded Diggers kneeling, their bowed heads strangely silhouetted against the rocky wall on the far side. They were looking at the site of the manger, over which were hanging five lighted lanterns. As I watched, timidly, I wondered just what their thoughts were. I think I knew.

The grotto was really a vault, decorated with embroidery, figures of saints, and sacred ornaments. I did not expect to see such ecclesiastic richness. I would have preferred to see the manger still of crude wooden structure; instead marble covered the spot where Christ was placed after birth.

To the left of the manger, beneath an altar, was embedded in the stone floor a silver star, marking the actual spot of birth. Above were 15 silver lamps which were always kept burning.

A little dazed, I hardly remember ascending the steps on the far side. There was a long line of men and women now, all waiting patiently to go down into the grotto. A group of Australian nurses, with candles already alight, had joined the queue.

There was hardly standing room in Saint Catherine Church as the midnight hour approached. Outnumbering civilians in the congregation were uniformed soldiers of ail nationalities, men who were fighting for their democratic rights, and their right to worship as free Christians.

We requested to be allowed into the gallery at the rear of the church. To get there we were led up narrow stairways and across the church roof. Standing serenely in the far loft, above the mammoth, gilt candlesticks, were the choir boys. Their singing was an inspiring opening to the service.

As the service continued I had a chance to study the church. In contrast to the Orthodox church, with its nave and aisles steeped in antiquity, Saint Catherine's was a modern structure of outstanding splendour. The biggest crystal chandelier I have ever seen was suspended in the centre of the church. It was brilliantly lit, but paled soon after the service had begun. The magnificent Star of Bethlehem suddenly glittered in all its glory, far above the heads of the choir boys. Momentarily, the star, with its hundreds of lights, was the cynosure of the whole congregation. This was the emblem of the birth of Christ.

The service continued for two hours, when the procession, at the head of which was borne the effigy of the Christ child, assembled for the slow march from the church, through the Orthodox church, to the grotto. Slowly it moved down the steps into the and after the effigy, in its swaddling clothes, had been placed on the manger, the procession ascended.

For us the awe-inspiring service had finished. Although some would stay in the church all night, we decided to leave. Returning later on Christmas morning, we took part in the services especially arranged by the Church of England. The singing of carols was broadcast to many countries. British and Australian nurses mingled with officers and men of the Allied armies, helped in the singing.

"SX7106"

MANY people in Britain have hazy ideas about Australia. One night a num ber of our chaps were with some Tommies, and talk drifted to the subject of leave. One Tommy asked an Aussie, "How many days' leave do you get?" "Just seven days," said
the Aussie. The Tommy thought a while, and then said, "Blimey. That doesn't give you much time home in Australia, does it?" And he meant it.

On my first London visit with a famous Australian axeman, I was anxious to find some people I knew there in 1917, and sought them through several streets. The axeman was a big man and found walking London streets in heavy army boots very trying. At last he could go no farther; so, sitting, down on the kerb-stone, he removed his boots and finished the walk with his boots slung around his neck, quite unconcerned at the astonishment of the Cockneys.

This happened at a port on the way over. Mac went ashore and sampled the local brew rather freely. On returning to the ship he was stopped on the gangway and asked to produce his pass. He stripped off his tunic and shirt and finally his pants, and swaying about clad only in his boots and socks, said: "Search me, boss."

Robbie Burns, Scotland's national poet, lived for some years in Dumfries. He died there and was buried in the local cemetery. Inhabitants are always anxious to show Australian soldiers places frequented by Burns. One day a member of a Forestry company was being shown over the town, and finally visited the house where Burns lived and died. After showing the Digger over the house, the guide looked back and said: "Aye, Digger. In yon wee hoose the great Burns died. What dae ye think of that?"

The Aussie sadly shook his head and said: "Well, stone the crows. It's awful to think that such a wonderful boxer as Burns died 'in a little dump like that." Said Jock: "Boxer, did ye say, mon? Burns was no a boxer, mon. He was the greatest poet in the wurrld. Robbie Burns-d'ye ken the poet."

Said the Digger: "Oh, I didn't know that bloke. I thought you meant the Burns who fought Jack Johnson."

Two members of a Forestry company arrived in an English city during a heavy raid, and next morning set out to view the damage. They came to a small street where nearly every house had been levelled during the night.

They noticed an old woman about seventy years of age searching among the debris of what had been her home. They went to her and said: "Looking for your family jewels, mother?"

Said the old lady: "I'm looking for my cat." After moving a lot of bricks, they found the cat quite unharmed. Gathering it in her arms, she marched happily away saying: "Come on, pussy. Hitler can't beat us."

And away she went, without a backward look at the rubble that had been her home.

NX14808

You can take it from me that the reported tightness of Scotch people is as much a fable as the term "Bonnie Scotland". Certainly in summer Scotland is bonnie. We were told when we arrived that Scotland had only two seasons - six months winter and six months' bad winter. We are quite willing to endorse that.

During preliminary operations up here it was raining, and had been ever since we arrived. A little wizened-up Scottie came along to watch the proceedings. All was not going well, and our livers were consequently out of order. Said one: "Cheese and rice doesn't it do anything in this so and so place but rain ?" Scottie answered: "Aye, lad. Sometimes it snows." The folk at home don't know what winter really is.

You get fed up with the sight of snow and ice, and with rum at one and tuppence a nip a man hasn't much chance of thawing out.

Most of the chaps here are Australian bushmen, and this is a typical Australian camp. Every one is known by a nickname. The Officer Commanding was christened "February" because his pet pronouncement seemed to be 28 days (field punishment).

Johno called his hand the other day. After hearing Johno's explanation of being A.W.L., the usual pronouncement was made. Said Johno "Well, Sir, you're supposed to be a bit of a sport. I'll toss you, 56 days or nothing".

The colonel is referred to as Uncle. He has the habit of inquiring if you're happy in your work. He asked Robbo this once, and Robbo grudgingly admitted that such was a possibility. The colonel proceeded, "By the way, Sapper, what were you in civilian life?" "A blanky sight happier still," said Robbo.

Let's walk up to the canteen. The canteen is wet, so we'll probably get the oil on some interesting experiences. There's Hipper over there leaning on the bar and explaining how he got his name in big print by telling some folk at a Scottish horseshow how he crossed Clydesdales with brumbies, and thus started a breed of famous Australian horses. That's Dave next to him - he's the bloke who wouldn't go to the shelter during a raid. When asked why, Dave replied, "Oh, I thought they were ambulance planes by the big crosses on them."

Just move to the next table and d you'll hear the raucous voice of Spag lamenting his recent bereavement. Spag had a ferret and great ideas of systematically poaching Milord's rabbits. Stinker, for such was this noble animal's appellation, had other ideas, and was probably imbued with a sense of propriety. However, Spag had great hopes that one day he and Stinker would see eye to eye. Recently Stinker became ill and crossed the great divide. Someone suggested that even a ferret can't live for a week without nourishment, but Spag still insists that a sympathy attack was the cause of Stinker's demise.

That's Dixie sitting right at the back, practically hidden behind a pint of beer and a big hunk of black pudding (they call it bloody sausage over here). "Where's the steak, Dixie?" we ask. "Oh, I could only get this stuff and had a damn job to get it, too.

You know old Missus Haggisface who has the butcher's shop down at the other end? Well, I went in and said, 'Have you any bloody sausage?' She just looked me straight in the face and replied, 'Not a bloody one."'

They're great people here, but it's a pity the climate is so drastic. It sometimes makes one feel as Shamrock felt on leave when he got bogged to the waist in a snowdrift. He gazed at the balloon barrage and, with various imprecations, called on the Lord to send down a big buck angel to cut the balloons and let the place sink.

"NX4446"