CHRISTMAS AT SEA.

Franklin Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 31, 14 March 1938, Page 3

CHRISTMAS AT SEA.

IN A GERMAN SHIP. Clirislmaslide nuisl he spent. at home, and all on board seem to know i!. for lliere is liltle sign of a Christinas spirit, writes A. Fagg in the “Mersey.” A steward offers a greeting with a “Good Christmas morning,” the saloon displays a tinselled tree, which is the only official attempt at enthusiasm apart from a gallant effort by the

chef with a sugared cottage; this must have been born in his own memories of Christmas at home.

The only happy folk seem to be a couple who make love before breakfast and two children, warm in their polar trousers. The little German girl plays with a doll constantly upside down while the boy, less pale Ilian yesterday, manages an aeroplane which insinuatingly drops bombs close to my breakfast table. I superstitiously murmur a “lieil, Hitler,” while the stewards refill Ihe bomber and admire his renewed attacks.

The ship is German, the engines, the crew, I In# passengers, and, to my great regret, so is the library. One American gives contrasting relief; a tall young man with a long ginger beard and shuffling carpet slippers. He mutters as lie writes notes in a little green book between bouts of seasickness which have not yet allowed him to appear at meals. He must either be about to start a new religion, is winding up an old one, or plots a great anarchy. The passengers otherwise are too ordinary except for a picturesque lady, beshawled, in a light bodice and wearing top boots. It seems unkind that the graceful shawl should always denote poverty. Her husband is spirited at times, usually through the agency of°schnapps. He burst forth in song on Christmas Eve. Thus a reserved and solemn Englishman is obliged to pass a festive season, a time which is a climax in the happiness of childhood and a confirmation for the faithful. Memories persist and linger. Music, to the extent of three Christmas tunes interrupts the full-board game—an aerial form of shove-ha’penny-—on the covered deck. The commander, followed by a line of officers, arrives on inspection, shakes hands with the musicians, and exchanges nautical and Hitler salutes with all. Beef tea follows. A few minutes later some of this- is delivered by an American beard to the Atlantic Ocean. It is not until after luncheon that there are real signs of festivity. The ship’s company leaves a minimum crew steering due west on a very easy sea; the 2'3,000 tons of steamer acts as the constant centre of a perfect and unpeopled circle of grey waters covered by as perfect an arc of sky. A very lonely feeling pervades the deck of this little city, and only a glance at the radio wire aloft saves that loneliness from fearfulness.

Passengers and crew gather in the saloon for the “Weihnachtsfeier.” Orchestral extracts from Wagner are a Christmas potpourri, supported by a male choir, precede an address by

the commander and a speech by a Brown Shirt. These are inspiring though unintelligible, but the reception of the crackling, forceful German gives the impression that Deutschland is in indeed uer alles.

Tiie Fatherland theme is at length relieved by the entry of Father Christmas with the tinkling of bells and the assistance of a comic bear. Father Christmas distributes presents to all the children with the red-nosed ability of a music-hall artist. It was a delightful thought to hand gifts to all the ship’s boys, some twenty strong. Jokes and badinage are flung around while the fat and square Germans shake with the enjoyrftent of a very good party. There remains only the evening Bookbierfest which merits the decorating of the saloon with paper hangings while the floor is given a thick dusting of sliding powder. Paper hats are solemnly distributed, and fine earhtenware tankards brimmed with beer for young and old. Thirsty little roots and bread are supplied to ensure that the beer flows freely. Dancing, community singing, and in an hour heads and feet are whirling, tongues are Germanising, and Christmas does not seem so dull after all. But where is the holly V What about the turkey, the Christmas pudding, the nuts, the pulling of crackers, and the search for their squeaky contents? I slip away to bed before the elegant lady in top boots clasps me to her dancing bosom. I awake at 2 a.m., not with stomachical regret, but to hear the thunderous finale of the Bookbierfest.