December 25, 1917

Christmas day dawned much as the past several days had - cold, bleak, and utterly miserable, especially for those huddled in the trenches trying to stave off the cold and avoid getting mired in the slushy morass.

	“Well, this is certainly a fine ‘Merry Christmas’ to us all,” A brown-furred Lykocephalus grumbles with a faint Greek-like accent while leaning up against the trench wall, trying to avoid stepping into the liquid slush lining the bottom, his breath huffing out in a visible cloud in the chilly morning air. “Still deadlocked with no end to the war in sight for the third year in a row, the weather’s utterly appalling and to add insult to injury, I can’t even clean my teeth because my tooth-gel’s gone and decided to try and emulate hardtack thanks to the cold. The only way this could get any better is if the Germans decide to deliver a Christmas gift in the form of a gas shell barrage.”

	“Could you possibly not tempt the Fates like that, Damien? You know they’re vindictive bitches.” His white-furred companion responds in annoyance amid attempts to find a relatively flat and dry place to set up a small stove. “I’d rather not be eating phosgene-contaminated food again if it’s all the same to you. Even if it barely affects us, it still ruins what little flavor the processed food has and makes the real stuff, such as it is, taste like burning chemicals.”

	“Feh…even they would be loathed to come anywhere near this blood-soaked hellscape, Vander,” Damien retorts. “In total agreement about the food, though. That’s another thing to lament about this horror show. Well, that and the nauseating smell of blood, shit, and rotting flesh.”

	“At least we get decent rations, unlike those poor bastards,” A female Lykocephalus interjects, pausing in her rifle-cleaning long enough to point down the trench to a group of very miserable-looking British soldiers with their arms wrapped tightly around their frames trying to keep themselves warm while one is also in the process of setting up a tommy-cooker stove. “Likely all they’ve got to look forward to is cold bullied beef, bread, tea, and maybe a homemade pudding if they were lucky enough to receive one and have it actually delivered on time and intact.”

	Vander glances down the trench and snorts in assent. “Yes, I can just imagine how they’re feeling, Helena - especially in light of what the Americans are getting for THEIR Christmas - you know, one told me the other day that the men stationed aboard one of their battleships are expected to receive a menu of mock turtle soup, olives, roast turkey with sage dressing, giblet gravy, cranberry sauce, potatoes au gratin, celery, roast loin of pork, mixed pickles, buttered beets, apple sauce, mashed sweet potatoes, asparagus salad, cheese and crackers, apple pie, chocolate cake, ice cream, fresh fruit, nuts and raisins, coffee, and cigars. And the ones on the ground are to be getting turkey, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, and mince pies - all that for having only just entered the war…that’s got to be especially galling for the French and British troops who have been consistently getting well below the level of nutrition needed for a fighting man, to say nothing of anything edible if even a tenth of the complaints I’ve heard from them are to be believed.” 

Vander then turns his gaze to his ration sack resting on one of the trench’s firesteps, waiting to be opened. “In fact, it somewhat puts my complaints into stark perspective - The rations we get may be lousy, but at least they don’t reach the point of violating the Hague Convention.” He says in a joking manner before falling silent for a moment, appearing to be pondering something before abruptly getting to his feet, grabbing the sack, and making his way down the muddy trench, much to the surprise of his squadmates.

	“Where are you going?” The squad medic, having been silent up until his companion’s abrupt movement, asks in surprised bemusement.

	“Going to deliver a Christmas gift,” Vander replies, not looking back as he awkwardly moves down the trench toward the British squad, trying to avoid sinking into the quagmire.

	Damien watches his companion move off with a stunned expression on his muzzle, then turns to Helena. “Is…he about to do what I think he’s going to do?”

	“Yep,” She replies, setting her cleaned rifle down and grabbing her ration sack before following after Vander. “And so am I.”

The group’s medic watches the pair moving down the trench for a moment before he too gets to his feet and grabs his sack. “And me.”

Damien then turns to the medic, eying him in disbelief. “You too, Iason? You are aware that barely a few hundred years ago they tried to forcibly convert and then genocide us, again, after we refused another of their little cults, right? Now the whole squad’s suddenly decided to act all buddy-buddy, wanting to give them our rations!?”

“First of all, didn’t you just agree with those rations being terrible not two minutes ago? Second, that was several hundred years ago, Damien.” Iason retorts, leveling a firm glare on Damien. “They aren’t their forefathers and times have changed. Significantly. And it’s not like they fared any better than the previous few dozen or so attempts since our species came into being…anyway, we may not be allies in the future, but for the moment, we are - and as allies, we owe them whatever support we can give. And after the utter hell those men have been through, they deserve something nice, especially today of all days.” 

He then glances down at the ration sack in his arms and grimaces. “Well…I’m sure they’ll consider it nice at least. Given the failure of their superiors to properly supply them with adequate nutrition, they’ll probably be over the moon at this.”

	The brown-furred Lyko just stares and shakes his head, muttering under his breath as Iason then proceeds to catch up with the other two, followed by the rest of the squad. “Well, you’ll pardon me if I don’t feel any strong desire to join you.” He climbs atop a firestep and looks around for any sign of activity from the German side of No Man’s Land, trying to distract himself from glancing over to his comrades. 

“It certainly isn’t my fault if their military can’t keep them supplied,” Damien continues grumbling to himself as he idly glances toward his squadmates again before realizing what he’s doing, jerking his head back toward the bleak, frostbitten landscape festooned with shell craters, blasted remnants of trees and partially-covered corpses that have yet to be retrieved. 

“And it’s not like they’re not used to terrible food in general anyway - their meat is always dry and bland to the extreme - and who eats baked beans for BREAKFAST, of all meals!?” He huffs to himself before shutting his eyes and going silent for several seconds, almost appearing to be silently warring with himself before breaking the silence with a growl and hopping off the firestep. “For fuck’s sake!” He snarls to himself before grabbing his ration sack and hauling it down the trench toward everyone else.

	Meanwhile, having reached the British group, Vander walks over to the nearest soldier, who looks up warily at the large Lyko - the two groups tend to each keep to themselves during downtime, so this is an unusual thing for one to be walking up to him, especially one who isn’t an officer, or so he thinks - he doesn’t actually know how rank structure works in the Lycadian military nor does he know how to read the insignia on this wolfman’s uniform.

	“Is there something you need, Sir?” The soldier asks hesitantly, deciding it’s best to play it safe in case he IS addressing an officer.

	“Just to give you this,” Vander replies, crouching down and holding the canvas sack out. “Happy Christmas.”

	“What…is it, exactly?” The soldier asks, eying the massive canvas sack - he can see writing on it, but it isn’t a language he recognizes.

	“Rations. It’s no turkey or cranberry sauce or anything like that, but I imagine you’d appreciate something that isn’t bullied beef and stale bread for the hundredth time, especially on this day.” The Lyko replies as the rest of the squad minus Damien comes up behind him.

	The soldier’s eyes widen in shock on hearing that. “Good God! There must be a week’s worth of food in there.” He exclaims, taking hold of the sack which he estimates to be a little bit smaller than one of the sandbags currently lining the trench, so focused on the bag and the Lyko holding it that he fails to notice one of the other British infantrymen, amazed at what’s taking place in front of him, take a Kodak Vest Pocket Autograph out, ready it for picture-taking and snap a photo of the scene, though Vander does, and he gives the picture-taker a knowing look and a small smile.

	“Just a day’s worth - for us, at least,” Vander says as he opens the sack. “We’ve got black olives, seasoned and smoked boar jerky, pasteli, barley, lentils and chickpeas, figs…all manner of standard Greek fare, really, with a few Lycadian twists. Not the best for our palates - having such strong olfactory and gustation senses is just as much of a drawback as it is a blessing when you’re having to eat heavily salted and processed food.”

	The poor soldier, still in a state of shock and just about overcome with such generosity from an almost total stranger, one who is a member of a nation and species that hasn’t had the best of relations with Great Britain until very recently to boot, stammers repeatedly for several seconds as he tries to find the words to convey his feelings. “I- I don’t…just…I don’t know your denomination, if you even have one, but…God bless you! You’ve already made this a far better Christmas than I ever expected to have - the only way it could go better is if the war were to end, right here and now. And never mind how processed these rations are or if they aren’t Christmas fare - they can’t be any worse than that horrid slop daring to call itself beef!” He exclaims as he pulls out a flat rectangular tin that almost appears to be a sardine tin, but much larger, and cracks the pull tab, pulling it open to reveal many large hunks of the aforementioned boar jerky tightly packed into the tin with several small cloth balls scattered across the top.

	“What are these things, then?” He proceeds to ask, picking up one of the cloth balls and examining it curiously. “Strange things to see with meat.”

	“Oh, those are thin cloth bags with uncooked rice inside them - rice absorbs moisture like a sponge, so we use those to draw out whatever moisture may be left in the meat so it doesn’t spoil as quickly. Even smoking it, drying it out, and sealing it in a tin can only do so much, so every little extra thing keeps it unspoiled that much longer.” Vander responds as his squadmates start handing out their rations to the other British soldiers in the group and making small talk in a few cases while the soldier with the camera is madly snapping away, taking pictures of each Lyko offering their rations and even grabbing a picture of Damien when he comes up to offer his as well with a rather put-upon look - his conscience may have gotten the better of him, but it certainly doesn’t stop him from being a grumpy boy as he’s just that sort of Lyko.

	“And…you’re welcome. Enjoy the food and as the French like to say, Bon Appetit.” He then adds as he settles down on a firestep and snags a piece of pasteli to nibble on - of all the food in the sack, it’s the least offensive along with the olives, being mostly fresh - while his new soldier friend tears enthusiastically into a hunk of jerky and the other soldiers start delving into their own offerings. 

And as the day passes in blessed peace with nary a shot fired, the bullied beef lays forlorn and forgotten among the muck, missed by absolutely no one.