What a great Christmas story. I have to say the best one I have heard yet, and especially since it isn't a story but recount of what actually happened. Funny how so much changes, but then again so little. What happened during WWI 90 years ago is still applicable today. My wish this year is that somehow, the world can reverse the path it's heading down now for a better one.
So I thank Znet for sending me the following Christmas story, and also the lyrics of two songs recounting the same incident. So Merry Christmas to all, and may peace prevail one day.
*****
Christmas Day, 1914
My dear sister Janet,
It is 2:00 in the morning and most of our men are
asleep in their
dugouts -- yet I could not sleep myself before writing
to you of the
wonderful events of Christmas Eve. In truth, what
happened seems
almost like a fairy tale, and if I hadn't been through
it myself, I
would scarce believe it. Just imagine: While you and
the family sang
carols before the fire there in London, I did the same
with enemy
soldiers here on the battlefields of France!
As I wrote before, there has been little serious
fighting of late. The
first battles of the war left so many dead that both
sides have held
back until replacements could come from home. So we
have mostly stayed
in our trenches and waited.
But what a terrible waiting it has been! Knowing that
any moment an
artillery shell might land and explode beside us in
the trench,
killing or maiming several men. And in daylight not
daring to lift our
heads above ground, for fear of a sniper's bullet.
And the rain -- it has fallen almost daily. Of course,
it collects
right in our trenches, where we must bail it out with
pots and pans.
And with the rain has come mud -- a good foot or more
deep. It
splatters and cakes everything, and constantly sucks
at our boots. One
new recruit got his feet stuck in it, and then his
hands too when he
tried to get out -- just like in that American story
of the tar baby!
Through all this, we couldn't help feeling curious
about the German
soldiers across the way. After all, they faced the
same dangers we
did, and slogged about in the same muck. What's more,
their first
trench was only 50 yards from ours. Between us lay No
Man's Land,
bordered on both sides by barbed wire -- yet they were
close enough we
sometimes heard their voices.
Of course, we hated them when they killed our friends.
But other
times, we joked about them and almost felt we had
something in common.
And now it seems they felt the same.
Just yesterday morning -- Christmas Eve Day -- we had
our first good
freeze. Cold as we were, we welcomed it, because at
least the mud
froze solid. Everything was tinged white with frost,
while a bright
sun shone over all. Perfect Christmas weather.
During the day, there was little shelling or rifle
fire from either
side. And as darkness fell on our Christmas Eve, the
shooting stopped
entirely. Our first complete silence in months! We
hoped it might
promise a peaceful holiday, but we didn't count on it.
We'd been told
the Germans might attack and try to catch us off
guard.
I went to the dugout to rest, and lying on my cot, I
must have drifted
asleep. All at once my friend John was shaking me
awake, saying, "Come
and see! See what the Germans are doing!" I grabbed my
rifle, stumbled
out into the trench, and stuck my head cautiously
above the sandbags.
I never hope to see a stranger and more lovely sight.
Clusters of tiny
lights were shining all along the German line, left
and right as far
as the eye could see.
"What is it?" I asked in bewilderment, and John
answered, "Christmas
trees!"
And so it was. The Germans had placed Christmas trees
in front of
their trenches, lit by candle or lantern like beacons
of good will.
And then we heard their voices raised in song.
"Stille nacht, heilige nacht...."
This carol may not yet be familiar to us in Britain,
but John knew it
and translated: "Silent night, holy night." I've never
heard one
lovelier -- or more meaningful, in that quiet, clear
night, its dark
softened by a first-quarter moon.
When the song finished, the men in our trenches
applauded. Yes,
British soldiers applauding Germans! Then one of our
own men started
singing, and we all joined in.
"The first Nowell, the angel did say...."
In truth, we sounded not nearly as good as the
Germans, with their
fine harmonies. But they responded with enthusiastic
applause of their
own and then began another.
"O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum...."
Then we replied.
"O come all ye faithful...."
But this time they joined in, singing the same words
in Latin.
"Adeste fideles...."
British and German harmonizing across No Man's Land! I
would have
thought nothing could be more amazing -- but what came
next was more
so.
"English, come over!" we heard one of them shout. "You
no shoot, we no
shoot."
There in the trenches, we looked at each other in
bewilderment. Then
one of us shouted jokingly, "You come over here."
To our astonishment, we saw two figures rise from the
trench, climb
over their barbed wire, and advance unprotected across
No Man's Land.
One of them called, "Send officer to talk."
I saw one of our men lift his rifle to the ready, and
no doubt others
did the same -- but our captain called out, "Hold your
fire." Then he
climbed out and went to meet the Germans halfway. We
heard them
talking, and a few minutes later, the captain came
back with a German
cigar in his mouth!
"We've agreed there will be no shooting before
midnight tomorrow," he
announced. "But sentries are to remain on duty, and
the rest of you,
stay alert."
Across the way, we could make out groups of two or
three men starting
out of trenches and coming toward us. Then some of us
were climbing
out too, and in minutes more, there we were in No
Man's Land, over a
hundred soldiers and officers of each side, shaking
hands with men
we'd been trying to kill just hours earlier!
Before long a bonfire was built, and around it we
mingled -- British
khaki and German grey. I must say, the Germans were
the better
dressed, with fresh uniforms for the holiday.
Only a couple of our men knew German, but more of the
Germans knew
English. I asked one of them why that was.
"Because many have worked in England!" he said.
"Before all this, I
was a waiter at the Hotel Cecil. Perhaps I waited on
your table!"
"Perhaps you did!" I said, laughing.
He told me he had a girlfriend in London and that the
war had
interrupted their plans for marriage. I told him,
"Don't worry. We'll
have you beat by Easter, then you can come back and
marry the girl."
He laughed at that. Then he asked if I'd send her a
postcard he'd give
me later, and I promised I would.
Another German had been a porter at Victoria Station.
He showed me a
picture of his family back in Munich. His eldest
sister was so lovely,
I said I should like to meet her someday. He beamed
and said he would
like that very much and gave me his family's address.
Even those who could not converse could still exchange
gifts -- our
cigarettes for their cigars, our tea for their coffee,
our corned beef
for their sausage. Badges and buttons from uniforms
changed owners,
and one of our lads walked off with the infamous
spiked helmet! I
myself traded a jackknife for a leather equipment belt
-- a fine
souvenir to show when I get home.
Newspapers too changed hands, and the Germans howled
with laughter at
ours. They assured us that France was finished and
Russia nearly
beaten too. We told them that was nonsense, and one of
them said,
"Well, you believe your newspapers and we'll believe
ours."
Clearly they are lied to -- yet after meeting these
men, I wonder how
truthful our own newspapers have been. These are not
the "savage
barbarians" we've read so much about. They are men
with homes and
families, hopes and fears, principles and, yes, love
of country. In
other words, men like ourselves. Why are we led to
believe otherwise?
As it grew late, a few more songs were traded around
the fire, and
then all joined in for -- I am not lying to you --
"Auld Lang Syne."
Then we parted with promises to meet again tomorrow,
and even some
talk of a football match.
I was just starting back to the trenches when an older
German clutched
my arm. "My God," he said, "why cannot we have peace
and all go home?"
I told him gently, "That you must ask your emperor."
He looked at me then, searchingly. "Perhaps, my
friend. But also we
must ask our hearts."
And so, dear sister, tell me, has there ever been such
a Christmas Eve
in all history? And what does it all mean, this
impossible befriending
of enemies?
For the fighting here, of course, it means regrettably
little. Decent
fellows those soldiers may be, but they follow orders
and we do the
same. Besides, we are here to stop their army and send
it home, and
never could we shirk that duty.
Still, one cannot help imagine what would happen if
the spirit shown
here were caught by the nations of the world. Of
course, disputes must
always arise. But what if our leaders were to offer
well wishes in
place of warnings? Songs in place of slurs? Presents
in place of
reprisals? Would not all war end at once?
All nations say they want peace. Yet on this Christmas
morning, I
wonder if we want it quite enough.
Your loving brother,
Tom
------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------
The two songs below are about what is described above.
The
first song is written by Joe Henry and Garth Brooks,
the second by John
McCutcheon.
BELLEAU WOOD
Oh, the snowflakes fell in silence
Over Belleau Wood that night
For a Christmas truce had been declared
By both sides of the fight
As we lay there in our trenches
The silence broke in two
By a German soldier singing
A song that we all knew.
Though I did not know the language
The song was "Silent Night"
Then I heard by buddy whisper,
"All is calm and all is bright"
Then the fear and doubt surrounded me
'Cause I'd die if I was wrong
But I stood up in my trench
And I began to sing along
Then across the frozen battlefield
Another's voice joined in
Until one by one each man became
A singer of the hymn
Then I thought that I was dreaming
For right there in my sight
Stood the German soldier
'Neath the falling flakes of white
And he raised his hand and smiled at me
As if he hoped to say
Here's hoping we both live
To see us find a better way
Then the devil's clock struck midnight
And the skies lit up again
And the battlefield where heaven stood
Was blown to hell again
But for just one fleeting moment
The answer seemed so clear
Heaven's not beyond the clouds
It's just beyond the fear
No, heaven's not beyond the clouds
It's for us to find it here.
CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES
My name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear.
'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so
bitter hung,
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas
song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky
ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar
sound
Says I, ``Now listen up, me boys!'' each soldier
strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear.
``He's singing bloody well, you know!'' my partner
says to me
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no
more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was
spent
``God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen'' struck up some lads
from Kent
The next they sang was ``Stille Nacht.'' ``Tis `Silent
Night','' says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky
``There's someone coming toward us!'' the front line
sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one long figure trudging from
their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shown on that
plain so bright
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night
Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's
Land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other
well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from
home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their
own
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a
violin
This curious and unlikely band of men
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once
more
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to
war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that
wonderous night
``Whose family have I fixed within my sights?''
'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so
bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of
peace were sung
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work
of war
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore
My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned
its lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the
dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same
