A Christmas Truce

Submitted by Mark Esposito, Guest Blogger

During the miserable trench warfare of WWI, a night of humanity offered some hope of peace. Arthur Conan Doyle called it  “one human episode amid all the atrocities.”  If Christmas means anything, it surely means this:

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

Source: Australia Magazine

~Mark Esposito, Guest Blogger

19 thoughts on “A Christmas Truce

  1. mespo

    This timely tale has always been one of my favorite stories demonstrating the stone cold brutality, senslessness and futility of war. Thank you for sharing it and reminding us all.

  2. Thank you for this mespo. The first time I heard the story, I think I was in about the fourth grade. It has stayed with me ever since.

    We learn little over the years. War is a failure of, not only diplomacy, but of humankind itself. I come from a family of warriors with more than a thousand years of history on battlefields behind us. Some of our family has paid the ultimate price for old men who cower in their gilded marble halls. sending the young to die for their ambitions.

    This tune was written by one of my family members about five hundred years ago. It was composed as a lament for the ten thousand Scots who died on the bloody field at Flodden in 1513. The tune is mentioned in the iconic song by Eric Bogle, The Green Fields of France, where the lyric asks, “Did the piper play Flowers of the Forest. It has become the lament commonly played at military funerals and memorial services everywhere. It was piped for my son at his memorial service at the National Cemetery. One day it will be piped for me.

    I just want it to stop for good.

  3. Here is a poem by Thomas Hardy, called “Christmas 1924”:

    ‘Peace upon earth’ was said, we sing it,
    and pay a million priests to bring it.
    After two thousand years of mass
    We’ve got as far as poison gas.

  4. As I recall, the brass on the British side was outraged at this and the officers were reprimanded and the units transfered out ASAP. Strict orders were given to NEVER let that happen again! It might seem nice to most rational people,but the higher ups only saw a deadly danger to THEMSELVES and their lovely war.

  5. This (touching) event, of coarse, could never happen nowadays!
    Only because this letter did not have even ONE grammatical error! Compare it to the mambo-jumbo currently used everywhere.

    And, my God, the power of expression bursting out of it!
    Indeed, a rare nugget.

    Thanks for bringing this distant flicker of humanity to warm our hearths.

  6. Diogenes – if you are going to whine about grammar I’d suggest you pluck the log from your own eye before worrying about your brothers mote, of course.

  7. There is a tremendous film on WWI called “Oh! What A Lovely War.” You can sure bet you will never see it on TV in America but I really recommend you find a copy. Its a twisted look at the war and fits the twisted world where the killing stops for one night of brotherhood.

  8. Another “wartime oxymoron” occurred in WWII when as a result of the D-Day invasion of France by the Allies, a German General gave the order to not torch the City of Paris when they retreated from it.

  9. There is no sensible, human answer to the insanity of war.

    But, to be honest, one must look behind the fact of active hostilities to the so-called statesmen who lack the creativity and humanity to guide a different path.

    Politicians seem to lack the ability to embody the spirit of humanity without embuing it with some sectarian, narrowly religious, or arrogantly tribal perversion.

    One wonders, today, whether, money trumps even all that.

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