1. Prologue
2. Chapter One
3. Chapter Two
4. Chapter Three
***
Chapter Four
Not
lost on Martin was that the last time he’d crossed this ground, it had been
under Sergeant Danson’s steam, following the attack that had cost him a great
deal of blood, plenty of pain, and, rather blessedly, allowed him some time
away from the front. Even though, as he’d soon learned, there was never really
any real disconnect, not even in the pleasant convalescence hospitals.
Reminders of war were always there, haunted men, wounded men, the distant sound
of the guns. It never really went away.
Yet,
the circumstances now, as he and Henry trod carefully across the battlefield
were wildly and strangely different. From the outset, it had been a struggle to
make sure that they didn’t step on the bodies – or, in some circumstances,
decayed remains – of their colleagues. It seemed hugely disrespectful to do so.
The men who had fallen in the most recent attack, the one where he’d been
wounded, were still basically recognisable, though their bodies had severely
bloated, their dead skin a disturbing pasty white. Only now, weeks after the
event, was Martin really coming to a realisation of just how many men had been
killed.
Straight
ahead, the men who had done the killing on that day: the Germans, a strange
thought with the Christmas trees in their trench seeming at odds with the
violence that occurred here almost minute-by-minute. Now, at least for the time
being, they weren’t the enemy, weren’t the men who had swept through Paris and
Belgium, very nearly capturing Paris – thus perhaps ending the war in their
favour – before Sir John French and the British Expeditionary Force had
arrived. There were four German officers, Martin saw, and he began to wonder if
perhaps he should have requested the captain’s presence, for the Germans
appeared to be very senior officers. Or, they were, as far as he could tell,
without really knowing their rank insignias.
“Merry
Christmas,” the lead German said in heavily accented English. “I am Major Roald
Gerhardt of the 755th Infantry Regiment. My colonel has given me
full authority to speak for his sector command. I thank you for agreeing to
cease your fire and for honouring the symbol of the white flag.”
Martin
smiled, but it was a strained one, the stress of the moment weighing
surprisingly heavily on him. “That’s fine. No one wants to be fighting today,
Major. I’m Lieutenant Wells, and my colleague, Lieutenant Watson. Merry
Christmas to you, too.”
“They
say that our two armies are involved in a football game further down the line,”
Gerhardt said next. “We wanted to say…no enemies at Christmas. Not on this
day.”
That
piece of news was a surprise to Martin. One glance at the battlefield here, even
a cursory one, was enough to understand that there would be no such event here
– no matter how enthusiastic anyone was – because the terrain was a mess, as
though the entire battlefield had been fed through some sort of giant meat
grinder. There were shell craters big and small, shredded trees and, of course,
bodies scattered haphazardly everywhere on undulating ground, too many of them
Not exactly the right terrain for a pitch, Martin knew.
“No
enemies,” Henry agreed, nodding. “Just miserable soldiers.”
“Your
superior officers, will they agree to something more formal for this sector?
For the day and night, perhaps?”
Martin
nodded. “I would think so, yes, Major, but I can’t be sure without asking them.
Perhaps you would permit us to return to our trenches to seek advice? We could
agree to meet back here in…an hour, maybe?”
That
suited the German officers so Martin and Henry picked their way carefully back
to their own trenches, the strangeness of the meeting with the Germans – a
group of men gathered to talk about a temporary cessation of hostilities only a
few hours removed from trying to wipe the other’s army from the battlefield
entirely, and would most likely be seeking to do the same in a few days’ time,
too – not lost on them. Nor was the history of what they were involved in.
“Not
bad fellows, I didn’t think,” Henry commented. “Not like the propaganda you
see.”
“Personally,
I wasn’t expecting sausage-eating barbarians,” Martin replied, referencing the
cartoonish versions of the ‘rampaging Hun’ that were in all the English
newspapers. “They’re just here doing a job for their country like we’re doing
one for ours, I suppose. They think they’re in the right, and so do we. When
you get down to the nitty gritty, there’s little difference between us.”
Henry
nodded. “Especially on a day like today.”
Waiting
for the two lieutenants when they were back in the safety of their own
trenches, was Captain Walter Hetherington, who possessed the uncanny ability to
look absolutely and completely resplendent in his uniform, no matter how much
rain and mud happened to be around. Aside from always looking good, the
captain, a regular Army officer shifted to this battalion of Yorkshire
volunteers as part of a policy of placing experienced men with inexperienced
units, though still getting used to his new command, struck all the men who
served under him as a steady and calm soldier. Beside him was the still-angry Danson.
“Handling
the diplomacy of the war all by yourselves, have you, gentlemen?” Hetherington
asked, though not unkindly.
“No
one else wanted to go out there, sir – which isn't to say that I blame anyone
for begging off that duty – but I didn’t mind, and I didn’t think it prudent to
wait,” Martin explained. “If the Germans didn’t see someone from our side come
out, they might’ve thought we weren’t interested.”
“Well
done, good initiative,” the captain replied. “What did the Hun have to say?”
“They
propose a truce for today and tonight,” Martin explained. “If we’re agreeable.”
Hetherington
nodded, indicating that he was certainly agreeable. “What answer did you give
them?”
“None,
sir.” Martin shook his head, noting that Danson looked like he would burst if
he wasn’t able to voice his thoughts. “I said that I’d have to talk with my
superiors. We’re to meet them again in one hour’s time.”
“Alright,
well, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing preventing us from organising a truce of our own. It's happening up and down the line, from what I've been told. So why not here as well? A little peace and quiet on Christmas Day would be very pleasant indeed."
Finally,
Sergeant Danson spoke. “Sir, they’ve killed thousands of our men since the
beginning of the war. In my book, that’s reason enough.”
“Yes,
well, we’ve killed the same number of their men and that hasn’t stopped them
from extending the olive branch, has it?” Hetherington regarded his most
experienced sergeant for a moment, and shook his head. “I want to salvage what
we can from Christmas, Sergeant Danson, and this is the best way to do it, I
think.”
“I
respectfully disagree,” Danson said, his voice barely skirting the border of
insolence. “And I shall have no part of whatever takes place.”
“That’s
your prerogative, Sergeant Danson. Enjoying Christmas Day isn’t an order, so
you are more than welcome to excuse yourself from it. Lieutenant Wells,
Lieutenant Watson, when the hour comes around for us to go and talk with the
Germans, you shall have my company.”
The
hour passed quickly, and they were back out into No Man’s Land again, having
gotten word from one of the lookouts – those men continued to use the
periscopes, until everything was sorted out – that the Germans had also climbed
out of their trenches. The fog had gone now, and it promised to be a beautiful
sunny day, one quite at odds with the destruction around them, Martin thought.
At
least the destruction would be temporarily put on hold. That was something to
be very glad of, and Martin hadn’t been quite certain that it would happen
properly until Captain Hetherington had agreed. It was a not-so-small slice of
luck that the man in charge didn’t have the same thoughts on a ceasefire as
Sergeant Danson did. Martin wondered how many other men were like the sergeant
in that regard.
“Captain
Walter Hetherington,” the captain said to the Germans, shaking the hand offered
by Major Gerhardt. “The lieutenants tell me that you are proposing a truce?”
Gerhardt nodded. “As I told your officers before, my colonel, who, regrettably is quite unwell at the moment, has given me permission to negotiate on his behalf. We propose a cease fire for the rest of the day, and tonight, until first light in the morning, if you are agreeable?”
“Very
agreeable,” Hetherington confirmed. “Shall we put a time to it, for tomorrow
morning, perhaps? I propose eight o’clock.”
“Eight
o’clock it is,” Gerhardt agreed. “The specifics: it must be agreed that neither
side comes within twenty yards of the other side’s trenches. All reconnaissance
activities must cease along with the guns. If we see aeroplanes overhead, or
your soldiers seeking to look at our fortifications, the ceasefire is over,
immediately.”
For
his part, Martin severely doubted that any of the men who made up the Royal
Flying Corps would be even vaguely fit to take an aeroplane into the skies
today. He’d seen enough of those daredevils since arriving at the front to know
that they enjoyed a drink – perhaps it was their way of getting through the
fear of aerial dogfighting – and could only imagine that they’d had twice as
much on Christmas Eve.
Really,
the terms were to be expected, and Martin wasn’t at all surprised that they had been so leveled. The Germans
were about as keen on the British getting a proper look at their defensive
preparations as the British were about the opposite happening. Thankfully there was plenty of empty ground between the two sets of trenches, and so no real need for any man to be straying too close to the other side's fortifications.
“That’s
fine,” Hetherington said. “Thank you for your efforts in this regard. I wish
you and your men a merry Christmas.”
For
the first time in the exchange, Gerhardt breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “And
the same to you, Captain.”
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