Christmas Truce - Contents:
1. Prologue
2. Chapter One
3. Chapter Two
***
Chapter Three
Christmas Day 1914
Through
the light fog that was slowly burning off in the face of the sunlight, a
cheery, slurred voice called out, “Merry Christmas, England!”
“I
don’t believe it,” Henry said to Martin, and there was disbelief in his voice.
“I think they’re drunk.”
“Don’t
say that too loudly,” Martin advised, only half-joking. “If Sergeant Danson
hears that, he’ll get in the captain’s ear and they’ll have us launching a raid
to find out for sure. The last time I went over the top…well, let’s just say
that I’d rather not tempt fate on Christmas morning, thank you very much!”
As
Christmas morning dawned through the veil of fog, which had put an end to even
the slightest suggestion of artillery action, the two friends sat on the fire
step, backs against the earthen wall, hands wrapped around steaming mugs of
tea, their feet dangling just inches above the mud that coated inches on the
bottom of the trench. It was a strange sort of morning, weary soldiers offering
Christmas greetings rather cheerfully amongst the wreckage of a battlefield,
which was about as cheer-free a place as existed in the world. For the first
time since the advent of trench warfare, the men at the coal face, the
front-line soldiers were, mostly, at a loose end, with nothing really to do but
relax, a foreign concept in of itself. The rule book had been thrown out the
proverbial window this morning.
Orders
had come down from the captain, so Martin had two men on the fire-step,
watching a silent, unmoving No Man’s Land, and everyone else was stood down –
though none were too far away, just in case Sergeant Danson was right, just in
case this sudden halt to hostilities some sort of German scheme, unlikely
though that seemed to all but Sergeant Danson and some other hard-bitten men of
Danson’s ilk.
Soon,
the drunk German was at it again: “Hello, Tommies!”
“Royally
sloshed, they sound, the lucky buggers!” Henry said the words ruefully. “I
wonder if we’ll see some rum before the day’s out?”
Martin
grinned. “Don’t hold your breath, my friend. There’s only so much you can hope
for by way of a Christmas Miracle!”
“I
used mine up hoping for the end of the war,” Henry admitted, and then went on
wistfully, “I wonder what my family are doing at the moment? Opening presents
around the fire, drinking tea like you and I are, I should imagine. I suppose
it’s probably raining…”
“Like
as not,” Martin agreed. “I always thought it was a nice sort of rain at
Christmas. Pleasant in it’s own way and part of what I’ll – ahh, good morning,
Sergeant Danson! Good morning and Merry Christmas to you!”
Those
last words because he sergeant who had come into the bay where Martin and Henry
consumed their hot Christmas morning tea with all the purpose of a tornado. If
the man was red-faced at the best of times, he was as red as so much blood that
had been spilt on the battlefield, seething and raw. It had been a long time
since the last time Martin had seen the sergeant as apoplectic as he was now,
so much so that he was almost afraid to ask what was going on. No one wanted to
further provoke the fiery Danson when he was clearly in a mood.
“Some
officer who honestly thinks his bloody head’s only there for keeping his two
bloody ears from running into each other,” Danson growled. “Down the line, the
Hun have thrown up a bloody white flag so we’ve done the same!”
Martin
looked up in shock, and dared to hope, just for a second, that the whole thing
was over and done with. “They’re surrendering?”
“Not
bloody likely whilst they still think they can win this war – they can’t, of
course, but the stupid beggars don’t know that, do they? No, this is just a
temporary truce because it’s bloody Christmas. What’s worse, a major and a full
bird colonel have given it their blessing. So this thick-as-a-post lieutenant’s
going to march out into No Man’s Land to talk to the enemy. After they’ve
killed battalion of our lad, and all! Can you believe it?”
“Is it
official?” Henry asked. To his ears, it certainly didn’t sound official.
“I
doubt the High Command would stoop to such levels,” Danson said, his way of
saying ‘no’. “In fact, I’m certain that Sir John French and Lord Kitchener,
bless their British souls, wouldn’t allow such behaviour. No, lieutenant, this
is just the idea of some officer with more time on their hands than the rest of
us. We’re busy fighting a war, they’re thinking up romantic schemes that’ll end
with a man killed.”
Danson’s
theory wasn’t one that Martin subscribed to at all, but he wasn’t about to tell
the sergeant that. Not whilst he was as angry as a pack of disturbed bees. On
the contrary, he thought the idea of a truce for Christmas Day – and longer,
perhaps through to New Year’s Day, if both sides were in agreement – was a
wonderful idea. The thought that the regular rank and file could put aside
their differences for at least one day gave Martin a little more home for the
continuation of humanity than he’d had before Danson’s news. That was about all
he could hope for after this war had destroyed so much.
“When
is this occurring, Sergeant?” Martin asked.
“Soon,”
Danson replied gruffly. “Mark my words, sirs, this will be our ruin.”
Perhaps
that might have been the case, or not, but Martin was quite happy to hear the
sweet sounds of silence. France, everyone had said, was an extraordinarily
beautiful country, a place to lose oneself in with scrumptious wine and food,
and on this Christmas morning, he could almost imagine the countryside as it
had been described: crisscrossed by lazy rivers, shallow sunlit valleys,
centuries-old chateaus, farms and villages, cities and hamlets, so much of the
country trapped in a time that the advent of war had made most of Europe
forget, old ways, charming ways, not that different from a century earlier,
when France, thanks to Napoleon Bonaparte, had ruled half the world. So much
had changed, yet everything seemed that much simpler on Christmas morning.
Not of
a mind to discuss the advent of the day any further, Danson departed as quickly
as he had arrived, and it was just after the unhappy non-commissioned officer –
who was unquestionably one of the most capable of his type, a model of the
British Army – had scurried off that Martin heard something he hadn’t expected
to hear on a battlefield. It was a sound he’d not heard in far too long, and
one that put a smile on his face.
“That’s
– that’s a bird!” Henry had heard it, too, and was smiling as well. “I’ll be
damned!”
“What
a sound,” Martin exulted. “I never thought I’d hear the sound again.”
“Now
we’re having a proper Christmas,” Henry decided. “I cannot help but disagree
completely with Sergeant Danson where the truce is concerned. I think it’s a
brilliant idea. We shouldn’t be fighting on this day of all days.”
“I
agree, but I wasn’t about to admit as much to the sergeant, of course. I know I
begged them to send me back here, but I don’t quite have a death wish!”
Henry
laughed. “Anyone who crosses the sergeant has to, I think. I pity any German
who he encounters.”
Sipping
at his tea, finding it the perfect temperature for drinking now, Martin said, “I
pity anyone – British or German – who gets on his bad side. I think I’m well on
my way to that. I’ve a feeling that he thinks I should have allowed him to
shell the Christmas tree last night.”
“You
did the right thing. If we’d done that, imagine what God-awfulness might’ve
started up as a result. It was nice to sleep soundly and to wake up to
something other than an artillery barrage, wasn’t it? In fact, I was reminded
of being in convalescence.”
Martin
made a face. “Except that back there, we were well out of the range of even the
biggest gun the Jerries have, we slept in white sheets, were tended to by
pretty nurses, got hot meals three times a day, had plenty of reading material
and, most importantly, the distinct lack of dirt.”
“Other
than that, you’ve got to admit, Martin, the similarities are startling!” Henry
grinned to show that he was joking.
Just
then, from the fire-step, a newly-promoted Lance Corporal named Bates, called
to the lieutenants. “Excuse me, lieutenant, sir? You, uh, asked me if I would
call you if something strange happened?”
“Yes,”
Martin agreed. “What’s happening, Bates?”
The
corporal, young enough that he didn’t need to shave, turned wide-eyed towards
his lieutenant. “White flag, sir.”
“I’ll
be damned,” Henry muttered. “If we’ve heard about what’s going on down the
line, the Germans have, too, I suppose.”
“There’s
one – no, two – officers, sir. They’re standing on top of the trench, sir,
waving at us, like it’s the Queen’s Birthday! Blimey, I don’t believe my own
bloody eyes!”
Martin
exchanged a knowing look with Henry that said, basically, Thank God Danson and his rifle aren’t here. “Between you and me, I’d
secretly hoped this might happen.”
“They’re
game,” Henry observed. “White flag on white flag – ours and theirs out at the
same time – is one thing, but I wouldn’t be caught dead, pardon the pun,
standing out there with my life in our hands. Lucky we’re easy-going chaps!”
“It’s
all about faith, I fancy – and if you can't have faith in something on
Christmas Day, when can, you, really?”
Henry
smiled at that. “Good point. Even so, that Hun’s a braver soul than I’ll ever
be!”
“Anyone
got anything white?” Martin called to the men in the trench around him. “I need
something big and white to signal with!”
A
mostly-dirty sheet was soon passed forward, with just enough specks of white
that hadn't been covered to make it obvious that the sheet, when tied to the
length of bayonet and rifle barrel, was a flag of truce. It was Martin’s
pleasure to grip the butt of the rifle and wave the sheet, though he was careful
to do so at a location where his body was protected from any sniper who might
have been waiting for an opportunity. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite
completely dismiss Danson’s advice about a potential trap. Not yet, anyway.
Standing
beside Martin, Henry looked up at the fire-step. “What’re they doing now,
Bates?”
The
corporal looked hard into his periscope, then pulled away, turning around to
smile at the two lieutenants. “There’s two white flags out now, sir – and four
or five, what look like they might be officers, strolling around like it’s Hyde
Park. This…is downright strange, sir.”
“It
is, isn't it, Bates? Good work, thank you – and Merry Christmas, too! Henry, do
you fancy taking a walk?”
Henry’s
jaw dropped, knowing what his friend meant. “Out there…?”
“The
Germans have extended the olive branch to us. Someone’s got to go out and
accept it, haven’t they?”
“Of
course, but I was hoping it would be someone else!”
Martin
looked at his friend, the faintest of smiles on his face. “We’ve got an opportunity
here for a bit of…well, for want of a better word, humanity. That’s something
to strive for at Christmas. Let’s not waste it, Henry.”
