No Man's Land
Christmas Eve, and I sit shivering in the trenches, my body covered in frozen mud. Explosions all around me near tear through my eardrums, and I clutch at my head in agony.
I remember the good days of Christmases gone by. Ellen and Michael will have no Father Christmas this year. I have written to them, and to their mother, wishing them all a merrier Christmas than I imagine I will have; but writing to them isn't the same as being there. Oh, Charlotte, how I miss you! How I long to dance with you as we danced on our wedding day. Every time I hear music I think of you, my dearest, most wonderful wife.
Ellen will be eight next month. Almost too old to believe in Father Christmas, but when I look at her I shall always remember the miracle baby I held while her supposedly barren mother slept, that perfect day we spent together in the hospital. How wonderful to be able to think of them now, even while I am so cold and dirty. It is so far from beautiful – so unlike my native England.
And Michael, he is four by now, playing with toy soldiers, one British soldier, known to him only as “Papa”, defeating the entire German army in a matter of minutes. My dear boy, I hope you will never have to experience the truth of war in this hard, cold reality. The winter is cruel, the Germans are not lenient. We all shiver, clothes fresh three or four weeks ago, boots barely removed since we enlisted. The mud is frozen harder than concrete, and there is not even snow.
The frost shatters before my eyes, and I duck to avoid the full force of the shell's explosion. My shift is over. I can lay down to sleep.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht
Alles schlaft, einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh.
The gentle lullaby is distant, but it silences the noisy men around me. As the hymn draws to a close, the British troops are suddenly singing back, and deep as my hatred for the Germans is, I cannot help but to join in.
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath'ring winter fuel.
And then I go back to bed, the true Christmas spirit warming my soul, and I try not to think that tomorrow will bring death once more.
---
Christmas Day, and my shift is about to start. It's nearly ten, and as I head to the trenches the new lad, Jimmy, is coming the other way.
“Good time to start your shift, Jonsen,” he says with a grin. I've never seen the boy so excited, and as he's a raw recruit, he is the single most excitable kid in the Royal Welch Fusiliers Battalion.
“It is?” I ask wearily. My thoughts, of course, are focused not on the war, but on my family. I would so like to be with them today, watching Ellen and Michael squeal in delight as they open presents; rather than here, shooting at men with whom we sang last night.
But as I come to the trenches, there is shouting, in French – one side with an English accent, the other German. I look over the trench and some German soldiers have dared to come up and into No Man's Land.
I glance at the Lieutenant behind me. He keeps his expression stoic as he looks over himself, not letting on that he has any opinion about it at all. The men around me are grinning, but as French was always my worst subject at school, I can't imagine what they are so happy about, in the trenches on Christmas Day instead of with their families.
Three or four men jump out to join the Germans. I flinch, expecting to hear the poor lads – none of them over twenty-three years old – die. Instead I hear laughter.
Before I know it we are all out on No Man's Land. A football has appeared, although nobody seems to know where from. The scene is a wonder above all wonders. All around me, the British soldiers laugh and joke with German soldiers, the hated enemy. There is no hostility today, only peace; and while normally my soul reeks with hatred for Germany and its army, I cannot help but laugh and join in, tackling the football off of a lad far younger than many of our own. I glance at him, and he is barely more than fifteen. He puts me in mind of my youngest brother, and I can't help but tousle his hair with what I hope is a friendly smile. He grins back amiably, and with one swift kick takes the ball from in front of my right foot and sends it flying to another of his men, laughing.
I call with an identical laugh to the nearest Fusilier, but that happens to be Davis, and while he is one of the best soldiers there ever was, and by far the greatest friend, when it comes to football his skills are limited, to say the least. I groan, albeit cheerfully, and run to help. The boy runs alongside me.
“Merry Christmas, Tommy,” he pants with a grin aimed in my direction.
“Gute Weinachten, Fritz.”
There is not a gun, or a shell, or a wound in sight. There is no snow, which last night annoyed me, but then, I'll wager there's no snow in England either. Out of the corner of my eye I spot the Major striding towards us. He looks furious, but I don't care, because here there is friendship. Within the hour, by the look on his face, we will be warring again, but for now, just for this last half-hour, one among thousands...
We have tasted freedom.
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