December 24, 2024, Warwickshire, UK
Thomas Holt finishes his last sip of tea. Though he is still
seated at the supper table in the kitchen he can hear the excited voices of his
grandchildren echoing down the hallway from the living room.
“Where is Grandpa?” one of his granddaughters asks.
“He’s finishing his tea dear,” replies June, Thomas’
daughter.
“But mommy, we want a story so we can open a present!”
demands little Davy.
“Patience son,” his father, Michael, tells him. “You must
learn patience, Davy.”
Thomas stands and grips his cane. He walks out of the
kitchen and down the hallway to the living room. Gazing upon his gathered brood,
Thomas grins. His son Michael, Michael’s wife Kat, and their two children, Davy
and Prudence sit on the couch. Thomas’ daughter, June, her husband Harold, and
their three children, Robert, Clarissa, and the little one that started this
exchange, Alice, are scattered about the room sitting in chairs or on the
carpeted floor. All are facing the Christmas tree, and the pile of ‘loot’
spread beneath its lower limbs. The only empty seat in the room is the recliner
that Thomas has claimed as his own.
Standing behind them just inside the living room Thomas
announces his presence by stating, “So, you want a story.”
“Yes, Grandpa, a story, a wonderful Christmas story! Then
presents, lots of presents!” the children shout excitedly.
Kat hushes them by saying, “Inside voices children!”
The children become quiet, their faces displaying concern
that their outburst may have cost them the chance to open presents this
Christmas Eve. Plaintively they all look at Grandpa.
“What kind of Christmas story would you like to hear? One
with elves and toys? One with a fat, bearded man all dressed in red sliding
down your chimney? Or would you like to hear a true Christmas story, a story
about a Christmas miracle?” Thomas asks.
The children all look at each other, and then Alice asks, “A
true Christmas story?”
Thomas answers, “Yes sweetie a true Christmas story. A story
about my grandfather when he was in the Great War.” He walks over to the
bookcase and pulls out a photo album. With an album in hand, Thomas walks over to
the recliner and sits down.
He starts to open the photo album when June asks, “Don’t you
think they’re a little young for this story Dad?”
“Nonsense sweetie. Robert and Davy are both ten now and
Alice is six. They’re old enough to hear about their great great grandfather’s
Christmas miracle,” states Thomas. As he’s speaking, he finds the page he’s
looking for. Thomas waves for the children to come to him, saying, “Come over
here kids. I have a picture to show you.” Once the children have gathered
around him, he points to a fading photograph, at the same time Thomas tells
them, “This is my grandfather, Harold Holt. The man standing next to him is a
German soldier named Hans Schrum. They met on Christmas Morning, December 25th,
1914, on a field in Bois de Ploegsteert, Belgium. They were enemies in a
terrible war, but that Christmas Day something unexpected happened…”
***
December 24th, 1914, Bois de Ploegsteert, Belgium
Private Harold Holt grips his rifle tightly to his chest as
he lays in the mud at the bottom of the trench. Damn! I’m going to have to
clean this thing again! he growls to himself. The trench walls are only three
feet high. The muddy earth slides off them with the impact of each German canon
shell. For the last five days the bombardment has been ceaseless.
Just like everyone else in the first battalion of the Royal
Warwickshire Regiment Harold is exhausted. They have been in France since
August 22nd. The battalion was involved in the retreat from Mons and the battle
of Le Cateau. Then there was the race to the sea as the Allies and the Germans
kept trying to outflank each other. Now assigned to defend a sector in Bois de
Ploegsteert, Belgium they have been digging trenches. With the High Command
preparing to go on the offensive, they were told only to dig the trenches three
feet deep. Because the trenches are so shallow they spend most of their time
laying in them. Those that stand or sit usually get their heads shot off.
This winter has had little snow, mostly it has been raining,
and then freezing to ice at night. Each morning Harold has found himself, and
his kit, frozen to the ground. When the sun rises it gets just warm enough to
melt the ice, transforming that frozen ground into a clinging muck forcing
Harold, and his fellow Tommys, to struggle to get dry and keep their rifles
clean. A dirty rifle will not fire, and a rifle that will not fire means death
in this God-forsaken place.
Between the rain and drizzle, the trampling feet of
thousands of soldiers, the senseless attacks that have been launched, and the
incessant artillery barrages the once beautiful Belgian countryside has been
transformed into a hellish dreamscape populated by the dead, the dying, and the
zombified ‘living.’
Harold feels someone starting to crawl over him, which makes
him start to panic until he hears, “Sorry mate, I’ve got a message for the
battalion CO. This is the only way to get there without getting me bum shot
off.”
The weight of another Tommy on top of him causes Harold to
sink deeper into the muck at the bottom of the trench. Bugger! Now I really
have to clean this damn thing! Once the messenger has crawled off of him,
Harold rolls over onto his back and gets his cleaning kit out of its pouch. As
he breaks down his rifle Harold can feel the cold, gooey muck he is lying in
pour over the collar of his greatcoat and ooze down his back.
***
At noon the shelling stops. After several moments Harold can
hear the others talking.
“The Boche stopped early.”
“What gives, are they attacking?”
“No mate, you’d ‘ave ‘eard their battle cry by now if they
‘as cooming!”
Harold feels someone grab his boot to get his attention. He
looks at his feet and sees Donny’s frightened face. “Hey ‘arry are dey
cooming?”
“No guv, if dey was cooming dey’d be hollerin by now,” says
Harold.
Donny asks, “Then why’d the shellin stop?”
“I don’t know mate, I don’t know,” answers Harold.
The men of the first battalion of the Royal Warwickshire
Regiment spend a tense afternoon waiting for the other shoe to drop. Staying at
their posts the frightened Tommy’s eat a cold supper of ‘Bully Beef’ and
peaches out of the tins with their fingers as they keep a tense watch on the
German lines. They are so certain that the Boche are up to something that when
they feel ‘nature call’ they do not make their way down the trench line to the
latrines, instead they crawl over the back of the trench to a nearby shell
crater, relieve themselves, and then crawl back to their posts. Everyone knows
that the German’s trenches are less than fifty yards away, when they come the
Germans will be upon them in no time.
As twilight arrives on Christmas Eve, 1914, the men of the
first battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment keep a close watch on the
enemy, with bayonets fixed, wondering what, if anything, is going to happen.
***
By seven in the evening, it is a dark, starry night with no
clouds. The long hours of being ready for a fight have tired the soldiers of
the regiment. Many have fallen asleep with their rifles still in their hands.
The captain has the company stand down, leaving a few sentries on alert. Around
ten pm Donny, who is on guard, calls out, “Corporal Peele, there’s something
going on in the Boche trenches.”
Corporal Peele takes the platoon's trench periscope and uses
it to look above the edge of the trench. He is so astonished by what he’s
seeing he keeps rising up until his head and chest are fully exposed.
The British and German trenches run parallel to each other
in this sector. They both are on a slight ridge with a mild depression in
between. There is a rickety barbed wire fence running between them. The British
trench is slightly higher than the German, and because of this Corporal Peele can
clearly see the Germans are placing lit candles all over their trenches, and
they have put up a pine tree with decorations. As the Corporal drops the
periscope and stares at the Germans they start to sing.
The sound of the Germans singing rises up out of their
trench, wafts across no man’s land, drifting into the trenches of the first
battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. The sound wakes many of the
soldiers. After a few choruses of the song Corporal Peele grouses, “What in the
‘ell do they ‘ave to sing about?”
The Germans start to sing another song:
“O Tannenbaum, o
Tannenbaum
Wie treu sind
deine Blätter
Du grünst nicht
nur zur Sommerzeit
Nein auch im
Winter, wenn es schneit
O Tannenbaum, o
Tannenbaum
Wie treu sind
deine Blätter”
Suddenly Donny shakes Harold’s shoulder. “They’re singing
Christmas carols, ‘arry, they’re singing Christmas carols!”
“You’re daft Donny. What makes you think they’re singing
Christmas carols?” replies Harold.
“That song, it’s Oh Christmas Tree!” states Donny.
Harold asks, “How do ya know dat Donny, they’re singing in
German.”
Donny answers, “That tune, it’s the same in every language.
I’d know it anywhere, me mum and me sing it every Christmas Eve.”
Harold thinks a moment, then nods. It makes sense, more
sense than anything else that has happened since August 22nd, after all it is
Christmas Eve.
The Germans finish their song, and cheer and applaud each
other. Before they can start another Donny stands up, and in a deep baritone,
starts to sing.
“O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant
O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem
O come and behold Him, born the King of Angels”
Harold stares at his friend, I didn’t know he can sing!
Damn, he’s good!
As he listens other Tommys join Donny in singing the
Christmas carol. The silence coming from the German trench tells them that they
are listening too. When the British soldiers finish the song the Germans cheer
and applaud, so do the other members of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment.
For over an hour the soldiers of both armies take turns
serenading each other with Christmas carols. At last, they start to bed down.
As Harold gets his bedroll ready a German soldier shouts out, “Gute Nacht,
Engländer.” Corporal Peele shouts back, “Good night lads.”
***
Harold wakes shivering. Damn it’s cold! He shakes his
bedrolls outer shell, cracking the coat of frost. The ice snaps and cracks as
he sits up. Chunks of ice cling to his bedroll, greatcoat, and rifle. Harold
scoots out of his bedroll and shakes it to clear it of ice. Then he rolls it
up. Harold takes his rifle and bangs the rifle’s butt on the ground, knocking
ice off of it.
As he does a German soldier shouts out, “Engländer, hast du
eine Flasche?”
Corporal Peele shouts back, “What? I don’t understand you?”
A different German
soldier shouts back in English, “He said Englishmen do you have a bottle? I
think he wants to trade a bottle of schnapps for some English beer.”
Sargent Smythe shouts out, “I got some beer.”
“Walk over here, we won’t shoot,” says the German soldier.
Sargent Smythe answers, “I’ll walk halfway and you walk
halfway.”
For a few moments they can’t hear or see any activity in the
German trench, then they see a German soldier climbing out of it. He is not
wearing his helmet and is not carrying his rifle. Once the German is out of the
trench he reaches down and gets something from another soldier. He stands erect
and starts walking toward the British trench. To Harold, it appears he’s
carrying a bottle.
Sargent Smythe mumbles, “I’ll be buggered.” He kneels down
and takes something out of his kit bag. Sargent Smythe climbs out of the
trench, leaving his rifle next to his kit bag, and starts to walk towards the
German soldier, carrying a bottle of beer.
The soldiers of both armies watch the two men walk towards
each other until they are face to face. For a moment the two men look each
other over, then they shake hands and exchange bottles. After they open the
bottles both men take a slug, and then they hug each other. The onlooking
soldiers applaud.
By twos and threes other soldiers begin to leave the
trenches and walk across no man’s land towards each other. At first, they are
timid, even suspicious. Add in that most don’t speak the others language
communication is near impossible. Most of them try to speak with each other
using simple words and hand gestures. The few that speak both languages are
kept busy helping their fellow soldiers talk with each other.
As the men become comfortable with each other they start to
share pictures of home and family. They even exchange jokes.
One enterprising Tommy brings his grooming kit, sets up a
couple of crates, and starts offering a haircut for two cigarettes. After all,
everyone wants to look their best on Christmas Day.
After a while the soldiers start wishing each other a Merry
Christmas. They exchange small gifts, pipes, tobacco, fruit, and slices of cake
they had received in packages from home.
Some brave souls try the other sides field rations, and all
agree they taste awful. It is at this point the soldiers signal for their cooks
to come forward. When the cooks come out the soldiers jeer at them. After
taking a lot of good-natured ribbing, the cooks start working together with
whatever is available to prepare lunch for everyone.
The soldiers move from no man’s land to their trenches and
come back bearing salt, pepper, tea bags, ration tins, whatever they can find
to give to the cooks. As noon time arrives all the donations have been used to
prepare the lunch meal. The soldiers retrieve their mess kits and line up to be
served.
As the soldiers line up Harold notices one German soldier
standing alone. He seems to be looking over the battlefield. Harold walks up to
him and asks, “What’s up mate?”
The German replies, “I visited here a few years ago. It was
such a beautiful place. Now look at it, look what all of us have done to this
beautiful country.” He shakes his head sadly.
Harold says, “Guv, tis sad at that, this is ‘orrible, I
speck itz gonna be more ‘orrible ‘fore itz over.”
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true,” says the German.
“Mate, your English tis better ‘an mine. Howz ‘at pozble?”
asks Harold.
The German soldier answers, “I went to university in London.
My father has, I suppose now it would be had, an import-export business with
stores in Berlin and London. He felt I should go to college in England so I
could help him with suppliers and customers in your country.” He looks at
Harold for a moment, then offers his hand saying, “I’m Hans Schrum.”
Harold takes his hand and shakes it vigorously, “I’m ‘arold
‘olt, but the lads call me ‘arry.”
Hans replies, “I’m pleased to meet you, Harry.”
“Likewise,” states Harold. “Let’s get in the grub line mate,
it ‘ight be good.” Together they get in line with the others.
***
Back at GHQ the commanders look over the reports they have
just been handed. The first is the logistics report, the artillery ammunition
is finally getting forward to the gun batteries. General Smythe mumbles, “Good,
the muddy roads are being defeated at last, we will be able to renew our
barrages by morning.” The next report is from the intelligence officer. The
airplanes they’ve commandeered to fly over German lines have provided
photographs that show they have been having the same problems as the allies have.
They also show the Germans have overcome the problems and their artillery
ammunition is arriving at their guns.
The next report is setting off alarms throughout the chain
of command. Thousands of German, Belgian, French, and British soldiers are
leaving their weapons in their trenches, meeting in no man’s land and
celebrating Christmas together. “What the hell!” shouts General Smythe as he
hands the report to Générale Fayette.
The generals go to Généralissime Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the
supreme allied commander, in a panic. Once they’ve told him what was going on
his face takes on a grim expression. The Marshall gives his orders, and the
panicky generals rush to have his orders transmitted to the offending units.
***
For the first time in months, the men have eaten a satisfying
meal. They all agree it is not as good as the Christmas dinner they would have
had if they were back home, but it is the best meal they have had since this
whole thing has started. German and British soldiers sit mingled together
enjoying after dinner banter. Jokes are told, photos of home are shared, and a
few precious bottles of wine are passed around.
A few British soldiers start to sing bawdy marching songs.
Shortly, German soldiers join in. The few soldiers who speak both languages
translate them for the others. To their surprise, they find that both armies
sing many of the same songs. For a brief period, the soldiers compete to see
who can sing the loudest, and just how bawdy they can make a song.
Around two in the afternoon, a British Lieutenant digs into
his kitbag and pulls out a soccer ball. At first they all stare at it, then
suddenly they are picking team captains and selecting players.
The first match is British against the Germans. The Germans
win the match by two goals. The second match is enlisted versus officers, the
enlisted soldiers win by one goal. Though the playing field is uneven and mucky
all the soldiers have a good time, and the only injuries are a couple of
sprained ankles. Some of the more ‘artistic’ soldiers create a couple of
trophies out of ration tins, and whatever else they can find.
The captains of the winning teams are awarded their trophies
and then sprayed with shaken warm beer.
Harold and Hans spent most of the time cheering on their
favorite teams and talking about home and family. It surprised both of them how
much they had in common. The few differences seemed trivial. And yet here they
were on opposite sides in this monumental disaster that people were calling the
Great War.
When Harold told Hans about his girlfriend Hans surprised
him by saying, “My fiancée lives in Coventry.”
Harold stares at him with his mouth wide open. “How’s ‘at
mate?”
“Janice, she lives in Coventry. We met a year ago when I was
on a business trip. We were both in the Imperial Museum, in the Egyptian wing.
We were looking at a model of the Great Pyramid of Giza, and started discussing
how wonderful it would be to visit the real pyramid.”
“Well, ‘at’s different mate. I don’t know any girl ‘hat
‘ould go to a museum,” states Harold.
“She is beautiful and brilliant Harry,” says Hans.
“Mate, sounds like like you ‘ave it bad for ‘er,” Harold
says.
Hans nods and replies, “Yes, very bad.”
***
The commander of the 10th brigade reads the message his
communications officer, a young captain, has brought him. It is from the
supreme allied commander. It is terse and to the point:
All allied soldiers are to immediately break of all
interactions with German soldiers and return to their trenches. No further
fraternization or communication with enemy soldiers will take place. Any
soldier that has any further communication or fraternizes with enemy soldiers
will be shot.
The commander rereads the message. He has a reputation for
being hard, something he earned in the Boer War. Though this war is quite
different from fighting a guerrilla war he knows how hard things are going to
get. The men need this break, and they may never get the opportunity again. He
tells his communications officer, “Change your log to reflect that we didn’t
get this message until tomorrow morning.”
The captain salutes him and leaves the bunker.
***
The evening turns to night. The soldiers start returning to
their trenches. Harold and Hans sit taking in the night sky. After a few
moments Hans says, “Harry, would you do me a favor?”
“If I can mate, what is it?” Harold replies.
Hans reaches into his greatcoat and pulls out an envelope.
“This is a letter to my fiancée, could you mail it for me?”
“What’s in the letter?” Harold asks with a bit of suspicion.
Hans chuckles. “I expect a little suspicion is called for
given the situation. The letter tells her I’m alright. It also says, given our
circumstances, if she wants to end the engagement I understand. That’s all
Harry. The letter is in English if you wish to read it before mailing it.” With
that Hans hands him the letter. Harry tucks it into his greatcoat. Hans softly
says, “I suppose I should get back.”
Harold agrees saying, “We both should mate. ‘ake care Hans.”
“Take care, Harry,” Hans answers.
They both stand, shake hands, and then walk back to their
trenches. Harold wonders at how this man who is supposed to be his enemy feels
more like a brother. Once back in his trench Harold puts on his helmet and the
rest of his kit. Taking hold of his rifle, he sits down.
From across no man’s land, a German soldier calls out, “Frohe
Weihnachten, meine Freunde!”
Corporal Peele shouts, “Merry Christmas lads!”
***
December 24, 2024, Warwickshire, UK
Thomas Holt did not realize he had stopped talking until
little Alice asked, “Why are you crying, Grandpa?”
He looks over to her and smiles. “The tears are for what
could have happened and didn’t sweetie.”
Davy queries, “What do you mean Grandpa?”
Thomas answers, “Historians say one hundred thousand
Belgian, French, British and German soldiers took part in these unauthorized
Christmas truces. I keep asking myself what would have happened if more
soldiers had taken part? Could it have stopped the war and saved millions of
lives? I guess we will never know. Come children, let’s open some presents.”
With that Davy and Robert start handing out gifts.
R. A. “Doc”
Correa
www.goldenboxbooks.com/ra-doc-correa.html
A retired US Army military master parachutist, retired
surgical technologist, and retired computer scientist. He’s an award-winning
poet and author. “Doc” has had poems published in multiple books and had
stories published in Bookish Magazine and Your Secret Library. His first novel,
Rapier, won a Book Excellence award and was given a Reader’s Favorite five-star
review.
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