'Twas December 25th...

 

Dear Readers,

As you know, I wrote a novel last year that took place during WWI and I couldn't talk about WWI without talking about the Christmas Truce... so, I enlisted help from my dear friend, R. M. Archer to help me edit this chapter in time for Christmas, and in time to share it with some family and friends. I always love working with her and if you're ever in need of a fabulous editor, check out her services Here!

Anyway, with no further Ado... 

The Christmas Truce

Mattie May

'Twas December 25th

All was silent, and all was still

From inside trenches,

Souls sang songs,

From foreign tongue and nation,

Songs of Christmas joy and cheer

The guns were silent

The men just listened

Listened to the voices singing,

“Joy and peace to the world”

How can this be?

How can they sing of peace?

When there is no peace nor joy in war,

Only pain.

Only suffering.

Only loss.




One by one, men appeared,

The land of death now filled with life.

A place where instant death occurred,

Now, a place of song, dance and life.




The men who'd just the day afore,

Cocked, and aimed, and fired, and killed

Now, sang, danced, and played as before war




Men with aching broken hearts.

Those with aching broken bones.

All joined the singing, laughter, games




In the dark corner of a trench,

A heart; aching throbbing torn

Couldn't join the fun.

Not after what those men had done.

They'd taken his brother,

His friend,

His soul.




The joyous cries,

Laughing and cheering.

The kicking of helmets like balls,

The games, the fun.

Everything made the ache acute.




He heard footsteps,

“C'mon, brother,

C'mon, enjoy yerself for once.

Who knows when this war'll end,

we might as well enjoy ourselves,”

A friend encouraged him.

He shakes his head, bitter in reply-

“How do you sing and dance when you're hurt?”

His heart is aching, it's broken.

It's shattered in so many pieces.




He's left alone again.

The cheering: relentless.

It won't leave him alone.

He finally drags himself up.

Out of the trench,

Out of the dark.

The cold, fresh snow stings his nearly bare feet.

He pulls a threadbare coat tighter around his shoulders.

“You've come, ol' pal, you've come!

Enjoy yourself, put down your gun.”

With every game,

With every song,

With every laugh,

The broken heart begins to heal.




⚜⚜⚜

Snow was freshly fallen, and the mud had finally frozen. It was December twenty-fourth. Christmas Eve. The day that in just the previous year had brought joy and cheer to the men who now sat in frozen French mud. When families should have been together around a crackling fire in the hearth, George sat on his sandbags, breathing into his cupped hands in a vain attempt to keep them warm. As the sun began slipping below the horizon, George ignored the temperature drop as he pulled his coat closer around his shoulders. He shivered, unsure if it was from the cold or the gathering shadows throughout the trenches.

Then he heard it. A harmonica. It sounded so foreign to his ears,which had heard only explosions and the groans of dying men for the past few months.

He recognized the tune: Stille Nacht. Silent Night. What a joke in this war zone, he thought. A voice joined the melody. George was surprised that it was loud enough to carry across no-man's-land.

He tried to ignore it as a gust of wind cut through his coat, reminding him where he was. Cold. Wet. Heartbroken. Hidden behind eight feet of frozen French mud.




Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht

Alles schläft; einsam wacht

Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.

Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!




The song ended.

George bit his lip and pulled his helmet down over his eyes. Today was not the day for Christmas cheer.

He rolled his eyes in annoyance as the enemy broke into singing another carol. He once again recognized the tune: Adeste Fideles, known better in England as O Come All Ye Faithful.

George groaned. There was no such thing as Christmas cheer in wartime. Songs of this kind seemed inappropriate. This was war, not a Christmas party, not a family joined around a hearth on the eve of Christmas celebration. It was not where they belonged.

George sighed. He should be home right now, sitting around the fire, singing these Christmas carols with his family. He shouldn’t be dug into the frozen French mud. George tried to block out the singing. In disbelief, his eyes widened for a brief moment before he closed them as the wind cut through again, jerking tears. The men of his own lines had joined the unwelcome Christmas caroling:




Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning;

Jesus, to thee be glory given!

Word of the Father, now in flesh, appearing!

O come, let us adore Him,

O come, let us adore Him

O come let us adore Him

Christ, the Lord.




George grimaced. Some happy morning this was. Trying to ignore the good cheer, he pulled a thin scarf up, closer to his ears. He noticed that his commanding officer had climbed out of the trench and joined a group of other commanding officers. George was stunned; what was he trying to do? Get killed? He listened intently for the fatal gunshot, but it never came and his officer soon returned without a scratch. George was stunned. What had happened? For a moment he hoped the impossible - that it was all over.

“We’ve decided to have a truce... for Christmas,” the commanding officer announced.

George pulled himself further into the corner. He didn’t want a Christmas truce. Christmas was a time of love, warmth and friendship; war was a time of hate, cold, and man against man. There was no real Christmas in war, only the date of December the twenty-fifth that would pass like every other day during this miserable war - anxiously awaiting the order to go and kill the enemy.

Some of the men cheered, others cautiously looked over the edge of the trenches. George watched them climb out, but it wasn’t for battle and no shots were fired.

The men weren’t slaughtered, and he didn’t have to get up and go over the edge of the trench.

George exhaled once again into his frozen fingers.

George noticed Marvin shuffling over to him, huffing at his pipe as usual. He sighed a bit. He wasn’t feeling particularly friendly, nor was he in the mood for conversation. A smile played at his lips though, remembering Marvin’s kindness.

“You gonna go over, friend?” he asked.

George shook his head. No one had called him that since… James had. And now James was gone.

“Come on, I think it would do you good.” Marvin nudged George’s shoulder.

George shook his head again. He was tired. Tired of war, and fighting. Tired of men who pretended like it was over, who would only return to fighting in a matter of hours. Plus, he couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t a trick by the enemy to kill them all. He just wanted to be left alone. Nothing would make the ache in his heart any less.

“I know you’re hurting, George, but you have to start healing. You can’t live like this.”

“Like what?” George rolled his eyes.

“Hiding from the world, life, barring yourself from others. You can’t close yourself off from relationships because of fear. Don’t think that going home will fix anything, because it won’t. It’ll only make things worse. I’ve seen things, George. I’ve seen men come back from home. Things weren’t the same as when they left. You won’t be the same after fighting like this. No one will.”

Marvin shifted his weight a bit uneasily, then tilted his head toward the makeshift ladder leaning against the side of the trench. “Why don’t you go over? Say goodbye to James and bury him? Eh? I think it’ll do you good, friend.”

George pulled a blanket around his shoulders. It was a good point. Maybe he could find James and give him a proper burial.

“Maybe,” George mumbled.

“Okay.” The man wandered off and went up over the side of the trench.

For the first time in a long time, George was alone.

He shivered in the cold as he heard the other soldiers laugh and pop open the few drinks that were to be found in the sparse trenches. He never drank much, but he found himself craving some of the warmth that it offered.

George sighed. If James had been there he would have been the first one out, the first one to celebrate… He would have sung with the men… George had to admit that the one song in three languages was spell-binding. Men who had become hardened by war were singing songs of a young babe in a manger, men who likely had families at home waiting for them, men who needed the savior they sang of. There was something in its sound that mere words could not describe.




George sighed again. His mind kept replaying what Marvin had suggested - to go bury James. After fighting the idea for some time, George finally gave in and no amount of self pity could keep him from grabbing a shovel and climbing out of the trench. He had to find James’ body.

He did his best to find the part of the trench that he had been in when he had to toss James out. That night after the battle had been such a blur, but he looked for the familiar sight of sand bags that were stacked along the edges of the trenches. As he walked along the trenches the sounds of the joy and cheer of men drifted through the air.

He tried to block the noise out; there was nothing joyful about trying to find a lost friend. There was nothing to sing about.

When he noticed things looking vaguely familiar, George began dusting the snow off the faces of those that had been killed. After some short searching, he found him. Pain shot through him at the sight and he wished he could keep searching. Part of him wished he never found him. So cold, so pale… so lifeless. Dead.

George blinked back threatening tears and wandered off a bit to try and find a suitable place to dig a grave. Finding the right place seemed impossible in a war torn land. In reality, it was. No grave out here would be fit for James.

George thrust the shovel into the frozen mud, his passion driving each heap of mud furiously from the growing hole. Some flew up in little bits into his face, but the tears streaming from his eyes washed it away.

The mud grew more packed together as he got deeper down, and George bit into his lip ‘til he tasted blood. Exhaustion threatened to topple him into the freshly dug grave, but he resisted as another biting wind chewed through his jacket, making the desire to keep warm overtake the desire to cease his hurried movements.

Finally, he reached deep enough to bury the body. He collapsed at the opening of the grave and sobs once again racked his body. James had been his dearest friend, practically a brother.

He thought of the last time that he and James had sat together at the warm hearth, the last time they had laughed together, the last time they had spoken. He thought of his failure to protect James and bring him home safely. He wished it would have been him that had run ahead when the shell exploded. That it was his body that was hurled through the air.

It was over now, James was gone.

He pulled himself up despite the tears and went over to the body as another wave of tears threatened to once again stream down his face. He took a deep breath, then knelt beside his friend.

He gently touched James’ face, brushing the stray hairs from eyes that were glassy and cold. George gently lifted James and brought him over to where he would finally be at rest.

A final thought crossed his mind. James’ family would probably appreciate one last memory of James. George gently laid James down and carefully pulled the well-worn jacket off. As he did so, a small book, the size of a large wallet, fell out. Without thinking, George picked it up and set it in his pocket. After this gruesome task was done he gently lowered James into the makeshift grave.

If only James could be buried in a nice churchyard grave with a service. What this man, friend, soldier and brother had done for his country deserved to be remembered. George looked down into the grave. This man had done better than he could ever do. He thought over what should be at the burial service. There would be a hymn, a message, a eulogy… but he was too overcome with grief to say anything.

Silently, George began to shovel the dirt onto his friend’s body, wishing that he could be in the grave with him. The shovel felt heavier than it had before, perhaps because this was the final goodbye. He’d never see James’ face again. George shoveled the dirt back. He watched as it slowly covered his friend.

After he had filled the hole he flattened it best he could. He found a couple twigs and shaped them into a cross using some of the barbed wire that was abundant in no-man’s-land. He stuck the make-shift cross into the freshly disturbed mud and surveyed his work. George was surprised by how neat it looked in the midst of a battlefield covered in knots of barbed wire and strewn with bodies of men. As George scanned the battle field, this small piece of order was quickly lost in the chaos of no-man’s-land.

George glanced up as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You did it, brother,” a familiar voice said. The faint light from his pipe highlighted enough of his features for George to recognize Marvin with a small smile.

George sniffed, wiping his frozen nose with his equally frozen index finger, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Come join us. We’re gonna play football here in a bit.”

“I don’t know…”

“Come on.” Marvin grabbed George's shoulders and led him to where the men were organizing. George offered little resistance since part of him was a bit curious. “Found another teammate for us.” Marvin announced.

The other men cheered.

George managed a smile. It had been a long time since he had done that. Smile. It felt good.

George felt a feeling of panic spread through him as he noticed a German soldier was on his side of the field. It felt so odd. Before the war, he wouldn’t have thought twice about sharing the road with a German, but now it was different. The panic dissipated as the game began and he was soon engrossed in the game of football, ignoring the nationalities of his teammates, ignoring where he was and what would likely commence in the morning. That would be more serious than any game these men had ever played when they were boys. War had a way of making boys into men. Kicking the ball made out of helmets seemed to be more fun than when he remembered playing as a boy.

After the game ended, some of the men laughed, told stories, and George found himself wrapped up in James’ jacket in front of a small fire that had been started.

He sat there, looking around at the faces of the men he had been shooting at for the past few months. They were real people. It hurt them when a friend died. They had hearts. Most of them hadn’t chosen to join; the choice was made for them.

George regretted making the choice to join, yet at the same time he knew that there was no way he would have been able to stay in his warm home with his family, knowing that there were men just like him giving their lives in this war. George sighed as he reflected. This war had taken so much from him: his health, his best friend, his trust in God….

The last one scared him a bit. He didn’t really want to admit that he had nearly ceased to trust God. He had too many questions that needed answers, and he didn’t know where to find them.

He pulled James’ jacket tighter as the sun finally fell below the horizon, and his hand brushed across something he didn’t remember putting in his pocket. He pulled it out, raising his eyebrows a bit in curiosity and holding it closer to the fire to provide light. It was a book. It was leather. It had a bullet embedded in its center.

George carefully pried the bullet out and opened the front page. It occurred to him that this was what had fallen out of James’ jacket when he had taken it off his body. It had belonged to James… and it was apparent that this book had literally saved James’ life at some point. Tears once again threatened to spill, but George held them back. He didn’t know when the Bible had saved James, but he was grateful that this little book had given him one more day with his friend. For a moment, he could only stare at the book.

Finally, he flipped through the pages. Dirt stained the edges, and some pages had blood on them. George hoped it wasn’t James’ blood. The book so absorbed George’s attention that he hardly noticed when some of the men began returning to their trenches.

As the fire died down, to the point George could no longer make out the small words on the pages, he realized he was one of a few remaining soldiers left and got up to start heading back to his own lines. He was interrupted from his daze at the sight of the fresh mud and cross that marked James’ grave. After blinking back tears, he looked up into the night sky as the stars began to make their appearance. A peaceful smile came to his lips as a sigh left them and lifted up a silent prayer. He would not let his next friend down like he had James.

George wandered back to his division's area of the trench. The familiar voices of the other men he had been around for the past few months and the extra row of sand bags along the top told him this was his home for now. He threw himself into the eight-foot-deep trench. It was cold. And slippery where the water had turned to ice. George struggled to keep his footing.

Tired from the events of the day, he fell onto his accustomed seat. Deep in thought about everything that had happened, he composed a letter to his wife.




Dearest Mabel,

I don't know when you'll receive this, but the most extraordinary thing happened this evening. I'm sure the commanding officers, who are safely hidden at the back of the lines, will not be happy, but this thing has done a good deal for me.

It started when the enemy started playing one of their traditional carols. As they moved into the next one, our men joined in. I've never heard anything so beautiful in my life. It is often hard to realize that in war, men can still celebrate good cheer. It's hard to remember when you are in a war that man is still capable of doing good things. There was a truce declared for Christmas. I was, at first, so heavily lost in sorrow as it is still hard for me to acknowledge that James is truly gone and I will never have Christmas with him.

I miss you and Jenny sorely today. It's Christmas Eve and today is meant to be shared with family and friends. Not in some muddy frozen trench. I think all of us feel lonely.

I haven't been able to really make friends with any of the men. I'm scared to get close to anyone. I might lose them like I did James. I don't know how I would handle that. I don't know if I could.

Every day I fear something might possess me to go over and get myself killed, like that one man. It is truly a frightening thought. Sometimes I think I might be losing my mind.

I don't know how much longer I can hold together. Losing James is by far the hardest thing I've been through. I don't know how to process it. James was such a dear friend, I don't know how long I can go on without his company.

While sitting at a small campfire this evening I found James' Bible. I found out that he had been hit by a bullet. That Bible saved his life. I'm wondering if it can save mine too, but in a different way. Perhaps it’s time I sought God more.

Your husband,



George

Merry Christmas y'all! I'll likely be back sometime before New Years for a Yearly Wrap Up post.

Blessings,

Mattie May, The Blossoming Writer