Greetings, Quotaholics:
This special Christmas edition is brought to you by Mike. I called
him and asked if he’d mind sending it out and he graciously agreed.
I have written on
several occasions about a true Christmas miracle, the Christmas of 1914.
It was then that German and British troops, locked in the horrible struggle
and carnage of World War I, decided to simply stop fighting and come
out of their trenches to shake hands and talk. The story has never
ceased to amaze me. Men who hours earlier were killing each other
just quit, and then hours later just went back to the business of death
as if nothing had happened.
I asked to send this issue because I found something I thought remarkable.
It was a first-person account of that night 97 years ago, and I thought
it was worth sharing. It wouldn’t have been quite the same next
week or next month, so it was basically do it now or wait another year.
Here is the story as told by one soldier in a letter to his sister.
It
is 2:00 in the morning and most of our men are asleep in their dugouts
- yet I could not sleep myself before writing to you of the wonderful
events of Christmas Eve. In truth, what happened seems almost like a
fairy tale, and if I hadn’t been through it myself, I would scarce believe
it. Just imagine: While you and the family sang carols before the fire
there in London, I did the same with enemy soldiers here on the battlefields
of France!
As I wrote before, there has been little serious fighting of late. The
first battles of the war left so many dead that both sides have held
back until replacements could come from home. So we have mostly stayed
in our trenches and waited.
But what a terrible waiting it has been! Knowing that any moment an
artillery shell might land and explode beside us in the trench, killing
or maiming several men. And in daylight not daring to lift our heads
above ground, for fear of a sniper’s bullet.
And the rain - it has fallen almost daily. Of course, it collects right
in our trenches, where we must bail it out with pots and pans. And with
the rain has come mud - a good foot or more deep. It splatters and cakes
everything, and constantly sucks at our boots. One new recruit got his
feet stuck in it, and then his hands too when he tried to get out -
just like in that American story of the tar baby!
Through all this, we couldn’t help feeling curious about the German
soldiers across the way. After all, they faced the same dangers we did,
and slogged about in the same muck. What’s more, their first trench
was only 50 yards from ours. Between us lay No Man’s Land, bordered
on both sides by barbed wire - yet they were close enough we sometimes
heard their voices.
Of course, we hated them when they killed our friends. But other times,
we joked about them and almost felt we had something in common. And
now it seems they felt the same.
Just yesterday morning - Christmas Eve Day - we had our first good freeze.
Cold as we were, we welcomed it, because at least the mud froze solid.
Everything was tinged white with frost, while a bright sun shone over
all. Perfect Christmas weather.
During the day, there was little shelling or rifle fire from either
side. And as darkness fell on our Christmas Eve, the shooting stopped
entirely. Our first complete silence in months! We hoped it might promise
a peaceful holiday, but we didn’t count on it. We’d been told the Germans
might attack and try to catch us off guard.
I went to the dugout to rest, and lying on my cot, I must have drifted
asleep. All at once my friend John was shaking me awake, saying, "Come
and see! See what the Germans are doing!" I grabbed my rifle, stumbled
out into the trench, and stuck my head cautiously above the sandbags.
I never hope to see a stranger and more lovely sight. Clusters of tiny
lights were shining all along the German line, left and right as far
as the eye could see.
"What
is it?" I asked in bewilderment, and John answered, "Christmas
trees!"
And so it was. The Germans had placed Christmas trees in front of their
trenches, lit by candle or lantern like beacons of good will.
And then we heard their voices raised in song.
Stille nacht, heilige nacht . . . .
This carol may not yet be familiar to us in Britain, but John knew it
and translated: "Silent night, holy night." I’ve never heard
one lovelier - or more meaningful, in that quiet, clear night, its dark
softened by a first-quarter moon.
When the song finished, the men in our trenches applauded. Yes, British
soldiers applauding Germans! Then one of our own men started singing,
and we all joined in.
The first Nowell, the angel did say . . . .
In truth, we sounded not nearly as good as the Germans, with their fine
harmonies. But they responded with enthusiastic applause of their own
and then began another.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum . . . .
Then we replied.
O come all ye faithful . . . .
But this time they joined in, singing the same words in Latin.
Adeste fideles . . . .
British and German harmonizing across No Man’s Land! I would have thought
nothing could be more amazing - but what came next was more so.
"English, come over!" we heard one of them shout. "You
no shoot, we no shoot."
There in the trenches, we looked at each other in bewilderment. Then
one of us shouted jokingly, "You come over here."
To our astonishment, we saw two figures rise from the trench, climb
over their barbed wire, and advance unprotected across No Man’s Land.
One of them called, "Send officer to talk."
I saw one of our men lift his rifle to the ready, and no doubt others
did the same - but our captain called out, "Hold your fire."
Then he climbed out and went to meet the Germans halfway. We heard them
talking, and a few minutes later, the captain came back with a German
cigar in his mouth!
"We’ve agreed there will be no shooting before midnight tomorrow,"
he announced. "But sentries are to remain on duty, and the rest
of you, stay alert."
Across the way, we could make out groups of two or three men starting
out of trenches and coming toward us. Then some of us were climbing
out too, and in minutes more, there we were in No Man’s Land, over a
hundred soldiers and officers of each side, shaking hands with men we’d
been trying to kill just hours earlier!
Before long a bonfire was built, and around it we mingled - British
khaki and German grey. I must say, the Germans were the better dressed,
with fresh uniforms for the holiday.
Only a couple of our men knew German, but more of the Germans knew English.
I asked one of them why that was.
"Because many have worked in England!" he said. "Before
all this, I was a waiter at the Hotel Cecil. Perhaps I waited on your
table!"
"Perhaps you did!" I said, laughing.
He told me he had a girlfriend in London and that the war had interrupted
their plans for marriage. I told him, "Don’t worry. We’ll have
you beat by Easter, then you can come back and marry the girl."
He laughed at that. Then he asked if I’d send her a postcard he’d give
me later, and I promised I would.
Another German had been a porter at Victoria Station. He showed me a
picture of his family back in Munich. His eldest sister was so lovely,
I said I should like to meet her someday. He beamed and said he would
like that very much and gave me his family’s address.
Even those who could not converse could still exchange gifts - our cigarettes
for their cigars, our tea for their coffee, our corned beef for their
sausage. Badges and buttons from uniforms changed owners, and one of
our lads walked off with the infamous spiked helmet! I myself traded
a jackknife for a leather equipment belt - a fine souvenir to show when
I get home.
Newspapers too changed hands, and the Germans howled with laughter at
ours. They assured us that France was finished and Russia nearly beaten
too. We told them that was nonsense, and one of them said, "Well,
you believe your newspapers and we’ll believe ours."
Clearly they are lied to - yet after meeting these men, I wonder how
truthful our own newspapers have been. These are not the "savage
barbarians" we’ve read so much about. They are men with homes and
families, hopes and fears, principles and, yes, love of country. In
other words, men like ourselves. Why are we led to believe otherwise?
As it grew late, a few more songs were traded around the fire, and then
all joined in for - I am not lying to you - "Auld Lang Syne."
Then we parted with promises to meet again tomorrow, and even some talk
of a football match.
I was just starting back to the trenches when an older German clutched
my arm. "My God," he said, "why cannot we have peace
and all go home?"
I told him gently, "That you must ask your emperor."
He looked at me then, searchingly. "Perhaps, my friend. But also
we must ask our hearts."
And so, dear sister, tell me, has there ever been such a Christmas Eve
in all history? And what does it all mean, this impossible befriending
of enemies?
For the fighting here, of course, it means regrettably little. Decent
fellows those soldiers may be, but they follow orders and we do the
same. Besides, we are here to stop their army and send it home, and
never could we shirk that duty.
Still, one cannot help imagine what would happen if the spirit shown
here were caught by the nations of the world. Of course, disputes must
always arise. But what if our leaders were to offer well wishes in place
of warnings? Songs in place of slurs? Presents in place of reprisals?
Would not all war end at once?
All nations say they want peace. Yet on this Christmas morning, I wonder
if we want it quite enough.
I hope you found the story as inspiring as I did. I also want
to wish all of you my very best wishes for the New Year.
Awe-struckly,
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