Merry Christmas, Tommy
The cold, slimy mud oozed around the soldiers’ feet, caking their boots in an ever-present coating of filth. God alone knew what was in that mud, but the soldiers had a good idea and did all they could do keep the terrifying truth at bay. Every man knew that they had to keep moving or else the mud would take hold and never let go, gripping on with grim determination like the desperate fingers of a jilted lover, dragging them down to a terrifying death.
Men from every background and every social standing suddenly found themselves with something in common — they were all living in hell. None of them had ever experienced the freezing conditions they faced. It was the kind of cold that seeped into the bones, turning the marrow to ice until you felt no more and prayed for the end. The men shuffled around trying to keep the blood moving in their exhausted, shattered bodies.
The weather had been horrendous in recent weeks, with a heavy, biting rain falling almost constantly since the start of December. Morale had been taken, strangled and buried in the mud. The men were far from home, fighting a war that none of them wanted, engaged not only in a daily battle with their enemy on the other side of the mud, but also with the lice, rats, and disease that ran wild through the trenches.
So many of the men had joined up as soon as war was declared by Great Britain in August, many of them believing that it would all be over by Christmas. But here they were, still in the mud, still in the trenches with no sign of an end. And now Christmas was here. Thoughts turned towards home, of the loved ones left behind, anxiously waiting for news of the men at the front. Several soldiers closed their eyes, imagining the smell of gravy and roast goose, almost tasting the glorious Christmas feast prepared by mothers and wives.
“What I wouldn’t give for some of my ma’s plum pudding,” Private Hengis said, his eyes staring off, not seeing the devastation in front of him, but picturing his warm home in Bedford.
“Don’t start that again, Jim! I can just about bear this bloody bully beef if I ain’t reminded of proper food!” shouted Private Foreman.
The men chuckled or sighed, depending on how melancholy they were feeling. The last few days had been fairly quiet, with just one or two skirmishes to occupy them. The lull in fighting had given both sides the chance to recover the bodies of the dead out in the muddy charnel house and give them a proper burial. But they were alert as always, each man listening out for gunfire from the nearby enemy.
“I bet bloody Fritz has got better grub than we ‘ave,” Private Stanley grumbled. This was one of their favourite gripes, a way to pass the time, imagining all the wonderful food their enemies were enjoying.
Sergeant Campbell, a fierce man from the depths of Scotland, spoke up, his deep voice booming around the trench.
“Christ! I don’t know what will kill me first; the bloody cold or the bloody bombs. I’ve never known anything like it!”
“Oh, come off it, Jock! You live up in the arse end of nowhere. This must be like summer to you!”
The men laughed, enjoying the moment which warmed them ever so slightly.
One of the younger soldiers was sat a little away from the other men, his eyes staring up at the dark night sky.
“Watcha staring at, Jonesy?”
“The sky. It’s beautiful.”
The men exchanged amused looks before each one glanced up to see a plethora of bright, twinkling stars spread out across the inky sky. It was as though someone had taken a delicate paintbrush and created the beautiful sight.
“How can something as wonderful as that exist when hell is all around us?” mused the brusque Scottish sergeant.
“It’s Christmas Eve, ain’t it? Stands to reason that something good has to happen.”
The men all stared at the man who had made this remark, not quite believing it had come from the usually crude Private Bruce. The men went back to their thoughts, sending silent prayers to their loved ones at home, wishing they would soon be back with them.
The peace was broken by a voice drifting across the mud of No Man’s Land.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“I heard something. Shut up a minute and let me listen, see if I hear it again.”
The voice came towards them once more.
“Bugger me, he’s right. Sounds like singing.”
“Funny kind of singing. Don’t sound like nothin’ I’ve ‘eard before. Just sounds like gibberish to me,” said Private Stanley.
“You thick bugger,” said Sergeant Campbell. “It’s German. The bloody Boche are singing. Listen.”
The men listened to the haunting voice.
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht
Private Jones stood up from where he had sat slumped against the firing-step and began to sing.
Silent Night, Holy Night
The voice from the German trench stopped for a moment, before starting again, louder and more confident, and joined by more German voices. Private Jones continued to sing.
“Come on, lads! Join in!” ordered Sergeant Campbell.
When the song ended, the silence seemed unnatural. Minutes passed before a shout came from the German trench.
“Hello, Tommy!”
Private Jones shouted back, “Hello, Fritz!”
The strange evening continued with both sides singing carols and exchanging stilted but friendly conversation. The guns stayed quiet that night.
Christmas Day dawned bright and cold, the men on each side of No Man’s Land feeling nervous and confused after what had occurred the night before. Surely they would not go back to fighting today?
The men breakfasted with their meagre rations, making the best of it as they could.
“Look what I got,” Private Bruce said, clutching a filthy, battered lump of leather in his hands. “Fancy a game of football?”
“Bloody fool, where we gonna play that?”
“Out there, o’course,” he said, gesturing to the patch of mud between them and the enemy.
Sergeant Campbell stood in his way. “No bloody way, Private. And that’s an order.” The two men glowered at each other, Private Bruce readying himself to argue with his sergeant.
“Merry Christmas, Tommy,” called a voice from the German trench.
The men peered over the parapet of their trench and saw their movements repeated by the men on the other side; tentative heads poking up, hands raised to show they held no weapons. One man even waved a white flag to show they meant peace. Private Bruce made a move to clamber up the ladder, but was dragged back by Sergeant Campbell.
“It could be a trap!”
“Nah! Look at ‘em! I’ll take me chances,” Private Bruce said, as he scrambled over the top, beckoning for the other men to join him. One by one they climbed the ladders and entered No Man’s Land.
The two sides eyed each other, not quite trusting what was happening. A bullet could ring out at any moment and there would be nowhere to hide. Each side knew of the lethal snipers who lay in wait for any careless soldier. And yet, this was no ordinary day. Slowly, ever so slowly, the men advanced on each other until just a few feet of mud separated them. Someone would have to make a move.
Private Bruce advanced, his right hand stretched out as his left arm cradled the battered football. As he moved, a German soldier walked towards him, his hand held out too. When they reached each other, they simply stood and stared, until their hands finally touched and they shook hands.
“Merry Christmas, Fritz.”
“Merry Christmas, Tommy,”
Private Bruce pointed to the football, dropped it on the mud, and nudged it towards the other man. Laughing, the German soldier nudged it back, calling to his comrades. It was a filthy game, and the men soon became encased in mud, but the war was forgotten as German and British soldiers played a simple game of football.
The day passed with many more games, with the exchange of food and makeshift gifts, and the singing of Christmas carols. The mud, the agonising cold, the stench of death in the air was all but forgotten.
But it had to end.
As night fell, the men reluctantly returned to their trenches, knowing that tomorrow they would be expected to pick up their guns and go back to shooting at the men who their governments said were enemies.
“I do not want to kill,” one of the German soldiers said. “We do not want this war.”
“Neither do we, mate. Neither do we,” Private Bruce said.
The men considered the possibility of refusing to fight. Surely the war would have to end if the men didn’t want it? But the powers that be had heard of the unofficial “live and let live” policy that some of the battalions had adopted over the festive season and were incandescent with rage. They refused to acknowledge any such truce and ordered the men to fight on.
Private Jones was inconsolable.
“It’s not right! Those men are just like us, they’ve got families waiting for them too. They don’t want to fight this war any more than we do!”
“I know, lad, I know,” said Sergeant Campbell.
“Maybe it won’t last long. Maybe the war will finish now?” Jones said, hope shining in his young eyes.
Sergeant Campbell felt so very sorry for the young lad, for he knew that there was no way the men in charge of this senseless carnage would give up. He knew this war would be fought to the bitter end. But how could he tell the young man that?
“Aye, lad. Maybe, maybe. But whatever happens, you remember Christmas 1914, when enemies became friends. However dark things get, remember that. There’s always hope.”
Author’s Note: The Christmas Day Truce of 1914 is legendary. Sworn enemies who had been killing each other now clambered over the mud to sing songs, exchange presents, and play a simple game. Of course, the truce didn’t extend the whole way across the front, as fighting and death continued. But enough men laid down their arms to share Christmas Day with men they had been told to consider their enemy. We must never forget the horror of WW1, but let’s also remember the wonderful humanity shown on Christmas Day 1914.
We will remember them.
