Christmas Truce

It was the coldest Tim O’Doole had ever been. Even with his gloved hands jammed into his armpits, his fingers remained numb. He’d lost track of his toes hours ago. At least frostbite would get him out of the trenches. For a while, anyway. He stamped his feet, the half-frozen mud crackling beneath him.

Why had he ever thought war a glorious thing?

He closed his eyes. By now a goose hung cleaned and trussed in the cold room back home. The lingering scents of soda bread and Ma’s Christmas cake filled the house. Pa’s pipe smoke circled him as he hunched over the newspaper. Filled with anticipation, the younger children squirmed in their beds. Warm beds.

Tim blew out a long breath that hung like a specter in the night.

“English soldier, English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas!”

Tim dropped lower, grabbing his rifle. A volley of words—most profane—ricocheted along the trench. Heavily-accented words floated across No Man’s Land again.

“English soldier, English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas!”

The men of the Royal Irish Rifles held their breaths. What did this mean? Was it a trick? The Germans weren’t above using the holiday to lure good men to their deaths.

The man standing next to him gave an uncertain shrug and a muttered curse that about summed it up. Tim gripped the rifle tighter or tried to with fingers that barely bent. Where was his commanding officer? What were they to do?

“Come out, English soldier; come out here to us.”

Fat chance of that, Fritz. Tim’s thoughts were echoed in muttering up and down the trench. Then word came from the officers. Stay silent. Do not respond. Keep low and keep your rifles at the ready.

Minutes dragged by on frozen feet. Tim’s back ached in his crouch. What he wouldn’t give to be as short as the soldiers to either side of him. If he stretched to his full height, he’d be an easy target to those in the trenches opposite.

In spite of the order, a murmur filled the trench. Tim blinked, rubbed his eyes with the back of a stiff glove, and blinked again. A glow lit the sky.

“We are Saxons, you are Anglo-Saxons,” came a shout from across No Man’s Land. “What is there for us to fight about?”

Hadn’t Tim been asking himself that very question for the past months? Yet the war that should have been over by Christmas wasn’t. He eased upward, one hand securing his helmet, the other gripping his rifle. The opposing trenches glowed. Torches—lots of them—backlighting the German soldiers rising from the ground, hands away from their sides. Empty, open hands.

Could it be?

It was, after all, Christmas Eve. It was a time of peace and goodwill toward men. Wasn’t that was Christmas was all about, even for Germans? Hope rose from somewhere long buried.

Something tentative and fragile was happening before his eyes. Men rose from his trench without rifles, without words. One man pulled the helmet from his head and dropped it back into the trench.

Tim’s rifle slid to the ground.

“Gimme a boost, will ya now?” The soldier beside him, a wee man with a wide grin poked his thumb up. Tim laced his fingers together and the man slipped his foot into them while Tim hoisted him above and held his breath.

No shots fired.

Someone laughed.

“They’ve got whiskey!” rang through the night air.

A line of men formed in front of Tim, and he hoisted each one to the top, then the last man reached down and offered Tim a hand.

He swallowed, then nodded, and grasped the hand that helped him to the surface. Around him, men mingled, a flurry of words, both English and German, mixed between them. The Germans passed around flasks. The English handed out cigarettes and chocolates, treats they’d been hoarding for tomorrow.

Tim pulled a chocolate bar from his inside pocket and moved forward, dodging craters in the surface and tangles of barbed wire.

A ruddy-faced German approached him, holding out a flask. Tim extended the chocolate bar and took the flask. The liquid burned its way to his stomach. He raised the flask in a salute before handing it back. The German took it and clapped him on the shoulder before moving on.

It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last. But for tonight, there was peace on earth and good will toward men.