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| Topic: The Christmas Truce | |
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It was December 25, 1914, only 5 months into World War I. German, British, and French soldiers, already sick and tired of the senseless killing, disobeyed their superiors and fraternized with “the enemy” along two-thirds of the Western Front (a crime punishable by death in times of war). German troops held Christmas trees up out of the trenches with signs, “Merry Christmas.”
“You no shoot, we no shoot.” Thousands of troops streamed across a no-man’s land strewn with rotting corpses. They sang Christmas carols, exchanged photographs of loved ones back home, shared rations, played football, even roasted some pigs. Soldiers embraced men they had been trying to kill a few short hours before. They agreed to warn each other if the top brass forced them to fire their weapons, and to aim high. A shudder ran through the high command on either side. Here was disaster in the making: soldiers declaring their brotherhood with each other and refusing to fight. Generals on both sides declared this spontaneous peacemaking to be treasonous and subject to court martial. By March 1915 the fraternization movement had been eradicated and the killing machine put back in full operation. By the time of the armistice in 1918, fifteen million would be slaughtered. Not many people have heard the story of the Christmas Truce. On Christmas Day, 1988, a story in the Boston Globe mentioned that a local FM radio host played “Christmas in the Trenches,” a ballad about the Christmas Truce, several times and was startled by the effect. The song became the most requested recording during the holidays in Boston on several FM stations. “Even more startling than the number of requests I get is the reaction to the ballad afterward by callers who hadn’t heard it before,” said the radio host. “They telephone me deeply moved, sometimes in tears, asking, `What the hell did I just hear?’ “ I think I know why the callers were in tears. The Christmas Truce story goes against most of what we have been taught about people. It gives us a glimpse of the world as we wish it could be and says, “This really happened once.” It reminds us of those thoughts we keep hidden away, out of range of the TV and newspaper stories that tell us how trivial and mean human life is. It is like hearing that our deepest wishes really are true: the world really could be different. Listen to Christmas in the Trenches: http://usamericanfreedom.com/2011/12/21/true-story-the-christmas-truce/ |
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Christmas Day, 1914
My dear sister Janet, 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. Your loving brother, http://www.aaronshep.com/stories/061.html |
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Merry Christmas! Peace and Joy to the world!  
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Christmas Day, 1914 My dear sister Janet, 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. Your loving brother, http://www.aaronshep.com/stories/061.html To bad the extremists were fighting dont like like compassionate human beings or that might work. |
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Edited by
Sojourning_Soul
on
Sun 12/25/11 04:28 PM
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To bad the extremists were fighting dont like like compassionate human beings or that might work Again biased MSM hate speak, undocumented and unproven. We are not fighting a people or a nation which "hates" us, we have been duped into fighting an "idea" to perpetuate war against anyone we (the war machine and bankers who profit) choose! Opinions like yours are the fuel! What war or conflict did you "serve" in? I am a US Marine, Viet Nam vet, 15 months of service to my country and my beliefs in Viet Nam. I have known the harshness and brutalities of war! What are your credentials? Terrorists are nothing more than a violent street gang. If you want to avoid conflict you stay away from the area! It is not the nation, or the people, just a few extremists that cause harm.... so we claim the right to condemn a whole nation or race of people? HATE SPEAK! FEAR MONGERING.... that we the people have allowed to bring the mightiest nation in the world to it's knees, begging our masters to save us at the cost of our freedom, lives, and liberty! |
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I listened to the song and I really enjoyed it.......it brought beauty something ugly.
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I listened to the song and I really enjoyed it.......it brought beauty to something ugly. fixed it |
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I listened to the song and I really enjoyed it.......it brought beauty to something ugly. fixed it You bring beauty to something ugly! Merry Christmas sweetness!  
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I listened to the song and I really enjoyed it.......it brought beauty to something ugly. fixed it You bring beauty to something ugly! Merry Christmas sweetness!
Merry Christmas to you and yours......I hope you had a wonderful Christmas Day!! |
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I am a US Marine, Viet Nam vet, 15 months of service to my country and my beliefs in Viet Nam. I have known the harshness and brutalities of war!  
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Edited by
Sojourning_Soul
on
Sun 12/25/11 06:18 PM
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I am a US Marine, Viet Nam vet, 15 months of service to my country and my beliefs in Viet Nam. I have known the harshness and brutalities of war!
Thank you. 
I really do hate using the referrence as a byline, but nothing bothers me more than chicken hawks with no investment screaming for more war at the cost of lives on both sides so easily! War is NOT a movie for enjoyment starring Steven Segal or Stallone! It's reality, and children die, families are destroyed! If you want to talk it, FIRST YOU WALK IT! Merry Christmas
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I am a US Marine, Viet Nam vet, 15 months of service to my country and my beliefs in Viet Nam. I have known the harshness and brutalities of war!
Thank you.
I really do hate using the referrence as a byline, but nothing bothers me more than chicken hawks with no investment screaming for more war at the cost of lives on both sides so easily! War is NOT a movie for enjoyment starring Steven Segal or Stallone! It's reality, and children die, families are destroyed! If you want to talk it, FIRST YOU WALK IT! Merry Christmas
I agree and it physically hurts me to think of the people on both sides being hurt and killed in this war. A war that was completely manufactured to make a few folks rich.  
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Edited by
Sojourning_Soul
on
Sun 12/25/11 06:37 PM
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If terrorists were responsible for 9/11, then terrorists should have been the target! NOT NATIONS!
Ron Paul is right! We are insane to allow such atrocities from our Condemner in chief! It is nation building, for special interest, NOT FREEDOM! 11 terrorists do not nations make! That reality alone should make people go  "what were they thinking?!"
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If terrorists were responsible for 9/11, then terrorists should have been the target! NOT NATIONS! Ron Paul is right! We are insane to allow such atrocities from our Condemner in chief! It is nation building, for special interest, NOT FREEDOM! 11 terrorists do not nations make! That reality alone should make people go "what were they thinking?!"
I can picture them chuckling at how clever they were. |
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