Christmas, 1914, on the Western FrontThe sounds of war died by mid-morning. They were replaced by a cool fog, and by evening, a dusting of frost. “Listen,” Jaye said, happier than he’d been since they left Valcartier. “There’s no gunfire,” Barry whispered. Jaye closed his eyes. “No, it’s better- not one scream for a medic.” He stood up, and Barry nearly pushed him back into the mud.
But nothing happened. No shots, no harsh whispers in worried German. All was calm. Jaye took off his helmet and held it under his arm. “I’ll be.” A thin pine had been dragged to the German line and decorated with candles and tissue, bits of cloth and soldier’s medals. A pair of German eyes peered from underneath a helmet, looking over the edge of his trench like a groundhog. Barry smiled, and the face rose higher, and the German smiled back.
A hundred yards down the line the words “Stille Nacht, Heilig Nacht,” tingled in the frosty air. When the German chorus faded away, from the British lines echoed “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
As the sun drew over the edge of the world, its light shattered the cool of the previous night. The German from before took a tentative step from his hole. And another. He looked again at his comrades, who must have urged him further. Before Barry could say a word, Jaye had left the trench, and walked confidently towards him. They shook hands, and spoke in broken parts of one another’s language.
All around, others were leaving their trenches, and meeting in no man’s land. Barry moved quickly to Jaye, beaming proudly as he showed the man a picture of his children. Barry introduced the man as Karkule, who excitedly clapped his pockets until he found a picture of his sweetheart, at home in Berlin.
Before returning to his trench, Karkule gave Jaye tobacco for his pipe, and offered Barry cigarettes. Barry said he didn’t smoke, but thanked him, and he and Jaye gave him their chocolate rations. But he perked up as he turned to leave and said, “Beer- you like beer, yes?”
When it was clear no one was going to be shot today, official orders were issued to gather the dead. A Welsh fusilier down the line refused to leave his trench, but flung a tin of bully beef and jam across no man’s land, shouting, “Here you are, you hungry bastards!”
After breakfast, a game of soccer began between the lines, although it really amounted more to a round of kick about than a match. The Germans scored two goals and the English scored three, although their last goal was contested because Barry was Canadian.
As night returned and fog lit upon the earth, Jaye smoked the gifted tobacco. The day’s merriment warmed Barry, even for the chill in the air, and he asked Jaye how such a thing could happen. He thought for a moment. “There’s little need for war,” he said around his pipe, “when men are allowed to neglect their duty and be boys.”
End Chapter One.
