The Silent Christmas

by M J Lee

  ‘It’s Tom, not Tommy.’ He glanced back at the British line behind him again. ‘I dunno, my officer, he...’

  ‘My captain, he wants to bury our dead.’

  Tom Wright checked the British lines again. Captain Lawson was advancing towards him with Bert in tow.

  ‘Looks like he’s coming anyway, Fritz.’

  Over his shoulder, he could see a very tall German officer in a grey overcoat with a fur collar coming from their lines.

  ‘It’s Harald. Harald Kanz. Not Fritz.’

  ‘Okay, Harald.’

  The two officers met in the middle of no-man’s-land, saluted each other and stood at attention for a moment before reaching forward and shaking each other’s hands.

  ‘Captain Peter Lawson, 6th Battalion, the Cheshires.’

  ’Graf Alfred von Kutzow, Captain, 35th Landsturm Regiment.’

  They both stood back for a moment before Captain Lawson began speaking again. ‘Damn good weather. Best we’ve had all week.’

  The German officer looked up at the sky. ‘Should hold for the next couple of days. Maybe a touch of snow tomorrow.’

  ‘You speak very good English for—’

  The officer smiled. ’For a German? I went up to Oxford in ‘10. Balliol.’

  ‘I was at Manchester. Chemistry.’

  Again, an awkward silence between the two of them. This time it was the German officer who spoke first. ‘Look here, we can’t have our chaps killing each other on Christmas Day. It isn’t cricket. Let’s call a truce and bury our dead.’

  ‘Just for today?’

  The German pulled his sleeve back to reveal an expensive Swiss watch. ‘Until four p.m., what say you?’

  ‘Your artillery won’t shell us?’

  ‘They would prefer to be eating their Christmas dinner, I think.’

  Captain Lawson stared at the British wire, with the dead German body stretched across it. ‘Till four it is. But no approaching our lines. We stay here in no-man’s-land.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  The German officer turned and waved to the troops standing above their parapet, bringing them forward.

  Slowly, step by step, they moved through their wire, stumbling through the former turnip field that was no-man’s-land.

  Captain Lawson turned to wave the Cheshires forward, but found they were already leaving their trenches in droves.

  Both sides met in the middle. At first, the greetings were awkward; only a few of the Germans spoke English and none of the Cheshires spoke German. But through a combination of sign language and gestures, they all began to communicate.

  Around Tom and Harald, the men were all talking at the same time. Even Bert was chatting away to a German corporal, who was nodding his head.

  ’It’s a good day, Tom.’

  ‘It is, Harald. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you fighting for Germany? You were living in Manchester...’

  ‘Same reason as you. I was called up and went back to fight for my country. Why are you here?’

  Tom Wright shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wanted to fight for the King.’

  ‘And I fight for the Kaiser.’ He smiled ruefully. You know, we should be fighting the French, not each other. What did you do, Tom?’

  ‘In Stalybridge?’

  Harald nodded.

  Next to him, Harry was hugging a German soldier, swapping his soft forage cap for a much warmer balaclava. Another German was carrying a box of cigars, handing them out to the British soldiers, who eyed the brown tubes suspiciously.

  ‘What do I do with this, sir?’ one of them asked Captain Lawson.

  ‘Smoke it, Rawlinson. Not a bad make.’

  A German wearing a camouflaged Picklhaube reached forward and a flame shot from his lighter. Rawlinson leant forward and lit his cigar, inhaling deeply before collapsing in a bout of coughing.

  ’Got a bit of bite, this one. Not a bad smoke, though,’ he said, large puffs of smoke leaving his mouth and frosting in the cold air.

  Tom Wright turned back to face Harald. ‘I was a button maker. Silk buttons, for gentlemen’s waistcoats.’ He noticed the silver buttons on Harald’s tunic. ‘I’d love to have one of those.’

  ‘Swap you for one of yours?’

  Harald produced a pen-knife and began to cut the cotton attaching the button to his tunic. ‘See, it’s my regiment’s crest and number around the edge.’

  He handed it and the pen-knife over to Tom, who cut one of the Cheshire buttons off his tunic. He’d find another from somewhere. ‘The crest is a star with the regiment’s name inside, and within that, a cluster of oak leaves with a single acorn. Just brass, though. None of the silver stuff for us squaddies.’

  ‘My button isn’t silver either. Silver gilt. None of the real stuff for us.’

  Around them, all the soldiers were swapping their hats, coats, buttons, trench tools, tobacco, sausage, toffee, tins of bully beef, tins of blackcurrant jam and scarves.

  Captain Lawson was smoking a cigar with the German officer, both men looking as relaxed as if they were at their respective clubs, chatting about the latest test scores from Lords.

  On the right, a queue of German soldiers was kneeling down to have their hair cut by Captain Lawson’s batman, whose profession had been a hairdresser in civvy street. His scissors moved with the speed of a scythe through their long curly locks, leaving clumps of brown, blond and black hair at his feet.

  Tom watched as men rubbed their newly shaven heads and smiled gap-toothed for cameras which had appeared suddenly from both sides. A German was marshalling a group of men into a wedding photo of soldiers, each man’s arm around the other like a bride and groom. Bert was pictured next to an enormous German who towered over him.

  ‘David and Goliath,’ Captain Lawson said.

  ‘Samson and Delilah,’ answered the German officer.

  Harry was bartering some army boots he had found in a dugout for a bottle of schnapps, but the German seemed reluctant to part with his alcohol.

  ‘Listen, I’ll throw in my hat. Now you can’t say fairer than that, can you?’

  The German shook his head and walked away, still with his bottle of schnapps grasped tightly in his hand.

  Another group of men, a mixture of Germans and British, were placing the bodies of the men who had fallen during the fighting one week ago on to stretchers and carrying them off to the left, where the remains of a wooden barn still stood between the two lines. One of the British sergeants was digging shallow graves through the frosted soil for the bodies, the spade making a rasping noise as it cut through the hardened soil.

  One by one, the bodies were carefully laid to rest beside each other, after removing all identification and personal effects. A German came running back from his lines with two pieces of wood, which were quickly nailed together to make a makeshift cross.

  There were seven bodies in all, both German and British. Tom and Harald strolled over to join the battalion’s priest as he said a short service of commemoration for the dead men. Around twenty men from both sides were assembled around the graves. All removed their hats and bowed their heads in prayer.

  ‘God, our Father. On this, Your special day, remember these men who gave their lives so that we may live. Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command we return to dust.’ He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘Lord, those who die still live in Your presence, their lives change but do not end. I pray in hope for their families, their relatives and friends, and for all the dead known to You alone. In company with Christ, who died and now lives, may they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all our tears are wiped away. I ask also that You remember those still living today, the men from both sides, gathered here to commemorate their comrades. May You protect and guide them today and evermore.’

  Tom and Harald both crossed themselves and placed their hats back on their heads.

  ‘I hope to go back to Manchester when the war is over,’ said Harald. ‘I
still have my bike there, a Royal Enfield. Fast as a cheetah and twice as elegant.’

  ‘Made like a gun and goes like a bullet,’ said Tom.

  ‘You know the slogan?’

  ‘And the bike. It’s got a 45-degree V-twin, with an inlet-over-exhaust valve.’

  ‘And the glass oiling system.’

  ‘With kickstart. No more pedalling like a maniac to get it going.’

  Harald stepped back and appraised Tom. ‘You know your bikes.’

  ‘Will she still be there when you go back?’

  Harald shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. But the war can’t last much longer. We will go home soon. The English cannot keep fighting.’

  ‘Sounds like you have learnt nothing about us, Harald. We always keep going, against the odds. It’s part of our character.’

  ‘But don’t you want the war to end?’

  ‘Of course. I want to be back with Norah, and Hetty, and John and Alice.’ Simply speaking their names made him pause for a second and catch his breath. ‘But we won’t give up and go home with our tail between our legs.’

  ‘And neither will we.’

  They walked on a few more steps in silence. Around them, the other soldiers were swapping cigarettes; Turkish for Virginia, German cigarettes for those given in Princess Mary’s Christmas box. A cloud of smoke hung over their hands as each tried the other’s tobacco.

  ‘Perhaps the Kaiser and your King George will sit down one day and thrash it all out over the dinner table. They are cousins, after all.’

  Tom tried to imagine it happening, but couldn’t see it. There was too much bitterness on both sides.

  Harry came running towards him, rushing back towards their lines.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘I got an idea, be right back.’

  Two minutes later he returned, with a gigantic smile beaming across his face and a football under his right arm.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Friday, December 25, 1914 – Christmas Day

  No-man’s-land, Wulverghem, Belgium

  ‘Right, you lot, who’s for a game of footie? Germans against Cheshires.’

  Harry dropped the ball on to the ground then flicked it up with his boot, bouncing it twice on his knee before booting it towards a crowd of men who were standing around smoking and chatting.

  A German trapped it on his chest and tapped it back to Harry.

  ‘Not bad, son, where did you learn to do that?’

  ‘I played for VfB Leibzig in this year’s Viktoria Meisterschaftstrophäe. We were beaten by those Bavarian bastards, Furth.’

  ‘Bad luck, I hate getting beat too. Was that your championship or your cup?’

  ‘Both. We have regional leagues and then there is a final where all the winners play each other.’

  ‘Sounds complicated.’

  The German shrugged his shoulders. ’It’s Germany.’

  ‘Fancy a kickabout?’

  ‘I’ll put my coat down for a goal. You do the same over there, beside the wire. Willi, give me your coat.’

  The soldier ran to place his coat down on the ground, measuring eight paces from the other. He then rolled up the sleeves of his thin grey shirt and tucked the ends of his trousers into his socks.

  ‘That one looks professional. You playing, Bert?’

  ‘Me? No chance, I prefer to puff on my pipe and stand and watch.’

  ‘Lazy sod. Come on, Tom, put your coat and scarf down.’

  Tom ran to help Harry measure out the goalposts, laying the coats on the ground just in front of the wire.

  ‘I’ll be goalie, Harry. Can’t run very much any more.’

  ‘What’s the prize, Tommy?’ the man from Leipzig shouted as he assembled his players.

  Harry shrugged his shoulders.

  The German captain held up a bottle he was about to trade with Captain Lawson. ‘Schnapps for the winning team.’

  ‘Whisky from our side,’ added Lawson, holding up a bottle of Dreadnought Scotch above his head, showing it to all the men.

  Suddenly, more of them from both sides were taking off their coats.

  ‘And the winning team keeps the ball,’ shouted Harald.

  ‘Aye, that’s fair. Winners keep the ball,’ agreed Harry.

  He booted the ball down towards the Germans, gathered fifty yards away. One of them immediately began to dribble it back towards the British goal over the hard ridges of the former turnip field.

  ‘Tackle the bugger,’ shouted Harry.

  A sergeant from C Company came rushing out of nowhere, still wearing his sheepskin jacket and smoking a cigarette, to take the ball off the tricky German winger and kick it towards their goal.

  The player from Leipzig controlled it in one go and floated over a perfect cross for his friend to rise in front of Tom and nod the ball over the line.

  ‘One-nil to us, Tommy.’

  Tom ran back to retrieve the ball from the German wire. He noticed a hand sticking out of the frozen ground like it was a plant emerging in spring. The nails were yellow, with dirt encrusted beneath them. The sleeve was just visible above the ground. The man, or the corpse as it now was, could have been German, English or French.

  ‘Hurry up, Tom, we’ve got to equalise.’

  He bent down to pick up the ball, trying not to look at the hand.

  But he did.

  That was a man once. A man like him; breathing, loving, with a family somewhere who would never know where his life ended.

  ‘Hurry up, Tom. War’ll be over by the time you get back.’

  Tom picked up the ball, snagging the leather on the barbs of the wire.

  He booted it down towards Harry and ran back to his place between the goals.

  More men had joined in now. There seemed to be about twenty per side. The ball bobbled and wobbled on the hard ground as it hit men’s knees and boots and bodies.

  The match flowed from end to end. There was no real organisation, no real positions; each man chasing after the brown leather ball, kicking it as hard and as far as he could in any direction, as long as it was away from him.

  Harry seemed to be the captain.

  ‘Over here, over here.’

  ‘Nah, not like that, at me feet. I like it at me feet.’

  ‘Tackle him, Ron, don’t let him past.’

  The Cheshires scored twice and then the Saxons equalised. The light was beginning to weaken as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

  The ball was bobbling through, a German in mad pursuit. One on one, versus Tom. The man looked up, hesitating for a second. Tom saw his chance, rushing out to dive at his feet, snaffling the ball just as the man was about to shoot.

  ‘Well played, that man,’ shouted Captain Lawson.

  Tom kicked the ball towards the German line, and it struck two heads before landing at the feet of a fat miner from Poynton who booted it goalwards.

  ‘You know, I missed the end of the cricket season. Who won the championship?’ said Captain von Kutzow.

  ‘It was Surrey this year, with Middlesex second. My team, Lancashire, were very poor. The weather, you know.’

  ‘Yes, Manchester is famous for its sunshine.’

  Captain Lawson glanced across at his German counterpart, who was casually smoking his cigar, blowing the smoke out into the air above his head.

  ‘Hammer it, Ron!’ It was Harry shouting.

  The ball had broken free from a morass of players to Ron Harris, their youngest soldier. Officially he was eighteen, but everybody knew he was just sixteen, having joined up the day war was declared.

  Ron tapped the ball with his right foot, took careful aim and shot just wide of the right-hand post masquerading as an army overcoat.

  ‘How could you miss that?’ Harry shouted.

  The German goalie booted the ball downfield. Harry rose to nod it forward but it slid off the back of his head to Harald, who was standing just in front of the goal. The ball bobbled on a ridge of frozen mud, hit his knee
and slowly dribbled over the line past a diving Tom.

  All the Germans jumped up in the air and surrounded an ecstatic Harald.

  The sun was going down behind the British lines and the bright light of thirty minutes ago was already being replaced by the soft glows of a winter twilight.

  Captain Lawson looked at this watch. ‘We should be going back now. Four p.m.’

  ‘I suppose we should,’ the German officer said regretfully, sucking on the stub of his cigar.

  Captain Lawson blew two long blasts on the whistle attached to a lanyard, imitating as competently as he could the sound of a referee calling time.

  All the players stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Time’s up. Match is over.’

  ‘But it can’t be, they’re leading three-two,’ said Harry.

  Captain Lawson’s tone changed. ‘The game is over, Larkin.’

  Harry kicked the ground in front of him. Tom took the chance to shout, ‘Three cheers for the Saxons. Hip hip, hooray. Hip hip, hooray. Hip hip, hooray.’

  This was answered by the Germans in a more robust fashion.

  The German officer shook Captain Lawson’s hand. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’

  ‘And you too.’

  ‘Perhaps, after the war, if Surrey are playing Lancashire, we could enjoy watching the game together.’

  ‘I’d love you to be my guest at Old Trafford. Jack Sharp versus Jack Hobbs would be a sight to see.’ Captain Lawson reached into his breast pocket. ‘I always carry this with me, don’t know why really.’

  He handed over a small red book with gold lettering on the front.

  ‘A Lancashire membership card? I’ll keep it safe till the war ends. We’ll meet again in Old Trafford.’

  They shook hands once more and both set off briskly for their respective trenches without looking back.

  The rest of the men were gradually drifting to their lines. Bert had said goodbye to his newfound friends and was now clutching a German sausage under his arm. Harry was picking up his overcoat from close to the wire, still shaking his head and kicking the ground.

  Tom had already wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck and fastened the collar of his greatcoat.

  Harald strolled over, carrying the ball under his arm.