A Christmas in No Man's Land (standard:drama, 2722 words)
Author: TJC	Added: Dec 14 2004	Views/Reads: 3938/2560	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
In December of 1914, a young British soldier has both the best and worst Christmas of his life.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

thinking of Mitchell's lifeless stare.  Maybe, he thought, in that way 
Billy''s memory would save his life.  He was in a forward sap, a small 
square of trench from which one or two men kept an eye on the enemy 
lines, and more importantly, listened for any sound of an attack.  He 
was alone in the sap and he was scared.  Darkness hung over the 
trenches like a blanket, the moonlight was obscured by cloud cover.  It 
made listening even more important, not to mention terrifying.  
Suddenly he began to see small lights from the German lines.  Was an 
attack imminent?  The tiny lights began illuminating all along the 
enemy's trench line. 

“Are you seeing anything, Private Collins?”  The voice of Lieutenant
Clark startled him. He had come up the shaft from the main trench. 

“Yes, Sir,”  Timothy replied as he climbed down off the fire step.
“There are lights going on over there.” 

“You don''t say.” The Lieutenant climbed up and had a look for himself. 
“I'll be damned. It looks like candles. A peculiar sight I must say.” 
He climbed down and stood next to Timothy rubbing his hands together. 

The sound of singing could then be heard from the German lines. Timothy
didn't speak German but he instantly recognized the melody.  They were 
singing Silent Night, his mother's favorite Christmas carol.  Even in 
the enemy's consonant-filled language it sounded beautiful. 

“I had nearly forgotten what night this is,” said Lt. Clark.  “Keep an
eye and ear out anyway, Collins. Good show.” He tapped Timothy on the 
top of his helmet and moved back toward the main trench. He didn't 
notice Timothy's salute. 

Serenades went on all night. The Germans would sing a song and the
British would cheer them.  Then Timothy and his fellow soldiers would 
perform a carol of their own and the Germans could be heard clapping 
their approval.  It seemed that Christmas, a holiday that his mother 
always referred to as the “season of miracles”, had managed to silence 
the guns at least for a time.  There was not even the sound of distant 
shelling.  He couldn't remember the last time that no shelling could be 
heard. 

The temperature dipped below freezing just before daybreak on Christmas
Day. The singing had stopped.  Shivering, Timothy heard an accented 
voice call out. 

“We don''t want to fight today,” called the voice in a friendly manner. 

“That's fine with us,” called out a voice that Timothy recognized as his
Company Commander, Captain Willoughby. 

“We will send you over some beer,” called the German. 

Timothy looked over the parapet and was shocked to see a German officer
meeting Captain Willoughby right out in the open.  The two of them 
saluted and shook hands.  Riotous cheering  rang out from both sides. 

Word came down that both sides had agreed to a truce for the day and
that all men could move about freely. Timothy helped bury some of the 
British dead, and the Germans could be seen doing the same thing with 
their own fatalities.  It was an incredible relief to be out of the 
trench,  able to look around without fear of machine gun fire and 
shelling.  The battlefield extended as far as the eye could see.  
Trenches, barbed wire, and smoky haze were the predominant features of 
the landscape.  At mid day several members of both sides began meeting 
in the center of the field. 

“Merry Christmas, Collins,” said Lieutenant Clark. He had beer in his
canteen cup and seemed quite happily drunk. 

“Merry Christmas, Sir.” Timothy smiled and it struck him that he hadn't
smiled in a very long time. 

The Germans were drinking English rum and the British were pouring down
German beer.  Toasts were raised by the some of the bilingual members 
of both camps.  Suddenly Timothy found himself staring straight into 
the eyes of a German. Until that moment he had not directly dealt with 
an enemy soldier.  He could feel nervous adrenaline pumping through his 
cold body.  With a deeply lined face, the German looked a few years 
older than Timothy.  He had a dark mustache and sideburns.  His brown 
eyes looked kind, but had a hardness that men of battle understood. The 
most striking feature on the German was his strong, square jaw.  He 
removed the spiked helmet from his head, revealing straight black hair. 


“Kurt Becker,” said the German, sticking his hand out to Timothy.  His
handshake was strong. 

“Timothy Collins,” he replied.  “Do you speak English?” 

“Ja,” replied the German.  “I studied English for two years in secondary
school.” 

“I'm sorry, I don't speak any German.”  Timothy felt as if he had been
beaten in some way by this acknowledgment. 

Timothy held out a pack of cigarettes to the German which were
gratefully accepted.  The German then pulled out a wrapper of brown 
paper from his coat. Inside the paper was chocolate. 

“Thank you,” said Timothy as he took a bite of the candy.  It was
delicious.  He couldn't stop taking bites from the chocolate bar. 

“The cold is good for chocolate,” said the German.  “Does not melt so
fast.” 

“Did your family send you this?” 

“Oh no, I got it in Belgium. That is the last of it.” 

Belgium. 

Timothy stared at the ground. He and the rest of the world had heard
what had happened in Belgium during the German invasion of the small 
country the previous August and September. The Kaiser's Army had rolled 
through the tiny nation, displacing families and shooting civilians. 
Reprisals for shooting German soldiers had been exceedingly harsh; for 
every German soldier killed, the invaders made ten random civilians pay 
with their lives.  Timothy's thoughts were obviously evident on his 
face because the German spoke up immediately. 

“A shopkeeper gave it to me,”  he pleaded, almost begging understanding.
“I kept his shop from being bombed. I swear it.” 

Timothy nodded and looked away.  He wasn't sure he wanted to hear any
more.  The truce would eventually end and he would have to kill the 
Germans again. It would be easier to resume hostilities still thinking 
that the enemy was a bloodthirsty predator. 

“My British friend,” said Becker.  “I admit mistakes were made.  Many of
our young soldiers were scared. There were snipers shooting at us from 
windows, we did not know where or even who the enemy was. It was not a 
normal war at that stage. I can assure you we are not barbarians.” 

Becker's accented voice sounded sincere. Timothy wondered silently if
perhaps things happen in war that go beyond one's control and 
inadvertently get out of hand.  He did know, however, that Germany was 
the invader.  There would be no war had they not began it. He decided 
to leave this thought unspoken as well. 

“We all want to live through this and go home,” said Becker. 

“I agree with you there.” 

The two men left the subject behind and instead showed each other photos
of their families. Becker had a wife and a small son in Munich.  
Timothy showed a picture of his parents and his girlfriend back in 
South Hampton.  They continued to talk and drink beer and rum and 
discovered mutual interests in football and fishing. 

Later a few of the Germans came running out into No Man's Land dragging
small pine trees behind them.  The soldiers of both sides began setting 
the trees upright with sandbags from the trenches.  Make-shift 
Christmas trees. The men began singing Oh Christmas Tree in both 
English and German.  Timothy sang and noticed Becker singing along and 
smiling at him. For awhile the vocalizing became as loud as the 
shelling had been, or at least so it seemed.  The battlefield had 
transformed into a happy place.  His mother had been right: It was a 
season of miracles. 

After the group finished singing, the officers of both camps announced
that there would be a prayer service for the fallen. Men who had been 
killing each other just hours earlier now gathered together in front of 
their buried comrades and prayed to whatever god or being suited them. 
Timothy read aloud from the 23rd Psalm: 

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. 

He maketh me lie down in green pastures. 

He leadeth me to the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul. 

He leadeth me to the past righteousness for his namesake. 

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil. 

After the observance, soldiers began pulling small branches off of the
Christmas trees. Kurt Becker pulled off a branch and presented it to 
Timothy. He in turn did the same for Becker. 

“A branch of peace,” said Timothy. 

“Let us hope so,” replied Becker. 

The two men exchanged addresses in hopes of seeing each other after the
war. 

“We all thought this would be a quick war,” said Becker.  “Obviously
that is not the case, but perhaps it will be over by next Christmas.” 

Timothy nodded.  “We can always hope that 1915 brings us all home.” 

As the celebrations began to wind down, the soldiers began withdrawing
back toward their own lines.  Night was once again falling on the 
Western Front. It had been a Christmas that no man on that battlefield 
would ever forget.  For Timothy, it had been the very best Christmas 
he'd ever had, but it had also been the very worst. 

“I have lost some good friends in this war,” said Becker.  “But today I
have made a new one.”  The German tightened his helmet onto his head 
and extended his hand. 

“As have I,” Timothy said as he shook Becker's hand. “Good luck to you,
Kurt Becker.” 

“Same to you, Timothy Collins.  May you survive this war.” 

“May we both survive and meet on the football field.” 

The men released their handshake but then found themselves in a warm
hug.  After the embrace the two soldiers looked down at the ground and 
parted company. The two new friends, the two enemies, the two soldiers- 
both in a place neither wanted to be- walked back slowly to their 
respective trenches.  Two pistol shots rang out from the German lines.  
Captain Willoughby then fired off two rounds from his revolver. Timothy 
and the rest of the men knew what that meant. The truce was over. 

In January of 1915, Timothy Collins again held a position in a forward
sap. The shelling had been steady since the truce had ended a couple of 
weeks earlier.  Rumors were rampant that the following day Timothy's 
regiment would be going over the top in an assault on the German lines. 
 He pulled out the small Christmas branch from the pocket of his 
greatcoat.  He thought of the branch given to him by Kurt Becker as his 
good luck charm.  How would he handle it if he met Kurt on the 
battlefield? He wondered.  He would do his duty, he told himself, as 
Kurt would do his. 

Shells continued to explode in a barrage that afternoon.  During one
bombardment, a shell flew into the side of Timothy's sap.  Before he 
realized what had happened, he was on his back and choking.  He could 
feel blood pouring out of his neck and hot pain searing through his 
chest and arms.  Unable to scream or even call for help, he lay there 
choking and desperately fighting for breath until his muscles relaxed 
and his mind went numb.  His head lolled off to the side. The last 
thing Timothy Collins saw before he died was his branch of peace.  It 
was bathing in a pool of his own blood. TC


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