Beyond the hushed talking of his company of men, it was eerily silent. There was a brittleness to the silence, a heavy oppression, that stretched taut over the field. Only the clockwork sound of crunching boots on the frosted ground threatened to snap the brittleness. Otherwise, the quietness was a stark contrast to the routine that he was used to.
Ten minutes earlier, compelled by this change in routine and his curiosity, he had left his magazines to venture to the other side. His company had followed, brave men indeed, intending to view the other side together, but the cold snapped their strength and failed them about the halfway point. Spotting a fallen log, they settled, looking at the land from other side. No movement. No birdsong.
For warmth, the men kindled a haphazard fire.
As the talking died down, the men were once again consumed by the silence.
They waited until dark silhouettes cautiously emerged from the other side. Squinting, he could make out a tall and broad-shouldered man in the front. He too, it seemed, had left his magazines and gear behind. Relief washed over him.
Today would be different.
And then he stood face to face with the man from the other side. Men that were once only in view from far away. Men’s whose faces were suddenly clear, human, and like his.
Young, too young for this, he thought. He noticed his light-colored hair, grimy with dirt, the hostility in his eyes, and the raggedness of his clothes. Still, as per routine, they extended their hands and greeted each other. Their gloved hands shook, a brief but firm gesture of respect. But their hands quickly pulled away afterward and an awkward silence once again fell on the men: peace had not been made yet.
Lukas. A name for the previously unfamiliar.
Lukas sat beside him but did not say anything after that. Uncomfortably, the two groups sat on the fallen log, together, and watched the snow fall inaudibly around them. He chose to break the silence first. “Merry Christmas,” but there was no reply from the other side, just a nod from Lukas. Perhaps Lukas couldn’t understand him.
He turned to Lukas this time and tried again. “Do you have family?” he whispered, his voice low. And this time, Lukas acknowledged him. “Yes.” A flash of sadness whipped across his face. “Meine mutter…” and Lukas trailed off.
His mother, I think – his German wasn’t too good, but he could understand that much.
Reaching into his pockets, he carefully took out a photograph. The paper was worn, softened from many touches, the image itself discolored by time, but Lukas could tell the importance of that photograph with the gingerness of his handling. His gaze gentled as he held it for a moment before offering it to Lukas. The younger man accepted it and stared at the portrait. A subtle understanding – perhaps a recognition of distant loved ones – flicked across his face. “My wife,” he murmured.
He saw her then, not as a faded image two years back, but vibrant in his memory, her smile undimmed from that day he’d captured it, the happiness when peace and prosperity still stood strong, and before he had crossed the Atlantic, propelled by the raw, aching American patriotism that to stand against the tide of injustice he felt was sweeping the world. Oh, when could he see her again?
Lukas finally looked up and handed the photograph back. A slow, almost hesitant smile began to dawn on his face, radiating a warmth that cut through the bitter cold and reached inside him too. He met that smile with his own, a return of his humanity. In that shared glance, in that brief fragile moment, peace was made.
Peace.
That starved ideal spread to both sides, people who fought for their own freedom and peace. They had it now, and they grasped it quickly. And suddenly, the brittleness in the air broke as the two groups began to speak to one another. Louder and louder were their voices as they learned of each other. What they were striving for. What this whole ordeal meant to them. What they thought of each other. What they wished to do.
For him, it meant going home and seeing his family again. For Lukas, it was returning to his mother and working in their family bakery, surrounded by the comforting smell of bread instead of the constant, faintly acrid chemical that pricked one’s nostrils. As they laughed, Lukas reached into his coat pocket. Pulling out a slightly misshapen loaf of bread, Lukas’s eyes lit up with pride. “My mother’s bakery back home — stale now, but still home,” he said, his voice soft. “I hope it reminds you of something just as comforting.”
He accepted the gift with both hands.
The fire was starting to flicker out, allowing the cold to snap through their thick and ragged coat-jackets. At last, Lukas stood, brushing the snow from his coat. “I should get back.” A sense of regret from within Lukas. And he felt it within himself too. He did not want to go, but more importantly, he did not want this peace to leave, however brief it was. But he rose to his feet as well.
“Thank you for the bread. And the company.” They shook hands once again, this time as friends rather than strangers. With a final nod, Lukas and his men walked away, disappearing into the gathering darkness. And a heavy silence fell once more.
That night, he slept uneasily. He had finally met the enemy, but how surprising to him, that they were just like him, to dream of simple futures, to hope to live a better life. They were barred by two opposing sides and a conflict larger than their individual lives, yet beneath it all, they were both unmistakably human.
The next morning, the peace offered by the holy Christmas day had passed. The temporary truce between the two forces broke as the silence was once again shattered by the resumption of endless gunfire, the screams of men that hurt his ears, and the heavy explosions of mortar rounds that shook dirt into his hair and burned his nose. His company of men sprang into action and prepared their Springfields for the taste of blood. But today, they also had to prepare their minds too — to kill friends, not enemies.
As per routine, he hurriedly reached into his pocket to load the magazines into his weapon, but he found the bread instead.
He took a bite. It was stale, but it was good, as Lukas had promised. It filled him with fullness and memories of the warmth of yesterday’s connection. But yesterday’s comfort have become today’s burden, clashing with the reality of his duty – to bring peace to Europe, to eliminate Lukas and his men in their trenches.
Positioning himself at his post, he adjusted the scope, scanning the land where he had been yesterday. His finger hovered over the trigger as he locked onto a distant target. Squinting against the glare of the sun, a figure emerged in the lens. He could barely make out a tall and broad-shouldered man, his features obscured by the distance, but possibly familiar. He hesitated: remembering the bread, remembering the fleeting moment of shared humanity. Was it him? Did it even matter?
His heart pounded a conflicted rhythm as his mind grew more confused. He imagined Lukas between the crosshairs. The line between friend and enemy had blurred, and the enemy seemed more human than ever before.
His trigger finger tensed. A deep, shuddering breath fogged in the cold air, and his resolved crystallized with it. And he made his choice.
A choice marked not by another crack of gunfire among the thousands that pierced the silence. He could not unsee the humanity in the enemy, nor could he remain the monster war demanded. Lowering his rifle, he whispered a silent prayer for Lukas.
War makes monsters of men, he thought.
I enjoyed reading about World War 1 and World War 2 in middle school and high school and was always fascinated about The Christmas Truce of World War I.
It occurred on December 24-25, 1914, and was an extraordinary and spontaneous ceasefire between mainly German and British troops. On that day, both sides ventured into no man’s land (the land between their trenches) to exchange seasonal greetings, share food and gifts, and even play games of soccer. Together, they sang and buried their fallen comrades.
The Christmas Truce was later banned by military authorities because it was believed that fostering camaraderie with the enemy would undermine the soldiers’ morale and willingness to kill. Logically, commanders feared that such fraternization would weaken the resolve to fight. That was the last Christmas Truce of any war.