This night is quiet,
cold and wet.
Men wait, numb to
rats scrabbling under icy tarps,
unrelenting water dripping down,
ladders leading up to mandatory death.
They listen, they wait.
No big shells shwooshing over tonight, no
whining snipers’ shots dopplering away, no
shameless spluttering flares
reveal trenches bordering the
no-humans-land corpse collection
draped carelessly,
here and there, on the wire.
No diaphanous billows of mustard crawl across
this frozen field tonight.
Quiet, cold, wet.
Dark now, quiet enough now
to hear, across the endless mud,
a guitar, soft voices;
“Stille Nacht, Hieliger Nacht;”
Germans, marking the calendar.
“ay”, Brits reply,
“we got Good King Wenceslaus Came Out,
and plum pudding. Want some?”
“Nous avon Noel, Noel,
chandelles, le vin.
A bas la guerre”.
Some raise their heads, to see
all along the parapets,
sparkling visions from home;
Weihnachtsbaume, candlelit by Fritz,
demanding “Nie wieder Krieg.”
Tommys, Kameraden, Poilus
work through vocabularies
they weren’t born to, as
rough hands, dirty fingernails
grasp eager mates extended from
varied uniform sleeves.
‘Coffin nails’, carelessly lit with
more than three on a match,
smoked, compared, exchanged with
grins and nodding bearded
balaclava-capped heads.
Easy preparations make a
partial soccer pitch,
flagged with spiked German helmets.
Not easy, booting a slippery
straw-stuffed sand bag around
ice filled pits of mud.
No need for referees;
hilarity disposes difficulty.
Cheers and laughter, miracles in this place.
Bulky, muddy, stiff overcoats,
useless during competition,
replace poor bastards hung on the wire.
Teams arise to bury the dead;
all now on the same side.
Shovels, bayonets dig,
markers are wrung from
moldy ration cartons, with
helmets on top, noting nativity.
Men share precious photos of family,
sweethearts, automobiles,
learn dirty words.
Without their sergeants,
frantic trench-bound officers
squelch along swamped duckboards,
dialing HQ’s.
HQ’s are firm;
“can’t interrupt the war because of Christmas !”
Another day or two, the truce continues, ‘til
warm, clean-clothed Generals,
united in their profession,
rotate smilingly silly celebrants
into rear repair zones,
replaced with brothers knowing
nothing of yesterday’s Peace.
And the insanity continues.