Silent Night

 

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December, 1914.

 

 

Λt this particular moment, in the great elapse of human history, lied the precipice of a series of major, period-defining technological breakthroughs. Riding off the tail ends of the industrial revolution, the world had collectively—as if speaking to itself in a mirror—decided that the time for war in Europe had come once more.

 

It was a war meant to take perhaps a season or two; a quick gesture of nationalism for every faction in question. Victory was to be swift and inexpensive. The idea was welcomed, and said by many to be not only a necessary, but a beneficial happening for all involved. Millions of young men from all around Europe enlisted to fight for their respective militaries—while millions more were drafted. It was to be a great adventure, an experience of a lifetime, a quest of heroism, a mission of glory and honour; the ultimate placation of idealism.

 

However, not five months after those sanguine cries of war were spoken, had the collective faces of those nations turned from exuberant optimism to nervous apprehension. By this time, the war had gone on for months longer than anyone had predicted, and now, far longer than anyone had wanted.

 

The strong ideals of nationalism that had commensaliated themselves deep within the armies of empires and nations were slowly gnawed at by the unrelenting dogs of war; the romanticism dissipated by the unforeseen reality of what modern war was to entail. The British Empire was in constant retreat from German forces, and slowly but certainly, the basis of what would become the great bane of suffering and horror for the next four years was being seeded: trench warfare.

 

Yet still, despite the ever thickening fog of war encroaching on the minds of men and nations alike, no one had suspected what was to come, or exactly how little the surface of atrocity and damnation had been grazed. Little did anyone realize that The Great War was in its mere infancy.

 

In that month of December, 1914, in the spirit of Christmas, Pope Benedict XV had called for a temporary end to hostilities on all fronts. A plea for mercy for those places where mercy was myth, a sponsorship of hospitality where hostility was profession. A call for order in a great period of entropy.

 

A particular division of British soldiers along the allied front near Armentieres, France, however, heard a much different call.

 

For three days and three nights the sound of a visceral and terrible scream pervaded the rotten air of the trenches. A scream of unspeakable agony. A scream that seemed as figurative as it was real. A scream that embodied the thoughts and fears of those few hundred unfortunate souls to which it had subjected. A scream that in due time would speak for 37 million souls after those four long years were done.

 

That particular British division had staged a trench raid earlier in the month, arranged by High Command General Horace Smith-Dorrien. One that had ended in catastrophic failure, resulting in the deaths of over 1,000 German soldiers and over 10,000 British soldiers.

 

If the death and destruction these men had experienced did not break them, the horrid screams soon would. They wanted more than anything to find that terrible messenger and put a bullet in his head. Release them both of the unimaginable pain and suffering. But that would be impossible. To leave their post would be desertion, and to allow one’s head to rise above their trench would mean certain death. Even if one were to find a way out or around (of which there were none for miles to come) the screams would be impossible to follow. They did not seem to emanate from one direction, or even multiple directions, but rather outwards from their recipients, echoing away as if the very soil of the trenches had taken upon themselves to deliver that message to whomever would listen.

 

So the soldiers waited. They waited those three long days and those three long nights for the shrills to cease. Some fortunate few would be afforded the luxury of sleep, only when the cries would briefly turn to less pervasive, quieter expressions of anguish and lament. Expressions of a man, nay, human, who had screamed scabs into his vocal cords, and scars into the ears and hearts of any who listened. Over those days, not once did the screams become familiar, routine, predictable. Every second they served as a fresh reminder of the state of war, a new call for help and order, one that would reach the hearts of men tenfold faster than the call of Pope Benedict XV.

 

When the torment had finally concluded, the cries had been reduced to little more than a whimper, not unlike the expressions of a scolded child, too young to comprehend the wrong for which they’ve been punished. Their only response to confusion or pain a primitive expression of fear and discomfort. Once the shrills stopped, the men had begun to question whether they had actually even heard such sounds, if they were even real, or simply a mental paragon of their own struggles. They came to question whether one could possibly express such pure agony for so long, and not become something less than human. Only then did they begin to understand.

 

 

War is hell.

 

 

If those cries had gone on any longer, those men would have gone mad, attempting to block out the shrills with screams of their own.

 

However, the newfound silence brought with it a different kind of horror. The hushed mingles of harsh rain and decomposition, drowned out only by the dissonant vibrations of far-removed artillery, or the occasional order from a superior officer. Orders that almost always called for more repairs and maintenance.

 

Life in the trenches at this time was as ill-ideal as could be. All along the Western front, rain and snow had dominated the weatherscape, soaking the trenches in cold water and muddying the homes of millions of soldiers—of which themselves had become twisted metaphors of the mental and physical degradation of man.

 

That cold water, to which there was no refuge, made sleep an exercise in futility. Food supplies had to be hung above the ground in nets, as to avoid rotting in the muck that had become of the now unrecognizable topsoil. The soldiers who did find the space to sleep would do so with their heads against the rotting soil walls of their trench, as to keep from getting pneumonia from the freezing flood beneath and above their feet. The trenches, composed of wood and soil, both of which had a natural aversion to the harsh weather, were in a near constant state of disrepair. This created work for the soldiers, maintaining their trenches, doing their best to keep ahead of nature’s mandate. It was a task as unpleasant in execution as the war had been pleasant in concept to those nations not so long ago. But it had to be done. This was their home, and it seemed it would remain that way for a long time to come.

 

This sort of lifestyle wasn’t exclusive to this division. All across the western front, troops from either side were experiencing the exact same misery and hardship. Both sides had to endure the same harrowing conditions and ever-present discomfort, and as the twisted eye of fate had it, each side was purpose-bound to make it only worse for the other.

 

Christmas Eve, night.

 

Enter Graham Williams, a faceless private in the faceless 7th Baronet British Infantry division in the faceless army of the Great British Empire, entrenched near Ploegsteert, Belgium. Williams had grown up in Berlin, had ended up moving to the greater British mainland in his younger years, and wound up enlisting into the British armed forces.

 

Opposite of him, some three hundred meters away from his trench, was his lifelong friend, Fredrick. Unknowingly, they had both ended up on opposite sides of the war, and as that twisted eye of fate would have it, on the opposite sides of the same No Man’s Land.

 

Williams and Fredrick had grown up with each other, and although they hadn’t seen each other for quite some time, they were still, to each other, the best of friends.

 

They were obligated by duty to kill each other on sight.

 

That night, Williams and his squadmates were ordered to proceed with a plan of attack. Albeit, it was merely a preparation in part of a greater strategum to storm the enemy position, and break the insufferable deadlock. The idea was to place posts and provisional fences along the No Man’s Land between the two trenches. This was meant to provide cover for the troops, so when they were to advance forward during a further phase of the plan, the Germans would be unable to spot them in the dark as they made their way across the field.

 

The problem was these installations provided no protection from artillery or gunfire, and risking life and limb to accomplish this seemingly meaningless and foolhardy task seemed, according to near every member of Williams’ division, an exercise in stupidity and suicide.

 

But an order was an order. And orders in times of chaos were to be followed. So Williams and his men did exactly as those orders instructed, one of the few times this would happened in the coming days. Almost certain they were going to die, Williams and his men raised their heads out of their trenches, and begin their work.

 

However, something amazing happened that night. Something nearly impossible. Something else that would become a recurring motif at this moment in history. Not a single shot was fired, by either side, and patrols on both the British and the German sides seemed to turn an inexplicable blind eye to each other on that night. Something just didn’t feel right about doing battle on Christmas Eve.

 

And so it shouldn’t have, for the men on either side of the trenches shared something in common beyond their suffering: they shared a faith. They shared the traditions and beliefs of Christianity, and Christmas was considered among the most sacred times for both.

 

If an unspoken ceasefire was an impossibility, what happened next was, as Williams describes it in his diary, “So strange, as if being in another world, of which one had come to from a nightmare.”

 

From where they were positioned, they could spot the German trench lined with dozens of brightly candle-lit christmas trees. Before they had time to react, the trench had suddenly erupted in an uproarious and boastful choir.

 

Stille nacht, heilige nacht.

 

Silent night, holy night.

 

Apprehension.

 

No one quite knew what to make of any of it. Was it a trap? Was it a ploy, designed to distract or coerce British forces into dropping their guard?

 

There was only one way to find out: return fire. So the British sang back. And the rest of the night and a lot of the following morning was spent singing carols to each other, shouting greetings from across the trenches, and border-lining on treason. However, not once during all of this, did either side lift a head above their trench.

 

Christmas Day, dawn.

 

Apprehension, only for a different reason.

 

You see, no one quite understood what exactly to do. Despite the ambivalence that hung in the air, there was one thing that was unspoken yet seemed unanimous between both sides: neither of them wanted to fight. Unsure, the men of the British division wrote on cardboard signs, “Merry Christmas” and waved it above the trench, careful as to not allow a single appendage above the safety line.

 

And like that, almost as if an organism all itself, the truce was born.

 

But how was this possible? How was it that two armies with over 11,000 dead men between them could go from absolute aggression, to amiability, to coming together face to face and declaring truce, all in the span of a few hours? Especially the lower ranks, who had, at that point, spent the past several months killing each other. Surely, they had the most reason out of any one else in the military to hate one another, no?

 

The answer is quite simple. You see, these people understood each other more than they understood the men in their own trenches. They have killed each other, yes, but that is something that they have both done.

 

They share with one another even more than the Christian faith: they shared the same guilt, the same horror, and the same regret.

 

They suffer the same horrid conditions, the same cold weather, and the same awful fear and uncertainty. They all have lives outside the hell on earth that they shared, and they all had families who they loved and wanted so much to return to.

 

And so, they understood each other, thus they were capable of uniting in forgiveness.

 

But that was not the only miracle that took place that morning. That same night, hours before, the rain had at last ceased. For what seemed like months, the endless onslaught of mother nature seemed to give a splice of mercy, as its own Christmas gift for the soldiers of the frontlines.

 

The water tables in the trenches had frozen over, and in time, the mud turned back to hard soil.

 

Christmas Day, morning.

 

With that, the truce was rooted within the lower ranks. And it spread, like an epidemic. Granted, not outwards, not yet, but rather upwards.

 

Lieutenant Sir Edward Hamilton Hulse, of the 7th Baronet, was expected by High Command to set an example. He had rules of engagements that had to be followed. But when the enemy does not act like an enemy, those rules of engagement no longer become sensible.

 

He awoke that morning to the sound of Christmas Carols. and the sight of one brave German soldier who had crawled out of the trenches, making his way across No Man’s Land.

 

What was he to do? Fire on the unarmed man? That would be murder. Take a prisoner of war? That just didn’t seem right. Not on Christmas Day. Hulse immediately ordered his men to remain in their trenches no matter what.

 

Hulse shouted warnings at the man to cease, and turn back. That he was too close, and that he was at liberty to have him shot. An interesting statement to make to your enemy in a time of war, no? Hulse was at liberty, certainly, but at that moment, seemed almost entirely incapable.

 

But the man didn’t stop. He simply kept his arms above his head, and proceeded forward. And so Hulse did the unthinkable. Ignoring his training and trusting his instincts, he stepped out of his trench to meet the man. The German man’s English was exceptional, he had grown up in London. They spoke briefly. They spoke of their time in their respective militaries, and how they both missed the way things were at home. They wished each other a happy Christmas. A merry Christmas, and they shook hands.

 

Hulse was at a loss.

 

What was once a war, mere hours ago, had now been reduced to small talk.

 

And social encounters typically had more minefields than military ones.

 

But this ray of amiability gave way to something more miserable. During the night, the bodies of the dead in No Man’s Land were easy enough to ignore, but during the day, one could not go five feet without stumbling over the carcasses of those deceased soldiers.

 

And so, Hulse listens to the man, as he proposes a temporary armistice with the German officer.

 

Agreed, but with one condition: soldiers from either side are permitted to gather their dead, but otherwise, they must remain in their trenches.

 

And with that, began officially the last ever display of chivalry in modern warfare.

 

Everyone, including Hulse, returned to their post. But when Hulse makes his way back to the frontlines hours later, he finds that, his trenches have been deserted. Then, he hears it. The choir in the distance. He follows it, and discovers his regiment fraternizing with the Germans. A crime punishable by firing squad. At that moment, it is Hulse’s decision to either report this offense to high command, or keep quiet.

 

He chooses the latter, and decides that his men deserve a day off. As if a conductor of a choir, Hulse led his men into a song of their own.

 

Hulse understands the fatigue of war, and he knows that if the Germans are capable of being amiable, they are capable of doing business. They agree to not only extend their armistice, but they agree to an official truce. One day, ending the next at 8:30 AM sharp.

 

Back at the frontlines, high command from both the King and the Kaiser have gifts for their soldiers. On the British side, every man receives a pint of tobacco, pipes with the insignia of the king on the tip, and a pinup photo of Princess Mary.  On the German side, they are bombarded with chocolate, plum pudding, and more cigarettes than the trenches could store. These will all be perfect bartering gifts for later. Each side also receives plenty of winter clothing.

 

Midday.

By this point, the truce, and similar acts of defiance, have spread to over half of the British frontline army, and is agreed upon as high up the chain of command as it would get.

 

Thirty miles west of all this, Field Marshal Sir John French expects reports from said frontlines. If he hears that there has been any fraternizations with the enemy, let alone ones that have spread to such a scale, he would have little choice but to order mass court martials, and possibly be forced to destroy his own army from the inside. General Smith-Dorrien knows this, and at lunchtime, they meet, to discuss the state of affairs, and the odd abundance of past-due status reports.

 

French and Smith-Dorrien detest each other.

 

But they were not the only enemies meeting for lunch that day. Everywhere along the western front, German and British troops came together to feast on what little food they had.

 

This lunch offered a stark contrast between the meeting at high command; worse food, better company.

 

Ironic, that at that moment, two members of the same high command were at more odds than the people fighting a war against one another.

 

Dusk.

 

The afternoon is spent playing goodwill games of football. On Hulse’s trench, the Germans win, 3-2, a result that is all too familiar for British forces.

 

Ever since the war has begun, the British army has been in constant retreat. The only victory was the battle of Battle of Le Cateau, in September, and the only reason it was a victory was because General Smith-Dorrien had ignored French’s order to pull back. He had stood his ground with his troops, and won the day.

 

They shared stories with one another, took photographs, played games, traded food and lunches and hats and scarves, and gave gifts with no hopes of anything in return. There were some more skeptical and cynical, who utilized the friendliness to scout out the opposite trenches, and take notes of resource count and points of interest. But these people were in the vast minority, with many wanting nothing more than refuge from the fighting.

 

But the light heartedness could not last forever, for both sides were united yet again in one more common struggle. They both took casualties, and they both believed in peace and rest for those who have passed away: they were united in the burial of the dead.

 

And thus arose yet another commonality between the two people’s: the tradition of Christian Remembrance. Reaching the end of this peace, each side came together for the last part of the evening to spend giving proper heroes burials to those lost in battle.

 

Each side speaks a prayer in their native tongue, giving their final bittersweet goodbyes as they part ways to sleep the night.

 

And sleep they do. And they sleep better than they ever had since the start of the war, because that night was different. This was a silent night, the first many of the troops had ever experienced. It marked the end of the last Christmas most of them would live through. Thus, the famous Austrian Christmas carol took on a double meaning that day.

 

Boxing Day.

 

The next morning, no one was in the mood to fight. The fighting spirit of the people had been torn out of both sides, and no one wanted the peace to end.

 

And so, it didn’t. The British soldiers awoke that morning to see German soldiers moving about freely in No Man’s Land, a sign of trust and goodwill. The message was clear; the peace would go on. Why fight when the power was in the hands of those thousand of souls to deny the war entirely? It was their choice, and they had chosen.

 

Only, it wasn’t their choice. It never was. General Smith-Dorrien was deployed to the frontline trenches for inspection, with the objective to ensure that no fraternization with the enemy had actually taken place.

 

And the men of the trenches knew that, and so they worked tirelessly with one another to assure the survival of peace.

 

Hulse, who had given his regimental helmet to a newfound friend of his on the German trenches, needed it back for the inspection.

 

And so he walked, across No Man’s Land, for the second day in a row, to get it back. As he leaves, he gives the Germans a friendly warning to keep their heads down, in case they are ordered to fire on them.

 

Smith-Dorrien’s inspection of the trenches, miraculously, is cleared.

 

Someone, somewhere, had meticulously arranged Smith-Dorrien’s trench tour to avoid spots where there had been German contact. This way, the illusion of a continued war effort could be maintained for just a while longer.

 

Back at German high command, the same is happening. Only this time, the same amount of effort has not been afforded to maintain the facade.

 

A German inspector comes to the trenches, the same ones that have been fraternizing with the British. The trench is in disarray, no one is at their proper posts, and the senior officer is nowhere to be found. This time, they have no choice but to admit something. In an attempt to explain the disarray, a young soldier takes initiative, and recalls that his regiment had gone on a brief strike.

 

To a commanding officer, to go on strike would mean that the country you have sworn to duty, and the cause that is being fought for, no longer means anything to those going on strike. This would be unacceptable.

 

This is an offence, that if not accounted for, would be punishable by death. But the commanding officer doesn’t buy it. So he draws his weapon at the young soldier—but not because of any apparent strike. The officer, with his newfound hostage, offers an impromptu referendum, demanding that the men in the trenches open fire. Surely, if they had not had any contact or alliance with the enemy, they would have no issue firing on them. And so, for the sake of their own kin, they do.

 

And fire is returned.

 

But according to Williams, not a single shot was fired out of anger that day. For hours, both sides wasted ammunition, trying to shoot the very stars out of the sky.

 

Smith-Dorrien returns to his regional HQ, his suspicions not quelled. Someone had squealed, and the rumor of the mass-fraternization with the German army was widespread.

 

But what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t allow French to know, because that would undermine severely his own reputation, and make him look incompetent. And he couldn’t simply court martial half of the British Army. He had no choice but to do nothing.

 

But there was nothing that he had to do.

 

The longer the peace went on, the harder it became to maintain, and one act of aggression is all it takes to destroy any peace.

 

Williams’ former best friend, Fredrick, is on the other trench, and Williams wishes to see him one last time. To exchange cigarettes as a parting gift.

 

So Williams climbs up into No Man’s Land, an action that, at this point has become almost routine, and he makes his way to the enemy trench, hands up above his head.

 

The firing ceases, although it wouldn’t have made a difference; they were not remotely aiming at him. He makes it to the German trench, and he hands the cigarettes off to his old friend, with one final message.

 

Von einem zum anderen—from one to another.

 

He climbs up out of the German trenches, and is shot in the back of the head by a sniper, halfway to his trench.  And with him, died the hopes of an early end to the bloodshed, and the very last of true military chivalry.

 

 

1915.

 

 

Edward Hamilton Hulse would die three months after that fateful day, Hulse was killed in action; he died trying to save one of his fellow soldiers. A year later, there would be no truce, for there were no longer a mere few thousand dead men between trenches—there were millions.

 

Tanks, gas, air raids, zeppelins: the machines of war would break the bond of humanity between soldiers. Choir singing would be drowned out by machine gun fire. Any attempt to contact the enemy would result in a court martial, and any peace or quiet of Christmas day would be warded away by orders of 24-hour artillery barrages.

 

The Christmas Truce was the result of a young war, one not fought, the surface if its horrors had only been grazed, and there was still a semblance of meaning to the fight.

 

Nothing like this would ever happened in history again, and it would go down as the last act of chivalry in modern warfare. It is an incredible story of humanity and commonality, and had it ended the war then and there, the world would be a much different place. The story of the 7th Baronet is just one of hundreds of stories from that one day. Stories of humanity triumphing over suffering, chaos triumphing over order, and order triumphing over chaos. It was a day to be remembered, and despite the fact that it failed to end the conflict, it marked a bittersweet part in the story of the war to end all wars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Sources:

 

Days That Shook The World: The Christmas Truce, 2003, courtesy: https://ca.video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-iry-fullyhosted_003&hsimp=yhs-fullyhosted_003&hspart=iry&p=days+that+shook+the+world+christmas+truce#id=1&vid=ed4240a2e464ed8e4f32285a23b7c8ed&action=click

 

New York Times, The Truce of Christmas, 1914, By THOMAS VINCIGUERRAm DEC. 25, 2005, courtesy: https://www.nytimes.com/2005/12/25/weekinreview/the-truce-of-christmas-1914.html

 

First World War.com, a multimedia history of the First World War, courtesy: http://firstworldwar.com/battles/all.htm

 

Extra Credits, WW1 Christmas Truce: Silent Night – Extra History – #1W1, Dec 17, 2017, courtesy:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUlPNWDvk-c

 

Extra Credits, WW1 Christmas Truce: Letters from the Trenches – Extra History – #2, Dec 25, 2017, courtesy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Pey-HmXGfs&t=10s

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