This is one of my short stories from my eBook "God Tales" This story was inspired after reading a tale from the Irish civil war (Catholics vs Protestants) and the sad ending when two brothers (of different faiths) confront each other. This story is a bit similar, I am putting this up for reading since we are in the Christmas season.
WHEN THE GUNS WERE SILENT (A Christmas tale from WW1)
The British soldiers slowly made their way across no-man's land. It was the first time in a year that the Germans weren't shooting at them. It was an eerie silence, so unlike warfare. It all started eight hours ago, the Christmas Eve Truce. It was accepted by the top brass that all units on both sides, would respect Christmas. Both German and allied forces would cease fire for 24 hours, so for 24 hours, enemies would be friends. Carols would be sung, games would be played, smiles and greetings would be exchanged. The next day, they would blow each apart with bombs, rockets, rifles, bayonets, and machine guns. Mortars would be launched, machine guns would rattle, and men would continue to die. Some would return home whole, others minus arms or legs, or both, or blinded by poison gas.
But for now, a little bit of peace would be enjoyed, just for one day. Just for a day, the bullets wouldn't whistle through the air. Just for a day, the screaming of the dying and wounded would cease, at least, just for a day.
During the night, the German troops could be heard singing “Silent Night” in German, even though the words were different, the melody was the same. The British soldiers responded as well. They also sung “Silent Night” perhaps trying to out-do the other side. The night of singing ended, and now the soldiers were emerging from their trenches. Both sides met in the middle of No-Man's-Land.
Private Michael Stafford walked slowly along with his chaps, rifle slung over his shoulder.
They were just ahead, those Heinies, those bloody Huns. They were just in front of their own trenches having a game of football. It seemed so strange to have some fun in the midst of war, to relax, if not just for a day.
Michael observed a few German soldiers as they stopped their game and looked towards him and his companions. They waved and shouted something in German.
“Well,” said one of the Brits, “seems like they want us to join them in their game, how about it chaps?”
“Let's show those Heinies that the British are just as tough in football as on the battlefield!” replied another soldier, pausing to light-up a cigarette. Michael chose to stay behind as his companions ran to the German soldiers. It seemed odd to face the enemy on friendly terms. Was there really inbred hatred towards England, France, and the other allied countries who fought this war against the Germany? Or were these soldiers just following orders? Orders to aim and shoot at a soldier in a different uniform, who spoke a different language? Was there really hate involved?
As Michael stood there pondering these thoughts, he saw a young German soldier pop his head out of a near-by bomb crater. The soldier was probably in his early twenties. His face looked gentle, his short dirty blonde hair blowing softly in the cold December wind.
The German looked at Michael and motioned for him to come over to where he was. “Well,” thought Private Stafford, “What did he have to lose? It was a 24-hour truce, might as well enjoy it.” Michael walked over to where the German was. The bomb crater was shallow, the German was sitting on a rock, helmet by his side, and there was a small fire going with a smoking tin pot with some boiling liquid.
“Kaffe?” offered the smiling young German soldier, lifting up a small cup of coffee towards Michael.
Michael thought back to his pre-combat training. He had taken a crash course in basic German just in case he was taken prisoner. His whole company had to go through the language training. He found out he had a mind for languages. He thought about the phrases he had learned, might as well put them to good use now, and he wasn't even a prisoner.
“Danke Schon” replied Michael, as he sat down next to the young German soldier. Michael took the tin cup from the German's extended hand, nodded to him and smiled.
“bitte” nodded the young German. The German moved over a bit towards Michael and introduced himself to him.
“Ich heisse Hans, Hans Muller”.
Michael understood that. So, his name was Hans Muller. So, what? Everyone had names.
“Michael, Ich heisse Michael” replied Private Stafford, happy that he could express himself in the language of the Kaiser. The German smiled and nodded as he heard the British soldier's name. He thought it rather interesting that a British soldier would know German.
“Du kanst Deutsche sprechen, dast ist gut!” replied Hans, smiling at Michael.
Michael thought a minute about the phrase, then he understood. Yes, it was good that he spoke German, even if it was just a little bit, enough to get him by as a POW or as a 24-hour friend.
Hans reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small book. He showed it proudly to Michael.
“Mein Bibel” begun Hans, “Jesus Christus ist mein Herr”
Michael looked a little puzzled. He had never learned those words, but he had recognized “Jesus Christus” “Bibel” and “Herr”. He put those words together and finally figured out what the young German was saying. That was his Bible, and that Jesus Christ was his LORD and Savior.
“Ja” replied Michael, and he thought about his answer in German. “Das ist gut. Jesus Christus ist mein Herr auch” (Jesus Christ is my LORD and Savior too). Suddenly, Michael felt a special bond with Hans. Hans was a born-again Christian and so was he. Michael though back to his childhood in Kent, the small country church near his home. It was nestled among a few farms. He remembered walking to church on Sundays with his mother and father. The kind elderly Pastor Lewis taught him God's Word in Sunday school, and the lessons intensified during the Sunday sermons.
He remembered back to that special Sunday. It was in May 1909, when he was 12 years old. He went forward and accepted Jesus as his personal Savior and LORD. The pastor gave him a small Bible and signed it, writing “John 3:16” after his signature.
Somehow, since he joined up with the army a year ago, he had lost focus on his faith. He joined in with the other soldiers in drinking ale and laughing at dirty jokes. As he watched Hans open his small Bible, he felt a little embarrassed about losing sight of his own relationship with God.
“Habense dein Bibel?” asked Hans, looking intensely at Michael.
Michael understood that Hans was asking about his Bible, if he had one. Michael looked down at the ground, shook his head sadly and replied.
“Nein, Ich Habe nicht mein Bibel.” No, he didn't have his Bible with him.
“Warum nicht?” asked Hans, looking a bit confused. “Warum habensie nicht Bibel?” Michael understood, why didn't he have a bible with him?
Michael responded quickly in English. “It's like this Hans, I've bloody well fallen away a bit, you know, from the faith, but not on purpose, the war you know, My Bible, well, I left it at home.”
He remembered packing his gear at home, ready to get on the train for the trip to the docks. When he was on the train, he remembered seeing his bible on the kitchen table, he had just forgotten to pack it in his ruck sack.
WHEN THE GUNS WERE SILENT (A Christmas tale from WW1)
The British soldiers slowly made their way across no-man's land. It was the first time in a year that the Germans weren't shooting at them. It was an eerie silence, so unlike warfare. It all started eight hours ago, the Christmas Eve Truce. It was accepted by the top brass that all units on both sides, would respect Christmas. Both German and allied forces would cease fire for 24 hours, so for 24 hours, enemies would be friends. Carols would be sung, games would be played, smiles and greetings would be exchanged. The next day, they would blow each apart with bombs, rockets, rifles, bayonets, and machine guns. Mortars would be launched, machine guns would rattle, and men would continue to die. Some would return home whole, others minus arms or legs, or both, or blinded by poison gas.
But for now, a little bit of peace would be enjoyed, just for one day. Just for a day, the bullets wouldn't whistle through the air. Just for a day, the screaming of the dying and wounded would cease, at least, just for a day.
During the night, the German troops could be heard singing “Silent Night” in German, even though the words were different, the melody was the same. The British soldiers responded as well. They also sung “Silent Night” perhaps trying to out-do the other side. The night of singing ended, and now the soldiers were emerging from their trenches. Both sides met in the middle of No-Man's-Land.
Private Michael Stafford walked slowly along with his chaps, rifle slung over his shoulder.
They were just ahead, those Heinies, those bloody Huns. They were just in front of their own trenches having a game of football. It seemed so strange to have some fun in the midst of war, to relax, if not just for a day.
Michael observed a few German soldiers as they stopped their game and looked towards him and his companions. They waved and shouted something in German.
“Well,” said one of the Brits, “seems like they want us to join them in their game, how about it chaps?”
“Let's show those Heinies that the British are just as tough in football as on the battlefield!” replied another soldier, pausing to light-up a cigarette. Michael chose to stay behind as his companions ran to the German soldiers. It seemed odd to face the enemy on friendly terms. Was there really inbred hatred towards England, France, and the other allied countries who fought this war against the Germany? Or were these soldiers just following orders? Orders to aim and shoot at a soldier in a different uniform, who spoke a different language? Was there really hate involved?
As Michael stood there pondering these thoughts, he saw a young German soldier pop his head out of a near-by bomb crater. The soldier was probably in his early twenties. His face looked gentle, his short dirty blonde hair blowing softly in the cold December wind.
The German looked at Michael and motioned for him to come over to where he was. “Well,” thought Private Stafford, “What did he have to lose? It was a 24-hour truce, might as well enjoy it.” Michael walked over to where the German was. The bomb crater was shallow, the German was sitting on a rock, helmet by his side, and there was a small fire going with a smoking tin pot with some boiling liquid.
“Kaffe?” offered the smiling young German soldier, lifting up a small cup of coffee towards Michael.
Michael thought back to his pre-combat training. He had taken a crash course in basic German just in case he was taken prisoner. His whole company had to go through the language training. He found out he had a mind for languages. He thought about the phrases he had learned, might as well put them to good use now, and he wasn't even a prisoner.
“Danke Schon” replied Michael, as he sat down next to the young German soldier. Michael took the tin cup from the German's extended hand, nodded to him and smiled.
“bitte” nodded the young German. The German moved over a bit towards Michael and introduced himself to him.
“Ich heisse Hans, Hans Muller”.
Michael understood that. So, his name was Hans Muller. So, what? Everyone had names.
“Michael, Ich heisse Michael” replied Private Stafford, happy that he could express himself in the language of the Kaiser. The German smiled and nodded as he heard the British soldier's name. He thought it rather interesting that a British soldier would know German.
“Du kanst Deutsche sprechen, dast ist gut!” replied Hans, smiling at Michael.
Michael thought a minute about the phrase, then he understood. Yes, it was good that he spoke German, even if it was just a little bit, enough to get him by as a POW or as a 24-hour friend.
Hans reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small book. He showed it proudly to Michael.
“Mein Bibel” begun Hans, “Jesus Christus ist mein Herr”
Michael looked a little puzzled. He had never learned those words, but he had recognized “Jesus Christus” “Bibel” and “Herr”. He put those words together and finally figured out what the young German was saying. That was his Bible, and that Jesus Christ was his LORD and Savior.
“Ja” replied Michael, and he thought about his answer in German. “Das ist gut. Jesus Christus ist mein Herr auch” (Jesus Christ is my LORD and Savior too). Suddenly, Michael felt a special bond with Hans. Hans was a born-again Christian and so was he. Michael though back to his childhood in Kent, the small country church near his home. It was nestled among a few farms. He remembered walking to church on Sundays with his mother and father. The kind elderly Pastor Lewis taught him God's Word in Sunday school, and the lessons intensified during the Sunday sermons.
He remembered back to that special Sunday. It was in May 1909, when he was 12 years old. He went forward and accepted Jesus as his personal Savior and LORD. The pastor gave him a small Bible and signed it, writing “John 3:16” after his signature.
Somehow, since he joined up with the army a year ago, he had lost focus on his faith. He joined in with the other soldiers in drinking ale and laughing at dirty jokes. As he watched Hans open his small Bible, he felt a little embarrassed about losing sight of his own relationship with God.
“Habense dein Bibel?” asked Hans, looking intensely at Michael.
Michael understood that Hans was asking about his Bible, if he had one. Michael looked down at the ground, shook his head sadly and replied.
“Nein, Ich Habe nicht mein Bibel.” No, he didn't have his Bible with him.
“Warum nicht?” asked Hans, looking a bit confused. “Warum habensie nicht Bibel?” Michael understood, why didn't he have a bible with him?
Michael responded quickly in English. “It's like this Hans, I've bloody well fallen away a bit, you know, from the faith, but not on purpose, the war you know, My Bible, well, I left it at home.”
He remembered packing his gear at home, ready to get on the train for the trip to the docks. When he was on the train, he remembered seeing his bible on the kitchen table, he had just forgotten to pack it in his ruck sack.