The BLESSED CHRISTMAS SPIRIT IS WITH US!


The Christmas Truce
 -by David G. Stratman from his book 'We Can Change the World'.

It was December 25, 1914, only 5 months into World War I. German, 
British, and French soldiers, already sick and tired of the senseless 
killing, disobeyed their superiors and fraternized with "the enemy" 
along two-thirds of the Western Front (a crime punishable by death in 
times of war). German troops held Christmas trees up out of the 
trenches with signs, "Merry Christmas."

"You no shoot, we no shoot." Thousands of troops streamed across a 
no-man's land strewn with rotting corpses. They sang Christmas 
carols, exchanged photographs of loved ones back home, shared 
rations, played football, even roasted some pigs. Soldiers embraced 
men they had been trying to kill a few short hours before. They 
agreed to warn each other if the top brass forced them to fire their 
weapons, and to aim high.

A shudder ran through the high command on either side. Here was 
disaster in the making: soldiers declaring their brotherhood with 
each other and refusing to fight. Generals on both sides declared 
this spontaneous peacemaking to be treasonous and subject to court 
martial. By March 1915 the fraternization movement had been 
eradicated and the killing machine put back in full operation. By the 
time of the armistice in 1918, fifteen million would be slaughtered.


This inspirational Christmas story was adapted into sung in 1984, by 
John McCutcheon / Appalsong

This song is based on a true story from the front lines of World War 
I that I've heard many times. Ian Calhoun, a Scot, was the commanding 
officer of the British forces involved in the story. He was 
subsequently court-martialed for 'consorting with the enemy' and 
sentenced to death. Only George V spared him from that fate. -- John 
McCutcheon

_Christmas in The Trenches - Song_

My name is Francis Toliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here,
I fought for King and country I love dear.

'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung.
Our families back in England were toasting us that day,
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.

I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground,
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound.
Says I, "Now listen up, me boys!" each soldier strained to hear,
As one young German voice sang out so clear.

"He's singing bloody well, you know!" my partner says to me.
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony.
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more,
As Christmas brought us respite from the war.

As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent,
"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" struck up some lads from Kent.
The next they sang was "Stille Nacht," "'Tis 'Silent Night,'" says I,
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky.

"There's someone coming towards us!" the front line sentry cried.
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side.
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright,
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night.

Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's Land,
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand.
We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well,
And in a flare lit soccer game we gave 'em hell.

We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home.
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own.
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin,
This curious and unlikely band of men.

Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more.
With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war.
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night:
"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"

'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung.
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war,
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore.

My name is Francis Toliver, in Liverpool I dwell,
Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons well,
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame,
And on each end of the rifle we're the same.

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