
Whether he fights in the woods, in the trenches, or in wild and forgotten places, a soldier must remain a man. Today was Christmas day, and these soldiers had draped a small tree with modest decorations to place beside their fire. Their dinner was cooking over a crude stone fireplace, the metal pot hanging from a branch holding the lean meat of the rabbits they had trapped. The soldiers warmed their hands around the fire. The straw crackled, the flames licked around the bottom of the pot, and the water began to simmer. The men took heart, but they could not feel comfort, nor reassurance, nor serenity. What they felt was ebbing madness, as if they were becoming wild men. The war had sullied them to the depths of their souls; they felt dirty in their bones. They prayed it would end, but only in victory. They were tired.
Would this be the moment they were swept off by death? It stalked them, ever watching. What could be worse, what could be crueller than to die here, down in a hole in the frozen earth? The very thought filled a man with dread, a daily pain that stung like a thorn in their minds. These men hoped their turn would not come. To have your turn meant losing a leg, your body being torn to shreds or getting your brains blown out. They took comfort in one another’s company. The war would soon be over. An armistice would be signed, and the peace would last. The men rubbed their hands over the fire, singing a Christmas carol:
“O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
wie treu sind deine Blätter.
Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,
nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit:O Tannenbaum,
o Tannenbaum,wie treu sind deine Blätter!
O Tannenbaum,
o Tannenbaum,du kannst mir sehr gefallen!”
The soldiers felt a swell of nostalgia for Germany. Their third emperor, Wilhelm II, had reigned for twenty years over Prussia and the Reich. Bismarck was but a tool in the emperor’s hands. He may well have been named chancellor, but his will was eclipsed by the iron will of Wilhelm II. The emperor was young, impetuous and in tune with the aspirations of his people. All Germany adored him and hoped that the German empire would soon extend beyond its borders. The war was not yet ready to end, in Alsace-Lorraine or anywhere else. It was theirs; their victory, their fight. The rabbit was changing colour; the scent of its cooking flesh rose to their nostrils and made them even hungrier. The thought of a mouthful brought tears to their eyes, even though it would not fill them.
“I’m starving. It’s almost ready,” the first solider told them.
“When the war...when this damned war is over, I’ll go home and I’ll marry her. I promised her I would.”
“I’m sure she’s waiting for you. Don’t worry, soon this will all be a memory, a bad dream. They’ll sign the armistice, and we can all go home.”
“We must stay strong! We will emerge victorious, and one day we shall be honoured for having fought for the empire like patriots.”
“We'll be paraded under a monument built in our honour.”
“I’m sure we will,” replied the first soldier.
The rabbit was finally ready. They cut it into pieces, chewing slowly to savour every moment, every bite. It was a rare treat. None of them could know when they would taste death, or where they would sleep that night, or on what. On muddy ground crawling with worms, or on straw infested with fleas? Hot or cold, it didn’t matter, as long as they could find some rest. A war cannot be fought without sleep. Just two hours, just an hour of sleep, please God, just a quarter-hour to get my strength back. The branches cracked, and sparks flew from the fire. This Christmas was one the men would never forget.
Alan Alfredo Geday