Out of the dozens of 1914 Christmas Truce letters transcribed from newspapers by volunteers of the Operation Plum Pudding project, this one stands out from all the rest. Partly, it's because Private Heath writes about the whole truce, from beginning to end. But also it's the beautiful - almost poetic - way it is written. It first appeared in the North Mail on January 8th, 1915 and was found and transcribed by Marian Robson.
That
Christmas Armistice
A Plum Pudding Policy Which Might Have Ended The War
A Plum Pudding Policy Which Might Have Ended The War
Written
in the trenches by Private Frederick W. Heath
THE night closed in early - the ghostly shadows that haunt the trenches
came to keep us company as we stood to arms. Under a pale moon, one
could just see the grave-like rise of ground which marked the German
trenches two hundred yards away. Fires in the English lines had died
down, and only the squelch of the sodden boots in the slushy mud, the
whispered orders of the officers and the NCOs, and the moan of the
wind broke the silence of the night. The soldiers' Christmas Eve had
come at last, and it was hardly the time or place to feel grateful
for it.
Memory
in her shrine kept us in a trance of saddened silence. Back somewhere
in England, the fires were burning in cosy rooms; in fancy I heard
laughter and the thousand melodies of reunion on Christmas Eve. With
overcoat thick with wet mud, hands cracked and sore with the frost, I
leaned against the side of the trench, and, looking through my
loophole, fixed weary eyes on the German trenches. Thoughts surged
madly in my mind; but they had no sequence, no cohesion. Mostly they
were of home as I had known it through the years that had brought me
to this. I asked myself why I was in the trenches in misery at all,
when I might have been in England warm and prosperous. That
involuntary question was quickly answered. For is there not a
multitude of houses in England, and has not someone to keep them
intact? I thought of a shattered cottage in -- , and felt glad that I
was in the trenches. That cottage was once somebody's home.
Still
looking and dreaming, my eyes caught a flare in the darkness. A light
in the enemy's trenches was so rare at that hour that I passed a
message down the line. I had hardly spoken when light after light
sprang up along the German front. Then quite near our dug-outs, so
near as to make me start and clutch my rifle, I heard a voice. there
was no mistaking that voice with its guttural ring. With ears
strained, I listened, and then, all down our line of trenches there
came to our ears a greeting unique in war: "English soldier,
English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas!"
Friendly
invitation
Following
that salute boomed the invitation from those harsh voices: "Come
out, English soldier; come out here to us." For some little time
we were cautious, and did not even answer. Officers, fearing
treachery, ordered the men to be silent. But up and down our line one
heard the men answering that Christmas greeting from the enemy. How
could we resist wishing each other a Merry Christmas, even though we
might be at each other's throats immediately afterwards? So we kept
up a running conversation with the Germans, all the while our hands
ready on our rifles.
Blood and peace, enmity and fraternity - war's
most amazing paradox.
The night wore on to dawn - a night made easier
by songs from the German trenches, the pipings of piccolos and from
our broad lines laughter and Christmas carols. Not a shot was fired,
except for down on our right, where the French artillery were at
work.
Came
the dawn, pencilling the sky with grey and pink. Under the early
light we saw our foes moving recklessly about on top of their
trenches. Here, indeed, was courage; no seeking the security of the
shelter but a brazen invitation to us to shoot and kill with deadly
certainty. But did we shoot? Not likely! We stood up ourselves and
called benisons on the Germans. Then came the invitation to fall out
of the trenches and meet half way.
Still
cautious we hung back. Not so the others. They ran forward in little
groups, with hands held up above their heads, asking us to do the
same. Not for long could such an appeal be resisted - beside, was not
the courage up to now all on one side? Jumping up onto the parapet, a
few of us advanced to meet the on-coming Germans. Out went the hands
and tightened in the grip of friendship.
Christmas had made the
bitterest foes friends.
The
Gift of Gifts
Here
was no desire to kill, but just the wish of a few simple soldiers
(and no one is quite so simple as a soldier) that on Christmas Day,
at any rate, the force of fire should cease. We gave each other
cigarettes and exchanged all manner of things. We wrote our names and
addresses on the field service postcards, and exchanged them for
German ones. We cut the buttons off our coats and took in exchange
the Imperial Arms of Germany. But the gift of gifts was Christmas
pudding. The sight of it made the Germans' eyes grow wide with hungry
wonder, and at the first bite of it they were our friends for ever.
Given a sufficient quantity of Christmas puddings, every German in
the trenches before ours would have surrendered.
And
so we stayed together for a while and talked, even though all the
time there was a strained feeling of suspicion which rather spoilt
this Christmas armistice. We could not help remembering that we were
enemies, even though we had shaken hands. We dare not advance too
near their trenches lest we saw too much, nor could the Germans come
beyond the barbed wire which lay before ours. After we had chatted,
we turned back to our respective trenches for breakfast.
All
through the day no shot was fired, and all we did was talk to each
other and make confessions which, perhaps, were truer at that curious
moment than in the normal times of war. How far this unofficial truce
extended along the lines I do not know, but I do know that what I
have written here applies to the -- on our side and the 158th German
Brigade, composed of Westphalians.
As
I finish this short and scrappy description of a strangely human
event, we are pouring rapid fire into the German trenches, and they
are returning the compliment just as fiercely. Screeching through the
air above us are the shattering shells of rival batteries of
artillery. So we are back once more to the ordeal of fire.
-----
-----
NOTE
TO OTHER PUBLISHERS: This
work is out of copyright but if you do reprint it please credit the
hard-working volunteer - Marian Robson - who found and transcribed
it. A book of all newspaper letters about the truce - Not A Shot Was Fired - is available from Lulu.
Pte Heath survived the war - just. He was badly injured by a shell in May 1918 and lost his left arm. Little is known about Heath’s life between the wars but he remained in the Territorials and, on 1 September 1939, was given an Emergency Commission in the Corps of Royal Engineers, serving throughout the Second World War and retiring by virtue of his age on 8 June 1949 with the honorary rank of Major. Major Frederick William Heath MC and Bar died in London on 30 June 1962.
