You may have heard this story. I guarantee you I heard it before you did.
In December of 1917 the war in Europe had reached a stalemate. The lines had been drawn, trenches dug deep, and by Christmas eve only an occasional shot was being fired – just to remind each side that the other was still there.
Hunkered down in one of those trenches was a farmer from Michigan, young and frightened. He was a new member of MacArthur’s 40 and 8 (At the time, a boxcar held 40 men and 8 horses.) He was a member of the rainbow division – a shoulder patch of red, brown, and green colors. “Through the blood and the mud to the green fields beyond.” Yeah. It was that kind of war.
By early evening of December 24th, the snow had stopped, leaving a clean carpet of white between the two lines of battle, perhaps the length of two football fields apart. Around the young farmer there was talk of Christmas ‘back home,” and what this or that relative might be doing.
From somewhere down the line, someone started singing a Christmas carol. Soon a number of other voices had joined in.
It was then that someone started singing “Silent Night.”
It was then that they heard the sound of the pure tenor voice, drifting across the battlefield. One of the Germans was singing with them.
Soon both sides were singing with great gusto. Language became no barrier at all. Lah lah lah worked just fine.
In the dimming lights the Michigan farmer found himself, among others, standing and moving cautiously into the no man’s land. He was met by an equally nervous contingent from the other side. Everyone was singing. Eventually they exchanged gifts – cigarettes, beer, and sausage.
They stood together in comradeship for perhaps a half an hour. Eventually, in unspoken agreement, they parted, returning almost regretfully to their own sides.
The next day, Christmas day, they resumed shooting at each other. Business as usual.
Have you heard that story? I’ve been told that it’s fairly well known.
But that’s not the end of the story.
The shooting stopped on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month – November 11, 1918. The surrender had been signed a number of hours earlier, and everyone should have been packing kit bags, in preparation for a return home.
Instead, that final day was a period of madness, with both sides attacking each other with a fury that had no reason. Both sides knew they were fighting over territory neither would occupy in just a few hours.
Thousands died that day, and for no reason. At least, there was no good reason the farmer from Michigan could understand. How could there be peace in a time of war, and war where there should be peace?
45 years later an old retired farmer told that story to a quite young but enthralled nephew. With blistered and gnarled hands the old man placed a faded red, brown, and green shoulder patch in the young child’s outstretched hands.
As I’m typing this, I’m looking at that patch.
In December of 1917 the war in Europe had reached a stalemate. The lines had been drawn, trenches dug deep, and by Christmas eve only an occasional shot was being fired – just to remind each side that the other was still there.
Hunkered down in one of those trenches was a farmer from Michigan, young and frightened. He was a new member of MacArthur’s 40 and 8 (At the time, a boxcar held 40 men and 8 horses.) He was a member of the rainbow division – a shoulder patch of red, brown, and green colors. “Through the blood and the mud to the green fields beyond.” Yeah. It was that kind of war.
By early evening of December 24th, the snow had stopped, leaving a clean carpet of white between the two lines of battle, perhaps the length of two football fields apart. Around the young farmer there was talk of Christmas ‘back home,” and what this or that relative might be doing.
From somewhere down the line, someone started singing a Christmas carol. Soon a number of other voices had joined in.
It was then that someone started singing “Silent Night.”
It was then that they heard the sound of the pure tenor voice, drifting across the battlefield. One of the Germans was singing with them.
Soon both sides were singing with great gusto. Language became no barrier at all. Lah lah lah worked just fine.
In the dimming lights the Michigan farmer found himself, among others, standing and moving cautiously into the no man’s land. He was met by an equally nervous contingent from the other side. Everyone was singing. Eventually they exchanged gifts – cigarettes, beer, and sausage.
They stood together in comradeship for perhaps a half an hour. Eventually, in unspoken agreement, they parted, returning almost regretfully to their own sides.
The next day, Christmas day, they resumed shooting at each other. Business as usual.
Have you heard that story? I’ve been told that it’s fairly well known.
But that’s not the end of the story.
The shooting stopped on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month – November 11, 1918. The surrender had been signed a number of hours earlier, and everyone should have been packing kit bags, in preparation for a return home.
Instead, that final day was a period of madness, with both sides attacking each other with a fury that had no reason. Both sides knew they were fighting over territory neither would occupy in just a few hours.
Thousands died that day, and for no reason. At least, there was no good reason the farmer from Michigan could understand. How could there be peace in a time of war, and war where there should be peace?
45 years later an old retired farmer told that story to a quite young but enthralled nephew. With blistered and gnarled hands the old man placed a faded red, brown, and green shoulder patch in the young child’s outstretched hands.
As I’m typing this, I’m looking at that patch.
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