The recruiting poster said “ 0n les aura”, (“We will get them”).
The generals said, “You will be home for Christmas,
The Bosche will run from you!”
None of this was true.
Now we live in trenches,
With rats, lice and mud.
Whistles blow, shells explode, bullets rattle.
Men scream and die. Then it stops.
We wait two, maybe three days.
Boredom sets in. Sometimes rain and snow.
More mud.
“Sir, are we still to be home by Christmas?”
Something strange along the German trenches.
Trees! Lots of trees. Decorated for the season!
We hear laughter, then singing.
Adeste Fidelis and Stille Nach
The Scots to our left play their pipes in tune.
Singing now on all sides. Cheering!
Germans shouting to us to drink together.
A Christmas true in our sector proposed.
Could this happen?
“Hey Frenchie, Merry Christmas!”
“Hey Scotsman, Merry Christmas!”
“Hey Bosche, Merry Christmas!”
French wine for German chocolate;
A German had honeymooned in Paris.
We exchanged names and addresses.
A German kissed my wife’s picture.
Anyone up for a soccer match?
The Scot’s priest said Mass for all.
Two dead Frenchmen lying between the lines.
British and Germans helped bury them.
Paying respect to French dead on the
Day Christ was born, a sight worth seeing!
Letters home were always searched by army censors.
The high command found out. We can’t have this!
An armistice is strictly against regulations.
What would become of the war!
The killing starts again.
Our unit is separated and sent to different fronts.
The Germans! The Scotsmen! Where are they now?
The Scot’s pipes left us a song.
It is one that all soldiers can understand.
“Forever I’m dreaming of home…
I feel so alone…
I’m dreaming of home…”
By Mike McMillen