Heavenly Peace by Nils Durban

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Having spent all of ten seconds in No. 4 he had darted back, his bowels loosening uncontrollably as he pitched back into their own trench.

As he lay there now, reliving it once again, he thought he heard a faint shout from outside, almost drowned out by Fitzsimmons' latest rant.

"Quiet Fitz!" he shouted out, "listen."

"Back from the dead are you chap?"

"Just listen a minute will you?"

Fitz sat stock still momentarily before they all heard it. A call that was going up and down the line. But it seamed to carry no urgency, it was certainly no call to arms.

"Best go and see, I suppose," Holdstock murmered and so Andrew eased himself out of his bunk and back down onto his feet which, he realised, were still slightly shaky after all. He followed the two of them out into the open trench and the chilly night air, his breath manifesting before his face.

Glenigan, the sapper, was there already, pressed up strangely against the opposite wall. He beckoned to them excitedly, "Listen will you? Listen!"

It drifted across to them on the still air. The words were, of course, foreign, but the instantly recognisable melody conveyed so much unexpected sentiment and compassion that his breath caught in his throat. He fell against the earthen wall beside Glenigan, felt Holdstock's hefty hand fall upon his shoulder, and listened.

"Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute heilige Paar.
Holder Knab im lockigten Haar,
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!"

The tears began to stream down his cheeks. Christmas was the last thing he had expected to find here in hell.

The singing was followed by calls, again in words that he knew not, but they were unmistakably beckoning in their nature.

"They're calling to us," he stuttered, "they want us to come over!"

"Over the top!" Fitz exclaimed, "I hope you're bloody joking!"

But Andrew was already on his way down the trench, to the artillery staging where he knew he could clamber once more up into the open. He no longer cared for the bullets that might be homing in on him. If it was to be an end to him then that would be fine too. He no longer had the strength to carry on.



Captain Judd shared out the last of the cigars and whiskey amongst the mixed British and German troops as they gathered around the newly filled grave. Andrew turned to face the man who was shaking his hand. "Frohe Weihnachten!" the soldier said. "Merry Christmas," he replied.
The Captain turned to preside over the burial, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul..."