Christmas in The Trenches
My name is Francis Toliver, I come from
Two years ago the war was waitin’ for me after school.
To
I fought for King and Country I love dear.
Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of
Our families back in
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground,
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound.
Says I, “Now listen up me boys,” each soldier strained to hear,
As one young German voice sang out so clear.
“He’s singing bloody well, you know,” my partner says to me.
Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony.
The cannons rested silent—the gas cloud rolled no more,
As Christmas brought us respite from the war.
As soon as they were finished, and the reverent pause was spent,
“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” struck up some lads from
Oh, the next they sang was “Stille Nacht,” tis “Silent Night” says I,
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky.
“There’s someone comin’ towards us!” the frontline sentry cried.
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side.
His truce flag like a Christmas Star shone on that plain so bright,
As he bravely strode unarmed into the night.
Then one by one on either side walked into “no man’s land,”
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand.
We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well,
And in a flare-lit soccer game, we gave ‘em hell.
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home.
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own.
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin.
This curious and unlikely band of men.
Soon daylight stole upon us, and
With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war.
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night,
“Whose family have I fixed within my sights?”
Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of
For the walls they’d kept between us to exact the work of war,
Had been crumbled and were gone forever more.
Oh my name is Francis Toliver, in
Each Christmas come since World War One. I’ve learned its lessons well.
That the ones who call the shots won’t be among the dead and lame,
And on each end of the rifle we’re the same.
© 1984 John McCutcheon - All rights reserved
Olivia speaking - My husband discovered this song on the radio
years ago and plays it on piano during the Christmas season.
I find it very appropriate for the events of the past few years.
I think the last two lines are especially poignant.
posted by ~~Olivia | 10:42 PM
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