The wind whistles and rages
Over the top of our dingy trench,
Mud and slush soak through our boots,
Drenching us to the core
Of our sore, frost bitten hearts.
We shoot at the Germans,
And they at us, pointlessly,
For a no-man’s land of half a mile.
The men of my trench slumber restlessly,
While I sit, and remember Christmases gone by.
And then, amid the symphony of quiet sighs,
As if in a strange, angelic dream,
Voices drift over no man’s land,
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht.
All signs of drowsiness instantly disappear.
Suddenly, one man jumps out from the safety of our trench,
And with hands above head, advances towards Fritz.
We await combat, but none comes.
As it is not gunfire we will exchange tonight,
But gifts, cards, and true Christmas spirit.
By Toby Richardson, Year 8