by W.D. Ehrhart

The War to End All Wars, not yet named,
is five months old. In places from Belgium
to Switzerland, the trenches are often
so close together the soldiers can hear
each other talking. It’s Christmas Eve.
An eerie quiet has descended over
No Man’s Land between the trenches.
Then a quavering voice begins to sing
“Stille nacht, heilige nacht.” Others
soon join in with “Silent night, holy night.”
Lighted candles flicker in the darkness.
Men begin to stand and face each other
only yards apart, easy targets, but it’s
not a night for fighting. The next day,
Brits and Germans greet each other
in between the trenches, shaking hands
and sharing cigarettes and chocolate,
even a game of football here and there.
Meanwhile, the generals are apoplectic,
threatening prison, firing squads,
summary execution even. You are
soldiers meant to kill each other,
Prince of Peace, Lamb of God be damned.
The war goes on for four more years.
There never is another Christmas truce.

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