In December 1914, an observer flying over Western Europe would have gazed down at a most striking, and sinister, topographical feature. Two chains of deep trenches and concertinas of barbed wire slithered in snake-like patterns as far as the eye could see from the English Channel to the Swiss Alps, slicing an unsightly laceration across the blasted out fields of northern France and Belgium.

Hunkered down within these subterranean troughs amid the stench of feces, urine, decaying flesh and gun smoke, squatted the great armies of the Western Front. They glared at each other across a moonscape of water-logged shell craters, trees blown into twisted matchsticks silhouetted against a bleak sky, and grotesquely decomposing bodies of friend and foe alike left to ignominiously rot out in the “no-man’s land” between the lines.

The big guns to the rear lobbed their deadly payloads down onto bewildered youths, many in their teens, just struggling to survive this eerily troglodytic existence; one that, considering their innocence of life just the year before, must have seemed like a nightmare from which they could not stir.

The war, just five months in, had begun as a conflict of mobility, when in August the Kaiser’s armies, distinct in their steel gray long coats and spiked pickelhaube helmets, confidently marched through Belgium to strike at the French in a drive towards Paris and victory. But the poilus and their British Expeditionary Force (BEF) allies rallied at the Marne, just 30 miles from the French capital, and threw the Germans back in a bloodletting that shocked the world.

A series of failed attempts to outflank the other sent casualties on both sides soaring, but no breakthroughs were made, and the front stabilized. In a very short time the troops settled in, burrowing deep into the ground to escape the killing power of the new technological age of machine guns and fast-firing artillery. And there they remained, stagnant, immobile, rain soaked, miserable.

And yet even in the trenches, the very monument to man’s savagery and folly, hopeful demonstrations of the better angels of our nature could occur. And so it was on Christmas 1914, that one of the most poignant scenes in the history of warfare took place.

While the men of the BEF settled into their trenches to try and celebrate the holiday as best they could, strange sounds began to drift over from the German lines. Singing. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht / Alles schläft; einsam wacht …”

British Private Frank Sumter recalled: “And then we heard the Germans singing ‘Silent Night, Holy Night.’ And our boys said ‘Let’s join in.’ So we joined in with the song.” At first, the British sentries weren’t sure what to make of the German activity, which included lighting festive candles on the rim of their trenches. Nervous Tommies peeked their heads up over the parapets then quickly ducked back down for fear of snipers.

But no one shot.

British and German meeting in No Man’s Land during unofficial true Christmas 1914. Northumberland Hussars, 7th Division, Bridoux-Banks Sector. (Photo by: Robert Hunt/Windmill Books/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)

Pvt. Leslie Walkington remembered the extraordinary event that followed. “And then we saw a German standing up, waving his arms. And we didn’t shoot.” Instead of a battle cry, the Germans were calling out to their British Kameraden to have a truce and celebrate Christmas together. The men on both sides of the lines eventually overcame their suspicions and climbed out of their trenches. They met out in the open, offering enemies not the cold steel of thrusting bayonets, but rather the warm flesh of extended hands.

A German Lieutenant Neimann picked up his binoculars and to his surprise “saw the incredible sight of our soldiers exchanging cigarettes, schnapps and chocolate with the enemy!”

There is a commonality among soldiers that transcends national politics or flag. By this time in the war, both sides had shared the same experiences of chronic fear, physical misery and illness, filth, mourning lost friends, and homesickness. The truce extended to parts of the French sector as well. Gustave Berthier wrote to his parents, “On Christmas Day the Boches made a sign showing they wished to speak to us. They said they didn’t want to shoot. … They were tired of making war, they were married like me.”

A common legend of the Christmas Truce of 1914 has it that the enemy combatants engaged in impromptu games of football (soccer) in the “no-man’s land” but some historians dispute the legitimacy of such claims. Although, given the Christmas miracle that occurred right in the middle of a war so terrible that author William Manchester described it as “the worst thing that had ever happened” it is not out of the question.

One can imagine the words of Thomas Hardy’s poem “The Man He Killed” on the minds of every soldier no matter the uniform, on this most magical of Christmases at the front:

Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet,
Right many a nipperkin!

But ranged as infantry
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me
And killed him in his place…

Yes; quaint and curious a thing war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat if met where any bar is
Or help to half-a-crown.

For nearly two and a half billion Christians of every race and nationality across the globe, Christmas is a joyous celebration of the birth of Our Lord, now two millennia in the past, and yet still so powerful in its meaning and presence in our lives. One hundred ten years ago, in the middle of a grisly battlefield, in the middle of a ghastly war, the love of Christ and the affection He wishes us to bestow upon each other was alive and well amidst a scene of unprecedented violence and suffering. Indeed, on this day, at this time, enemies could lay down their arms, exchange warm greetings and gifts, and, if for a short time, fulfill the Christmas promise of peace on earth and good will towards all mankind.

But Mars is not so benevolent a god; sadly, if inevitably, the truce didn’t last.

Irate officers on both sides put an end to what very well could have been considered treasonous fraternization with the enemy. Even a capital crime.

Pvt. Archibald Stanley remembered how one of his officers abruptly canceled the informal truce in his section of the trenches. There were still a few Germans out in the open when he approached Stanley and said, “You still got the armistice?”

The grim officer then picked up a rifle, took cold aim, and promptly shot one of the Germans dead. The rest leapt back into their dugouts, and returned fire. And so the war began again.

* * *

Brad Schaeffer is a fund manager and author of three books. His articles have appeared on the pages of Daily Wire, The Wall Street Journal, New York Post, New York Daily News, National Review, The Hill, The Federalist, The Blaze, Breitbart, Zerohedge and other outlets. You can follow him on X and Substack

The views expressed in this piece are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The Daily Wire.