My Grandfather's War - A Little Peace Among the Turmoil - A Special Wartime Christmas Post from Paula Lofting

A Little Peace Among The Turmoil

Jimmy's Story

      December 1914 was cruelly cold. The grounds above the trenches were frozen; down inside them it was no warmer and oozed with mud and water. On Christmas Eve, as dusk fell and the temperatures dropped dramatically, we hunkered down, wrapping ourselves in our coats, scarves and anything else we could find to stay warm. We began to feel a cold frost beginning to envelope the air about us, a frost so thick if you held your hands out, you could touch the ice in the air with your fingers. The mud squelched around our feet and even our thickest woolen putties and socks could not stop our toes from going numb inside our hobnail boots. I looked up at the sky and saw in wonder, that it was full of beautiful twinkling stars, so bright and so clear. My fellow soldiers looked up to see what I was looking at and as we all sat there, our eyes turned upwards into the sparkling night time sky, I realised that the air was no longer filled with the terrible sounds of shelling, but a faint sound of singing that echoed across No Man's Land. It sounded so close, perhaps only 80 feet away, and I recognised the words sung in German that sounded very similar to English. They were singing "Silent Night." 

        "Sh, sh," I pleaded. "Listen! They are singing "Silent Night" - in bloody German!" I cried excitedly. I jumped to my feet, forgetting the cold and the mud that sought to hold me. "Will you listen to that?"

      "Good God, they are," said Jon Thompson, fighting the mud and the cold to stand to his feet. "Jimmy Lang'on, you're bloody rayt - Listen, everyone, the Fritz are singing ower "Seylant Nayt" in German!" 

     

     Thompson was a true Geordie from Newcastle with the strongest accent I'd ever heard. I'll  remember to this day his pronunciation of the word German sounded like Jawmun and so unlike the dialects  of our southern counties. Whenever I told this story to my grandkids, I would always say this line in his accent, which had them laughing till their sides ached because, as they said, it was a terrible rendition of a Geordie. Suddenly everyone was alert, their ears pricked and their eyes focused on each other watching  for the reactions on our faces. We were smiling, laughing and whispering words that expressed joy at hearing what was to us, such a beautiful sound in a single moment of a terrible war. I wanted to burst out crying, but I held back. We were men - tough men, hard men - or so we thought; actually the truth was that we were simply boys pretending to be soldiers. The average age of us lads there was 19/20. Most no older than 24, except our sergeant who was 28. Some of our officers were older of course, but on the whole we were just lads and 90 % of us were green at this war game thing. 

      I don't know what it was that made us all so excited, but it may have been something to do with the sudden realisation that there was no longer an enemy on the other side of No Man's Land - just blokes like us, who were singing a hymn that we recognised, and although the words were different, it reminded us of home. I looked around and I saw that some of the hardest men I had ever known were weeping and before I knew it I had joined them. The tears came and then some of us began to sing. Our voices were raised with theirs, but they were near to reaching the end and we had only just started, so as they finished, we were still going.  I'm sure they must have heard us because when we stopped, there was silence for a moment and then shouts of "Bravo!" and applause echoed across from their trenches.     At one point, some of the men looked up over the parapet and described the scene from our enemy's trench as being alight with brightly coloured lanterns and candles, with Christmas trees, their sharp brindled branches silhouetted against the dark background. They said the Germans were waving at us and shouting in English, greetings of Merry Christmas! It was one of the most moving things I can remember of that awful war. And as we sang through the night, taking turns to sing carols and hymns that both sides were familiar with and some that we both weren't, I felt the warmth in my heart rise above the cold in my feet and as I closed my eyes to sleep, I felt like I was home in my local supping brandy and eating mince pies. 

     Morning came, but at that time of year it was 8:00 a.m. before the sun began to appear. As I rolled over in my sleeping space, I realised that light was dawning and a terrible fear began to engulf me. I wasn't in my humble home back in Essex, I wasn't waking up in my nice warm bed as I had last done on my 19th birthday at home before setting out to sign up for the Great War, and I wouldn't hear my mum shout up to me to come down for a plate of sausage, bacon and egg, our traditional breakfast on Christmas morning. No, I was stuck in this damned hole, coming out of a beautiful dream that I was home and tucked up in warm blankets and crisp clean sheets. Yes - I was in a hole. Some of my fellows were already awake and there was shouting and a commotion, but there was still no localised shooting or shelling. I was prodded by someone who shoved my Christmas box at me. I put it to one side as I got myself together to find out what was going on. I saw to my astonishment that men were climbing out of the trenches but were leaving their guns behind. 

      "What's going on?" I cried out to my sergeant who was standing with our captain and looking very annoyed. 

     "They've called a truce, the Germans," my sergeant replied.

      I found out later that he and the captain had warned everyone that if they went over they would be court marshalled and shot. One of them had shouted out as they went over, "They'll have to shoot the lot of us then, won't they lads?" and the men ignored the warning and continued to climb up out into No Man's Land where they were greeted by the smiling Germans, genuinely pleased to be sharing the day with them. I wanted to follow them, but I was afraid if I did, I would be in trouble. I was 19 and I wanted to survive to my twentieth birthday and if I was going to be shot, I didn't want it to be on Christmas Day by my own captain's gun. But something inexplicable happened next as I stared into the captains eyes. 

      "Sir," I said in a pleading voice, "it's Christmas and it might be our last."

     "I know it's bloody Christmas, Langton," the Captain replied in his clipped upper class accent. 

     I don't know what made him relent, but it could have been the fact that many of us would die that year anyway and he knew. Many men had died already, we were just the replacements. Anyway, he nodded, saying "Go on then! If we're going over, we might as well all go!" and I couldn't believe my ears but I needed no more telling and I leapt up over the parapet followed by the sergeant and captain and the sight that met my eyes had me laughing and crying at the same time.

     As I looked over the top of the parapet before jumping out, I saw that the daylight, just clearing, was grey, like the clouds in the sky. Out on the ground, there was a thick layer of frost which made the ground hard, unlike down in the trench where it was waterlogged. I saw Jon Thompson wearing a German helmet. He was stood  with a gathering of others laughing and joking with a group of German lads. He saw me and smiled, and I was smiling too, waving my gloved hand at him. He walked over to me, cigarette in one hand and held out his other  and pulled me out. 

      "Will you look at this?" I said in wonderment as he pulled me out.

      "Ye won't believe it, Jimmy, but this Jawman ova haya, the one smokin' may cley paype, well hey lived in Sunderland for ten yers!"

     "The one smoking your clay pipe, Thommo?" I asked, as if the fact a German was smoking his pipe was the most salient point of his piece of information. 

       "Aye," nodded Thompson as he led me over to them. 

       I knew that some of the Germans spoke English because throughout the months I had been down there in that trench, we had agreed to stop firing at each other for 30 minutes so we all could retrieve the bodies of our fallen and take our rations. On some occasions words had been exchanged, tentative questions had been asked of us about how our conditions had been and we found that theirs were just as bad. It was as if we shared common ground. 

     That day, as I stood there among our new friends, it was as if we were comrades sharing stories, swapping pictures of our loved ones, sharing our Christmas presents and swapping Cadbury's chocolate for tobacco or brandy for schnapps. We found out that they were having a rough time too: the rats, the mud, the unsanitary conditions. I remember seeing our officers fraternising too and wondered momentarily what might happen if the chiefs found out. One German fellow I spoke to was called Walter; I don't remember what he said his surname was, but I spent a long time showing him pictures of my home, my sisters and mother and father. He was married, with two little girls and he told me sadly how he missed his wife and that she was going to give birth again in the new year; this time he hoped for a son. He was 23. I thought that he must have married young, probably at my age. I told him that I hoped to marry when the war was over and he smiled, a twinkle in his blue eyes. 

     The Germans had kindly brought out a Christmas tree and we stood around it singing "O Christmas Tree"; us in English, those who knew the words, and them in German and soon the air was filled with our voices - but in the far distance we could hear throughout the day, those who had not observed the truce, shelling and shooting at each other further up and down the lines. But the best bit as I remember was when Walter and his mates brought out an old leather football and started kicking it around. It was then that a football match between those of us who wanted to play was organised.

     We used the Germans'  Christmas trees for the goal posts. One of our officers came up to see what was going on and offered to referee alongside the German captain. I went in goal; that had always been my favourite position in football. Thommo, Davy, Len and Foxy Theodore were defenders and Carter Blakethorpe, brothers Ivor and Blackie Jenkins the midfielders. Bertie Fresden and Eddy Norton were the forwards with Ronnie Dean as centre forward and captain.There were a couple of professional players in the German side, brothers they were and they were cracking strikers. To this day I still remember their names. I struggled in goal when those two came blasting through. Their names were Ulrich and Oliver as I recall: tall, blonde and very Nordic looking. They each scored, the blighters, and I recall that one of them had the ball, I can't be sure who, and ran right past Blackie, who slid heroically on the frosty ground to tackle him and failed. Then he danced round Thommo, who was a very good left back but had no chance against this fellow, and when he aimed for goal, the ball went straight past Davy's head as he leapt into the air  to header it out of the line of goal, leaving him with a crooked neck for days after that. I got ready to try and catch it; as it came flying towards me at such speed I thought it would send me right back into the tunnels, but I totally misjudged and it whizzed past me like a bullet and a goal was had! We lost that match 2-1 and at the end the Germans wanted to swap shirts, but our sergeant wouldn't let us.

    Nightfall came early and we prepared to retire to our trenches. I shook Walter's hand and he wished me luck. I remember he had the most sparkling blue eyes I had ever seen and his wide smile was genuine. 

     "Hey," he called to me as I went off on my way. I turned and he was still grinning. "I hope you get to marry after the war is over."

     "Thank you and I hope also that you get to be home when your son is born," I replied. 

     As we were all sitting in the trench that night eating the cold turkey dinner we had been supplied with, I could not help but feel sad as all around me the others were chatting away about the day and what a momentous occasion it had been. I thought about Walter and how if things had been different, we would have been friends - perhaps very good friends. I had liked him; he had a certain persona and I think he might have felt the same way. 

     Early next morning I awoke. The sun was just coming up and it looked like it might be a sunny morning. We could hear voices shouting and I figured it was the Germans and the English shouting good morning to each other. I climbed up in my squelching boots and poked my eyes over the parapet. I saw him, my friend, standing on the ground in front of his trench waving a greeting. He called my name - "Jimmy!" he was shouting. "Guten Morgen, Jimmy!"

     I laughed and waved back as my fellow comrades were also doing the same. It was good to see them, our new friends. It hadn't sunk in yet that soon we were going to start the killing again. Nonetheless we carried on the banter until suddenly, there was a loud shot. I heard it and then I saw Walter's body twist and fall forward onto the ground. He hadn't been wearing a helmet and it looked as if the shot had hit him in his head. 

      "Nooooooooooooooo!" I shouted, and I clambered over the sacks just as the Germans disappeared into their trenches. I had not realised it then, but a German sniper further down the line had shot one of our soldiers on sentry duty and his mate had come out for revenge. 

      Stupidly I began to run toward his lifeless body. At that moment, to me, he wasn't a German, a Fritz to be killed on sight. He wasn't the enemy. He was my friend and I wanted to comfort him like I would have done any friend who had been hurt. Luckily for me, two mad fools ran after me and dragged me back to the trenches as the Germans began returning fire. The truce was over and for me it had ended in the most soul-destroying manner. 

     The death of that German lad would be one of those memories that would haunt me for always, just as seeing Thommo, Carter, Foxy and a lot of others die in No Man's Land in that terrible war. Many things happened after that in those trenches, terrible monstrous things that I have never been able to speak about and probably never will. I have always preferred to recall the truce at Christmas 1914 and every Christmas I have told that story, of friendship and the respect for human life that we experienced on that day, to my children, my grandchildren and my great grandchildren. 

      I am an old man now; soon I will be dead, and it won't be long. I did get to marry after the war, but I will always remember that Walter never got to see his son born, nor did he see his family again, and that somewhere in Germany there would be a woman and two little girls weeping the loss of their husband and father. For me and mine, we were the lucky ones. Not so the thousands of men on both sides who lost their lives. 

So when you lift your glass on Christmas Day, remember the little peace we had in the midst of war and hold onto that in this stark world of hatred, war and genocide. If there is love and friendship we can rise above all that is evil.  

Lisl's Bits and Bobs: Review of Song of Australia

Song of Australia by Stephen Crabbe

Growing up as many of us did, learning in history classes of German aggression against others, Stephen Crabbe’s Song of Australia is a departure, moving away from this into the stories of Germans—specifically German-Australians—who suffered discrimination and abuse based on their ethnicity. Set in the state of South Australia during the Great War—a world war at that time not being numbered or perceived to need such label so as to differentiate from some other world war—the book is divided into three novellas, the interconnectedness of which is slowly revealed as the characters move through events that link back to each other.

Opening with “Magpies and Mendelssohn,” we see Neddy approaching a music hall from which come voices singing God Save the King, accompanied by piano. Though initially shooed away, he makes his way inside to warn Elsie Fischer, whose family later Anglicise their names, the better to fit in, of danger to her father. Misunderstood by many, Neddy is referred to as the “dull-witted child.” Indeed, he cannot communicate in typical fashion and uses his singing voice to reach Elsie.

[H]is voice utter[ed] a wordless succession of shrill cries. She gaped at him. His voice was so clear, so sure. It uttered just two notes and she could see them as if written. First a crotchet, then an accentuated minim; together making an interval of a rising augmented fifth. A call of alarm!

Crabbe’s flow of words here is somewhat deceptive because although the style seems fitted to approximate what many regard as the more “innocent” speech and perception patterns of the early 20^th century, it is brimming with symbolism. Perhaps autistic (the book never reveals exactly what disorder the child possibly experiences), Neddy does not express himself in a way most of the community can comprehend. Rather, he utilizes music to speak, deftly mimicking the magpies whose tree he shares and to whom he relates so closely. It is interesting to note that several websites give magpies symbolic meaning for such traits as being perceptive and expressive as well as deceptive and illusory—characteristics owned by those around Neddy depending upon their understanding of his search for a voice, a medium with which to communicate to others.

In search of voice also is the German community, many of whom are individuals born and raised in Australia but often treated like enemies. Elsie’s father, target of the xenophobic and threatening conversation Neddy had overheard, stifles his own voice while trying to show Elsie to seek her own, even during flight to the relative safety of the city, where they might better blend in.

The book’s other two novellas, “Song of Australia” and “The Parade,” develop in more detail the threat to Germans of Australia as we see Elsie and Edwin, a young man struggling with the contradictions between faith and war, develop a friendship that rewards as well as endangers. Attending language lessons together they become involved with Will Krause’s endeavors to find a place in Australia, itself seeking identification, all intertwined in Carl Linger’s “Song of Australia.”

Edwin, who hides his anti-war stance and Elsie her true background, work to develop a manner in which they might speak to the world, as would Australia, as “free and strong, but peaceful,” in defiance of their true circumstances, which force them into the silence of an illusory existence in which others perceive them not for who and what they are, but rather what their own deceptions perceive them to be.

As the individuals’ stories proceed and make connections, readers are given a greater understanding of the war mentality and how it drives otherwise peaceful citizens to harass some of their neighbors to such an extent that lives, careers and futures are destroyed. Using the language of music to convey some of his most lyrical passages, Crabbe guides readers through a story that matures, much like its characters, who themselves act almost as part of an opera, engaging us in the history of a young nation seeking its identity.

Stephen Crabbe can be reached at his Facebook author page as well as his blog, where he discusses writing, books, music, language and life.

The author has graciously offered a paperback copy of Song of Australia for one lucky winner! Simply comment below or on our Facebook thread for this review and you are entered~that’s all there is to it!

If you would like Lisl to review your book or conduct an interview, 

please see our submissions tab above. 

Sunday Wrap Up: Week ending March 9, 2014

Hello and welcome to our newest in a new series of weekly wrapping up of the week's worth of activity. This time round we have a gorgeous display of variety, what with Regency romance, historical fiction with focus on the Great War, fantasy and New Kingdom Egypt filling our pages. Very keen to explore a diversity of genres and topics, The Review Group welcomes author submissions for review; details can be found above at our submissions tab. 

Whether you are a returning or new reader, we welcome and encourage your comments, especially as many of our entries are accompanied by giveaways--and the best part is entry involves only commenting on the same blog as the review! Typically there is also a link for Facebook users. Wherever you comment, please ensure we will be able to contact you in the event you're our winner--we want our giveaways to go far and wide and see lots of winners! 

Relax and peruse the posts for the past week, feel free to comment, and enjoy the ride!

Jayne's love of Regency romance shines through in this review of a novel that opens with a tragedy resulting dire circumstances for our protagonist. A further tragedy leads to greater burden for Letty, who plans for the future to regain some of the past. Will it work out? Well, Letty will lead you to that answer, but Jayne states, "I have read many Regency romance books and this one compares favourably with the others. Letty is a character that I could empathise with and I admired her strength which comes over very well in the book." To see more of what Jayne says and information about the book, click right here. 

Currently there is a giveaway for a FREE copy of The Widow's Redeemer; please follow blog link above for details and to comment. 

First in a series, In Foreign Fields tells of two British officers sent during the Great War's Battle of Mons into enemy territory to complete secret missions. Stuart writes, "David Hough does a terrific job in recreating the image of a nation in ruins as the tide of war sweeps over it leaving destruction and grief in its wake. It is an old fashioned, edge of the seat page turner that holds your attention as Wendel and his friends finally reach the château and prepare to complete their mission. . .  as the book reaches it climatic finale where through the flames and smoke of a night of high drama and horror crimes are avenged and hopes for a fresh start are tantalisingly close." Hold onto your seat and click here for more details on this page turner that Stuart declares he shall follow as the series progresses. 

An exciting fantasy, Deep Echoes brings us further into the week with "a world unto itself. . . complete with annals, geographical features and. . . underlying threat." Well, if the story seems to come alive with that idea reaching out from its pages, your further interest is sure to be piqued by Anna's continuing description: "What follows is a nice combination of a coming-of-age story and a War of the Worlds scenario." And who doesn't want to grow up with their world at war and fighting to defend those whose rejection has placed them at the parameters of society? Fortunately for you, dear readers, and us as well, we can "live" (read: adventure) vicariously through the pages of the book--with hint of a sequel, so reviewer Anna confides--from the safety of our overstuffed chairs. 

Travel to ancient civilizations has also never been so easy! Margaret wraps up our week with a review for Richard Abbott's Scenes From a Life--which by the by entails a giveaway--as Makty-Rasut searches for his roots. Readers are likely to be drawn in by Abbott's progression of the tale, as Margaret elaborates on: "The structure of the book is also interesting – alternate chapters take us to Makty’s present and past – with the chapters in the present moving forwards, those in the past taking us progressively further back. If this sounds complicated, it isn’t. I found it an effective way of structuring the story and had no problem following the timeline." A sort of reverse linear, as it were, seems as if bit by bit the clues to who Makty is and the roots of underlying questions (his and our own) are answered, not unlike how they would be for Makty himself. Engaging indeed!

Currently there is a giveaway for a copy of Scenes From a Life; please follow blog link above for details and to comment. 

Missed last week's wrap up? Reader dear, never fear, click right here!