My name is Francis Toliver, I come from Liverpool. Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school. From Flanders on to Belgium, Germany to here... I have fought for King and country I love dear.
T'was Christmas in the trenches and the frost so bitter hung. The frozen fields of France were still, no songs of peace were sung. Our families back in England were toasting us that day... their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my mess-mates on the cold and rocky ground, when across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound. Says I, "Listen up my boys" each soldier strained to hear... as one young German voice sang out so clear.
"He's singing bloody well, ya know" my partner says to me. Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony. The cannons rested silent and the gas clouds rolled no more, as Christmas brought us respite from the war.
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen struck up some lads from Kent. The next they sang was Stille Nacht, 'tis Silent Night says I, in two tongues one song filled up that sky.
There's someone coming towards us now! A front line century cried. All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side. His truce flag, like a Christmas start shown on the plane so bright, as he bravely trudged unarmed into the night.
Soon one by one from either side strolled into no-man's land. With neither gun or bayonet, we met there hand to hand. We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well, and in a flair-lit football game, we game 'em hell.
We traded chocolates and cigarettes and photographs from home; these sons and fathers far away from families of their own. Tom Sander's played the squeeze box and they had a violin; this curious sand unlikely band of men.
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more. With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war. But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night, who's family have fixed within my sights?
My name is Francis Toliver, in Liverpool I dwell. Each Christmas comes since World War One, I've learned it's lesson well. For 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.
--John McCutcheon