THE CHRISTMAS TRUCE

Ron died today. Roger too. Jeff died two days ago maybe, I don't really remember.
The general wants us to channel our hate against the Germans and avenge our brothers. But he's not the one stuck in a trench with their bodies. He can't see them slowly turning into what they always were in his eyes -- dirt.
Ron stepped on a mine. Roger's grenade exploded in his hand. Jeff shot himself in the face.
Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Who do you blame for this? God? Why would God let anyone get killed like this? Today of all days?
It's Christmas Eve and I'm trying to shoot a person in the head.
Christmas in London had always been a fond memory to me. Every year on Christmas Eve everyone in my neighbourhood would take a handful of snow from the front of their houses and build a huge snowman in the middle of the street. I would be in charge on finding the most perfect twigs to use as his arms, and I'll be damned if they weren't the best twigs ever. On Christmas day, my mother would take me to the local market to see the fireworks. Red and green and silver lights filled the sky, the sound of the carolers drowned out everything else, the air smelled like sugar and honey. The only thing I didn't like about Christmas was the cold.
Cold is all you feel in the trenches.
When you've been stuck here as long as I have, the hate, anger, sorrow and grief - they all vanish. All you're left to feel is numb. When you're done feeling numb you feel cold.
Hans and I have been shooting at each other for three days now. I gave him that name. It was the most German-sounding name I could think of. To me Hans is more than just a grey speck in the distance, he is a person. But in this war we aren't people, we're soldiers, and soldiers shoot at the enemy. We've silently decided to shoot each other in the head, so that at least one of us gets a quick end to all this suffering. For three days we've been trying. For three days we've missed every shot. I can't decide if God is being cruel or merciful.
Maybe Hans has a family back in Germany. Maybe he has memories of a white Christmas just like me, caroling in the streets of Berlin, opening presents under a tree, absorbing the warmth of the day. Maybe he has a name for me too.
Hans is now holding up a white cloth at my direction. It has writing on it, written in black paint. I can barely make out the words at first, but the binoculars help me read it. “Nicht Heute”
I put down my rifle. I don't need to know German to understand what it means. “Not Today.”