Never Again

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.