Christmas Truce

Beaurains Road War Cemetery near Arras.

After the 19th December attack, we were back in the same trenches when Christmas Day came along. It was a terrible winter, everything was covered in snow, everything was white. The devastated landscape looked terrible in its true colours — clay and mud and broken brick — but when it was covered in snow it was beautiful. Then we heard the Germans singing 'Silent Night, Holy Night', and they put up a notice saying ‘Merry Christmas’, and so we put one up too.

While they were singing our boys said, ‘Let’s join in,’ so we joined in and when we started singing, they stopped. And when we stopped, they started again. So we were easing the way. Then one German took a chance and jumped up on top of the trench and shouted out, ‘Happy Christmas, Tommy!’ So of course our boys said, ‘If he can do it, we can do it,’ and we all jumped up. A sergeant-major shouted ‘Get down!’ But we said, ‘Shut up Sergeant, it’s Christmas time!’ And we all went forward to the barbed wire.

We could barely reach through the wire, because the barbed wire was not just one fence, it was two or three fences together, with a wire in between. And so we just shook hands and I had the experience of talking to one German who said to me, ‘Do you know where the Essex Road in London is?’ I replied, ‘Yes, my uncles had a shoe repairing shop there.’ He said, ‘That’s funny. There’s a barber shop on the other side where I used to work.’

They could all speak very good English because before the war, Britain was invaded by Germans. Every pork butcher was German, every barber’s shop was German, and they were all over here getting the low-down on the country. It’s ironic when you think about it, that he must have shaved my uncle at times and yet my bullet might have found him and his bullet might have found me.

PRIVATE FRANK SUMTER London Rifle Brigade

Day 6: Arras To Riencourt-Lès-Bapaume

For the next ten days or so I would walk through French Flanders, Picardy and Champagne, and would cross the rivers of the Somme, the Aisne and the Marne. I would see signposts to places such as Vimy, St Quentin and Verdun. For I was walking through the very heart of north-east France and the battlefield areas of World War One. It was a sobering experience. Of course, I happened to be there for the centenary of the outbreak of war on 4 August 1914. This picture was taken in the Beaurains Road Cemetery on the southern outskirts of Arras — I passed many War Grave cemeteries on this part of the route. It was designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens and is maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, whose website states: 'We commemorate the 1,700,000 men and women of the Commonwealth forces who died in the two world wars. Our cemeteries, burial plots and memorials are a lasting tribute to those who died in some 153 countries across the world.'

  

The cemetery register in Beaurains Road Cemetery.

Some cemeteries are huge, and stretch for several square miles. Others are small plots in the middle of nowhere — often on the site of field hospitals where the dead were buried as they fell.

I have no words to capture the poignancy of this.

And war still goes on every day — in Gaza, in Iraq, in Ukraine. Good God, I have no words. Only silent prayers.

The countryside I crossed was fittingly bleak: flat, treeless farmland of wheat and potatoes, sugar beet and maize. The only verticals were wind turbines (aeoliennes in French — much nicer), water towers (châteaux d'eau — water castles!) and the grey, pointed spires of distant churches. A cloudy sky loured above me. There was no accommodation in Bapaume: the priest was on holiday, and I was told I could not sleep on the floor of the church hall without his consent. All the hotels were either closed or full. Even the gypsies on the town green seemed reluctant to let me pitch my tent with them. So I left Bapaume with relief. I had a bad feeling about the place. But I knew something else would turn up.

It was an hour and a half later, and early evening, and I was eating some bread and cheese on the cemetery steps in the tiny village of Riencourt-lès-Bapaume. A car drew up and a man got out with a key to lock the chapel for the night. He introduced himself as the mayor of the village. He seemed friendly enough, so I began my story: I was a pilgrim walking to Rome, I'd found no lodgings in the previous town, did he know anywhere I could pitch my tent? He thought for a few seconds, then announced: 'You can camp here! In the graveyard! There's a lovely patch of grass in the corner, and a tap, and, look, you can have this chair from inside the chapel, and a table too if you want . . .' He then took me on a guided tour, showing me his own family's tombstones, and, pointing to one blank slab at the end of the line, winked and said: 'This one's reserved for me!' If you look hard you can just spot my tent in the centre of the photo . . .  

. . . and here it is closer up, complete with chair. I had a peaceful night, disturbed by no one, not even the graveyard ghosts . . .