Chapter 1 Thursday night, December 24, 1914

German army Unteroffizer Heinrich Strassenbucher stared into the evening sky. The former Munich legal office clerk smiled, for he just caught a shooting star burning up in the atmosphere.

Strassenbucher supposed he had always been a buff stargazer. Long before this war began, the now twenty-six-year-old had been fascinated with the stars. As a child he loved to read translations of the French author Jules Verne. He supposed that started it, as did growing up in a family with money and having an astronomer father who worked at the University of Jena observatory. He recalled visiting that place in his youth when his father and the other scientists would allow him to clamber up the steps at night to the observation deck. There he would take a peek through the sophisticated optics, his vivid imagination contemplating life on other worlds and even the possibility of his becoming a space traveler one day. That would indeed be something!

But for now his memories were set aside as bleary eyes shifted to a different eyepiece. This one was the spiegelkolben attached to a Gewehr 98 rifle. The periscope-type contraption allowed him to look for any signs of activity from the British from within his own trench and take a pot shot at them unobserved. Still, even with a near-daylight bright moon at 2345 hours it was hard to see anything through that high-powered device on this clear but cold Thursday night. His tired eyes were failing him but keen ears nonetheless noted the jeers wafting from those opposing trenches not too far away, the same worn-out jests about Kaiser Wilhelm II and what he was doing to the 'arse' of somebody's mother.

Strassenbucher returned the modified 7.92 x 57 mm Mauser rifle with the 'rabbit ears' spotting device to Gefrieter Berthold Schmidt, the company sniper. He gave his skinny comrade a poke in the ribs with his elbow just to make sure he was awake.

"Es sieht aus wie die Briten sind ruhig heute abend, Berthold. Muss Weihnachten sein."

Schmidt grabbed the offered weapon and smiled a dirty grin, picking a few lice off his uniform in the process. True, it was too quiet, even for Christmas Eve. He whispered back in concurrence, adding that they had no artillery support tonight.

"Es ist zu ruhig. Es gefällt mir nicht. Und wir keine artillerie unterstützung haben. Keine beleuchtung."

A barely eighteen-year-old from Oberammergau with an elementary school education, Schmidt did not trust the enemy who was no more than 500 meters away. Although delighted to have an apparent lull in the fighting on Christmas Eve, he knew that any quiet period on this battlefield near the West Flanders Belgian community of Ypres was deceiving and potentially lethal. The deep crease in his helmet from a British .303 bullet had made that perfectly clear.

This bloody war in France had only been going on since August but far too many of Schmidt's comrades' were dead. British snipers, artillery, and machinegun fire took many of them while on patrol in 'No Man's Land.' After several weeks their rotting bodies still lay unburied about thirty meters to his front. But his keen eye and expertise at hunting meant that he had bagged a few of those Limey bastards himself, most of their corpses lying near his comrades in the half-frozen mud or caught in the tangled barbed wire.

Strassenbucher had listened to his comrade carefully and nodded his agreement with Schmidt's assessment of the situation. Now his eyes once again nervously scanned the darkness for any sign of movement. Yes, it was far too quiet, Christmas Eve or not. Artillery support would be nice, if things heated up tonight. Maybe their platoon leader could convince the company commander to ask for on-call fire support, just in case.

Satisfied that nothing of note was happening at least for now, the German non-commissioned officer removed his own coal bucket-shaped helmet. He scratched his greasy and matted hair then reached into his pocket for his trench pipe, the one with the light-diminishing spark arrestor. After lighting up, he placed a finger upon one nostril and blew his nose, ejecting the snot with some force. He was happy to have missed his crusty sleeve this time.

He had no sooner replaced his headgear and took a drag when something odd occurred down the trench line by the command bunker just to his north. As he looked on in horror, his platoon leader, Oberleutnant Reynard Krauss, was being incredibly stupid. Krauss had crawled up on top of the trench sandbags right behind the barbed wire and stuck a tree, a Christmas tree, in the ground! And now he was lighting attached lantern candles and singing out loud, violating his own rules regarding noise and light discipline. The twenty-five-year-old Krauss, who as a civilian had distinguished himself with the Staatsoper Unter den Linden or the Berlin State Opera, now stood fully exposed to enemy fire.

The damned fool!, thought Strassenbucher. He quickly moved his stiff and tired body towards the officer to tackle him but it was too late. That magnificent soprano voice was already unleashed. Loud and clear, the officer's voice shattered the stillness that hung over the battlefield.

"Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht! Alles schläft; einsam wacht. Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar. Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar. Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh! Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!"

The officer paused, his eyes closed in silent prayer as he anticipated his head being separated from his torso. Then from the opposing trench came the reply, not in bullets but in kind.

"Silent Night, Holy Night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin, Mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace! Sleep in heavenly peace!"

Strassenbucher crossed himself as he fondled his rosary crucifix, his Bavarian eyes staring at the scene in disbelief. That idiot lieutenant of his was still alive! But what shocked the German soldier even more was what he now observed coming through the moonlight. A long line of singing, candle-bearing British soldiers were leaving their trenches unarmed to slowly walk around the shell craters and the bodies of bloated and decaying horses and men. They carefully picked their way through the destroyed landscape while carrying white flags and shovels for a burial detail.

But there was more to this impromptu parade. Those same soldiers were about to share their tins of bully beef, a few bottles of confiscated French wine, bread of some sorts, and so many other items. And one young man had a football! A round, leather football for an impromptu match when it became daylight!

To Strassenbucher's amazement, his comrades had also put aside their weapons and rose up out of their positions to walk forward. They carried gifts of bottles of champagne and schnapps, meats and vegetables, and spare clean socks and warm gloves. The company cooking detail brought out a large soup kettle filled to the brim with steaming chicken and potato soup. Another large caldron contained mulled wine and yet another, coffee. Several dozen chocolate kuken also appeared along with other items that had arrived fresh a day or so ago from anxious families in the Fatherland waiting for news of their loved ones.

The two sides were intermingling now, hugging each other and singing that Christmas carol together with one voice. Although enemy combatants, they were remembering that even with all of the death and pain that surrounded them, they were so much more than comrades-in-arms on opposing sides. They were men, men so far from home who would be slaughtering each other once more within the week.

But not tonight. Not on this Holiest of nights. Across much of the Western front in late-December 1914, there would be a Christmas truce.

Strassenbucher, a Bavarian Catholic from birth, did not necessarily believe in miracles. But now he was convinced that he had just witnessed one. Turning to Schmidt, he mumbled if something like this would even be possible again in this conflict or any future war.

"Ich frage mich, Schmidt, ob sich irgendjemand irgendwann erinnern wird, was hier passiert ist? Ich frage mich, ob andere Soldaten jemals erleben werden, was wir jetzt sehen?"

For his part, Schmidt could only shrug his shoulders and smile, his mouth stuffed full of French bread and wine. Taking a moment as he munched, he stared upwards at the stars.

His comrade's questions came to mind. He had often heard Strassenbucher describe the Milky Way galaxy and listened to his crazy dreams of space travel and alien races. But being at war now gave those rants a different twist. Schmidt considered that if life did exist on other worlds, two warring sides may be slaughtering each other right now. And maybe, just maybe, they would also find a reason for one brief moment to stop killing each other.

The thought pleased him but also passed, for he turned to accept a handshake and a plug of tobacco from a dirty but smiling British corporal. And a greeting.

"Merry Christmas, Mate."