Joyeux Noel - this movie needs some serious loving. This is just a short, little character study – rushed to get it in before Christmas (and I'm at a relative's who has just barely upgraded from dial-up Internet), so it's not quite as polished as I'd like and I don't have their voices down yet. But hopefully it's still enjoyable.
Pretty big spoilers for the movie, so read at your own risk. But if you haven't watched Joyeux Noel, you need to rectify that mistake immediately. = )
-First person POV from Scottish Lieutenant Gordon. No one is mentioned by name, because I don't think they ever actually introduce themselves to each other.
…
I knew exactly when I first started to like the German lieutenant. The first time I respected him was the first time I saw him – when he walked across no man's land to protect his soldier. That move of his motivated me; if he and the singer could step out there, maybe I could convince them to go a step further.
The two had been conversing quietly, but the lieutenant's eyes zeroed in on me as soon as I started walking towards them. He was younger than I'd expected. I easily could have a decade on him. Heck, his opera singer could even have a decade on him. That beard he sported was every young officer's way of trying to appear older. He was respectful, offering a salute as I walked up. Spoke English too, which was a relief. And even though he was surprised, the German had been open to my suggestion.
The French lieutenant had been wary of the truce. I could understand it of course, but I was determined to win a night of peace for my men. Ultimately, it was the German's reserved reassurance that persuaded him. And then the Frenchman had even made a conscious effort at civility by pouring the German lieutenant a cup of champagne first.
You'd think the moment he agreed to the truce was when I would start to like the German, or maybe when he tried to help me keep our awkward attempts at small talk going, but those weren't it.
And you think it would be the moment when he offered a second truce on Christmas Day – now that had come out of left field for me. That night had been peaceful and almost holy and maybe even a little miraculous, but war would resume, everyone knew that. But the next morning, after I had had to step out in the fog to rescue my own idiotic soldiers, the German had stepped out as well.
The morning's offer of burying the dead had then turned into an afternoon of camaraderie. We three officers had sat together and watched as our men swapped trinkets and food, played cards and even had a spirited game of football. We didn't talk much that afternoon, not as much as we had during those first tentative moments of the truce the night before, but we did cheer our own teams on. The German and the French officers occasionally – and inadvertently – shut me out of their conversation. Why? Because they were speaking French.
I tell you, I did not expect that German to know French. The way his head had snapped around when his opera singer had thanked the Frenchman with "merci" instead of "danke," you'd have thought he wouldn't be caught dead saying "croissant" much less holding entire conversations in the language.
And honestly, I don't think he ever intended to let us know he spoke French. Probably thought it was a good advantage to have. But something about where that Frenchman lived must have changed his mind, and now he and the French lieutenant conversed quite often in the tongue. I know only a couple of everyday words, so I can't truly say, but the German sounded quite fluent. As fluent as he was in English – quite the renaissance man.
And if I hadn't already liked the man, it would have certainly happened the next day. That morning after Christmas, when frantic soldiers summoned me to the front line: the German lieutenant was walking across no man's land. The truce was over – we had all been perfectly clear on that the afternoon before, when we ordered all our men back to their own trenches. But still, here he came. He didn't even carry a white flag- he occasionally put his hands up, showing he had no weapon, but that was it as he strode purposefully forward.
And he didn't stop in the middle; instead, he walked all the way to the French lines. But no one could summon the will to fire at him. My men were nervous, but even though I was shocked at the man's recklessness, I quickly ordered my men to stand down. I couldn't order them to kill him. The lieutenant asked a question to the French soldiers. There wasn't an answer, and not a single one of the rifles bearing down on him lowered, but the German continued to stand there, looking more and more unsure. But he didn't retreat.
Decision made, I stood up myself and began to walk over. I had no idea what this was about, but I couldn't shirk my responsibility – I'd started this bizarre relationship. By way of greeting, I asked if the French lieutenant was there. As the German turned to answer me, the Frenchman himself announced his presence - by yelling. I couldn't understand a word, but I could still hear the anger in the voice, obviously berating the German for breaking our agreement. Anger mixed with a little bit of fear – I knew he'd begun to like the German as well.
The German nodded, looking, if possible, even more nervous and younger than ever. But then he steeled himself and said something. The French side went completely silent. Not even the French lieutenant said anything in reply.
"What's this about?" I asked him as I came alongside the German. He looked at me for a moment, and then almost self-consciously he answered. And like I said, if I hadn't liked him already, there was no possible way to avoid that now.
But that wasn't when I first began to like him. No, that happened on Christmas Eve. As all our men walked towards each other to get acquainted, the singer who began all this stepped forward to escort a woman over to us. Yes, you heard me right, a woman. The Frenchman and I were struck dumb for a moment – we hadn't seen anything even remotely feminine in so long, and here the Germans had this beautiful, fairytale princess right in their midst.
Then I glanced at the German lieutenant – his eyes were closed and he took a little breath, and I just knew he was resisting the urge to throttle his opera singer. And that was the moment I started to like him. I felt a kinship with him, if you will. He had to battle with his reckless soldiers just like I did. Now, none of mine had been so foolish as to bring a woman to the frontlines, but still. I understood.
Two days later, I stood watching him and his men return to their trenches – this time for good. I knew I would probably never see him again. I watched the man who had doubtlessly saved so many lives that day, and I prayed for his safety. The first time in this miserable war that I had ever prayed for a German, but I tell you, I've never prayed so hard in my entire life as I did right then.
But I also prayed a prayer for me. I did not want to have to shoot at this man. We'd been friends for three days, and starting now, he was once again my enemy. Maybe in the newspapers and in the war rooms this made sense, but not here, not now. I might not be brave enough to walk over to him and betray my country, but I wouldn't be able to lift my rifle against him and his men again.
I pray he makes it through the war. I pray we all do.