The night was like a heavy black velvet cloth, pressing down heavily on the wasteland that had been plowed over countless times by artillery fire.
Snowflakes were still falling, but at this moment, even the biting cold wind seemed to have become a bit gentler.
In the observation post located on the foremost firing platform, a Saxon soldier sniffed the air.
The scent drilling into his nostrils was no longer the nauseating stench of rotting corpses, but an extremely enticing aroma of meat.
“It’s here!”
Following the clattering of tableware coming from the communication trench behind, several comrades responsible for delivering food ran over hunched down.
The mess tins in their hands were somewhat scalding, but no one was willing to let go.
The soldiers in the observation post took the heavy aluminum mess tins. As the ones staying behind on the firing platform tonight, they were the first to enjoy the freshly cooked beef stew.
The soldier took a look inside by the faint candlelight. Good heavens, it wasn’t the usual clear, watery soup where you could see your reflection…
It was a full tin of tenderly stewed beef, floating with a thick layer of golden grease, dotted with pieces of carrots and onions, emitting a piping hot steam that made people swallow their saliva frantically.
“Eat it while it’s hot, there’s more coming.”
The soldier delivering the food stuffed a small bottle of gin into Hans’s hand and grinned, revealing two rows of teeth yellowed by tobacco.
“These were all distributed to the trenches by order of Lieutenant Colonel Morin. He said there’s enough for everyone tonight.”
The soldier in the observation post didn’t even bother to reply. He grabbed a spoon with his dirty hand, scooped up a large bite, and stuffed it into his mouth.
The piping hot meat juice exploded in his mouth. That fulfilling sense of satisfaction slid down his esophagus all the way into his stomach, making him almost groan in comfort.
At this moment, the war and death were all thrown to the back of his mind by this mouthful of beef stew.
In the main part of the trench, the area originally used to stack ammunition boxes had been cleared out.
Several long tables pieced together with wooden boards were crooked, but the white sackcloth laid on them was washed very clean.
The soldiers sat on both sides with a great sense of ceremony, everyone’s face reflecting the warm glow of candlelight.
Fragrant fried sausages were cut into neat small sections, and roasted pork knuckles, which usually only officers could eat, were also chopped up and placed on several plates.
That fat cook with mediocre culinary skills even made some very “authentic” sauerkraut as a side dish.
Morin sat near the middle of one of the long tables. Looking at the young faces gorging themselves around him, the tension in his heart finally relaxed completely.
At the same time, on the other side, a hundred and twenty meters away.
Although there were no Christmas trees in the Britannian trenches, nor luxurious supplies sent from the rear, the atmosphere tonight was equally lively.
Next to this unit belonging to the North American Colony Legion, a battalion of Scottish Highland Infantry had just rotated in today.
These tough guys wearing kilts and exposing hairy thighs in the cold wind were obviously much richer than those “country bumpkins” from the colonies.
“Hey, try this.”
A Scottish Sergeant Major with a large red beard generously tossed several heavy tin cans to the fireside of the North American Legion.
“Corned beef just shipped from the mainland. The production date is last month, definitely not leftover stock from the Boer War…”
The eyes of the several North American soldiers gathered around the fire went straight.
The hardtack in their hands and those few long-expired cans were simply trash in front of these boxes of fresh beef.
“Thanks, mate!”
A freckle-faced North American soldier scrambled to pry open the can, dug out a large chunk, stuffed it into his mouth, and mumbled indistinctly: “God bless Scotland!”
One look and you could tell he hadn’t eaten much good food before…
The two units with different designations, from different regions, and even completely different accents, quickly became acquainted because of this rare dinner.
The Scots brought out their private stash of whiskey, while the North American colonial soldiers shared the dried tobacco leaves and maple syrup they brought from their hometowns.
Just as everyone was drinking and chatting happily, almost ready to throw a party in this mud pit, an untimely voice broke the mood.
“Um… excuse me.”
A messenger ran over hunched down, standing somewhat awkwardly at the entrance of the communication trench.
Looking at the soldiers in high spirits, he braced himself and said: “Order just down from the headquarters… Tonight’s night reconnaissance mission cannot be canceled. We need… need someone to go over and take a look. The higher-ups are worried the Saxons might launch a sneak attack tonight.”
The originally enthusiastic atmosphere instantly dropped to the freezing point.
A Scottish soldier holding a whiskey bottle spat hard on the ground: “Those stupid pigs sitting in the rear drinking red wine! Today is Christmas Eve! Will the Saxons crawl over and bite our asses tonight?”
“Exactly! If they want to go, let them go themselves!”
“To hell with a sneak attack. The other side even lit candles. Those Saxon barbarians are probably drinking so much they can’t walk straight right now. What sneak attack!”
Complaints rose one after another. The messenger’s face flushed red, but he was helpless.
Military orders were like mountains. If no one went, the entire company would be punished.
“Alright, stop arguing.”
A slightly aged voice came from the corner.
A North American Legion soldier who looked to be in his forties, with graying hair at his temples, stood up.
He patted the dirt off his pants, swallowed his last bite of beef, and wiped the grease from the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll go.”
The veteran slung his rifle over his back, his tone as flat as if he were saying he was going next door to borrow a light.
“I can go alone. Small target, not easily discovered… You young pups stay here and enjoy the holiday.”
“Uncle Jack…” A young soldier next to him tried to stop him.
“Shut up, eat your canned food.”
The surroundings quieted down.
The messenger breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the veteran gratefully: “Corporal, just take a walk around the middle zone. You don’t need to go too deep.”
The veteran nodded, said nothing more, and skillfully vaulted out of the trench.
His figure quickly disappeared into the vast night and snow, leaving only a shallow drag mark on the muddy ground.
The freezing mud instantly soaked through his clothes, but he didn’t care.
Like an old lizard on the American wasteland, he stuck to the ground, squirming bit by bit towards that dark death zone.
On the Saxon side, dinner was coming to an end, but the Christmas Eve celebrations had just begun.
As Morin’s batch of “private gifts” was distributed, the atmosphere in the trench reached a climax.
Those soldiers who usually had to share even a cigarette butt among several people were now holding high-grade cigarettes with filters.
Amidst the puffs of smoke, they felt as if they had become gentlemen on the streets of Dresden.
Large bars of chocolate that would only appear in the display cases of high-end stores were broken into pieces. Even the veterans who disliked sweets the most couldn’t help but hold a piece in their mouths.
Then they let that silky sweetness melt on the tip of their tongues, diluting the lingering smell of blood in their mouths.
“To Lieutenant Colonel Morin!”
Someone took the lead and shouted, and then countless arms holding cups, mess tins, or even empty cans were raised high.
“To all you brave men!”
Morin smiled, raised the canteen in his hand, and drank it all in one gulp.
Alcohol completely opened people’s chatterboxes.
The veterans of the First Battalion of the instruction unit became the focus of the whole venue at this moment.
A veteran who had participated in the “Liège Fortress airborne assault operation” was now sitting on an ammunition box, holding a cigarette, spitting as he boasted to the soldiers of other companies around him.
“…At that time, in the fortress’s magic hub, that Flanders mage was right under my nose! Really, only two meters away! I could count the freckles on his face!”
The instruction unit veteran gestured, his face flushed red, as if returning to that thrilling night.
“I thought I was going to perish together with this mage, but Lieutenant Colonel Morin just lifted his hand lightly, and all the mage’s spell attacks were blocked by the Lieutenant Colonel’s shield!”
The surrounding soldiers listened in awe, their eyes full of worship.
“Real or fake? The Lieutenant Colonel also knows magic?”
“Nonsense! That’s the only mage officer in our Saxony!”
The veteran proudly pointed to the brand-new Air Assault Medal on his chest, as well as the Liège Fortress Campaign Commemorative Medal on his arm, and continued: “Fighting under such a commander is what you call exhilarating!”
This warm and lively atmosphere was like a protective cover, temporarily isolating the cruel war outside.
Just then, a crisp tapping sound rang out, and the originally noisy crowd gradually quieted down.
A tall, thin soldier stood on the firing platform.
He was Sprink, a former tenor substitute at a certain opera house in Dresden before enlisting.
Although rolling around on the battlefield for a few months had almost completely worn away his artist temperament.
But standing on the firing platform at this moment, he still subconsciously straightened his back and adjusted the collar of his oil-stained uniform.
“Everyone,”
Sprink cleared his throat. Although his voice was somewhat hoarse, it still had a professional texture.
“Tonight is Christmas Eve, and I want to… sing a song for everyone.”
No one jeered, and no one mocked.
Everyone looked at him quietly.
Sprink closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if returning to the stage once again.
“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht… (Silent night, holy night…)”
The moment the first line of lyrics came out, that clear and powerful tenor voice seemed to possess some kind of penetrating power, instantly piercing through the turbid air and echoing in the long, narrow trench.
Mouths that were still secretly chewing food stopped, and hands holding wine glasses froze in mid-air.
“Alles schläft, einsam wacht… (All is calm, all is bright…)”
Sprink’s singing wasn’t impassioned; it was like a gentle hand softly stroking the rough soul of every soldier.
Morin leaned against the earth wall, looking at those soldiers whose eyes gradually reddened—
Some lowered their heads, some took out photos of their families from their pockets, and some simply turned their backs, their shoulders twitching slightly.
In this land of only slaughter, this song, sung on every Christmas Eve, became the only bridge connecting life and death, hometown and battlefield.
At this time, the wind and snow outside seemed to lessen a bit.
Sprink’s singing wasn’t confined by the trench. It followed the wind, drifting over the barbed wire, over the craters, and over the hundred and twenty meters of the death zone.
On the Britannian position, the Scots and North American soldiers who were sharing food and drinks also stopped their movements.
They turned their ears, quietly listening to this singing from the enemy.
The language might be a barrier, but the longing and peace contained in this melody was a universal language of all humanity.
In the middle of the no-man’s land, Uncle Jack, who was lying in the freezing muddy water, inching forward little by little, also stopped moving.
He pressed his face against the frozen mud, the white breath he exhaled condensing before his eyes.
He thought of his daughter across the ocean, thought of the fir tree covered in colored lights at home every Christmas.
A drop of murky old tear slid down the corner of his wrinkled eye and dripped into the mud.
The entire battlefield fell into a sacred silence at this moment.
Only that singing from the enemy echoed lonely in the night sky.
“Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh… (Sleep in heavenly peace…)”
In the Saxon trench, Sprink finished the first verse.
Out of habit, he paused during the interlude part, waiting for the non-existent orchestra to cut in.
These few seconds of blankness felt exceptionally quiet.
Suddenly, a burst of applause broke the silence.
It was heartfelt, enthusiastic applause.
Immediately after, a few loud whistles sounded from the crowd.
Sprink was stunned for a moment.
As a rigorous classical musician, if someone had whistled during his performance in the past, he would definitely have considered it a blasphemy against art and would have left the stage in anger.
But at this moment, looking at the sincere eyes of the comrades around him, and listening to those rude yet passionate whistles, he suddenly felt that this might be the highest praise he had ever received in his life.
Ten thousand times more precious than the applause of those nobles sitting in the box seats, pretending to appreciate while holding monoculars.
He smiled and bowed all around, his posture impeccably standard.
Just as he took a deep breath, preparing to sing the second verse…
A strange sound came from the opposite side.
“Woo—Woo—”
It was the low hum of a bag being filled with air, followed by a high-pitched, resonant instrument sound that pierced the night sky.
In the trench 120 meters away, a bagpiper wearing a kilt stood on the firing platform.
He puffed out his cheeks, his fingers dancing rapidly on the chanter.
The tune being played was precisely Stille Nacht.