Excerpt from ’In Flanders Fields’ By Norman Jorgensen & Brian Harrison-Lever
From his shell hole a sniper lines the cross on his sights with the middle of the soldiers chest. He takes the slack from the trigger, but waits. The young soldier walks on, the white scarf hanging limply from the bayonet. Another sniper brings his sights onto the young mans face. The eyes and nose are red from the cold and the lingering gas of a recent attack. A machine-gunner pulls back the bolt from the side of his gun. But still the young soldier walks slowly forward, his boots crunching in the iced black mud of the frozen battlefield. Finally he reaches the wire. He puts down his rifle, and gently frees the bird. Raising the bird above his head, he lets it go. It flies towards the enemy lines, but crashes to the ground after a few meters, its wings beating feebly. The soldier walks forward and gently picks up the bird. He stands holding it tenderly in both hands, warming it against the chill. He is a solitary figure in the huge, desolate battle ground. More rifles are aimed at him. After a long time he again lifts up the bird and lets it go. This time it flies up and away. He whispers softly, ‘Merry Christmas, little bird’. A sniper whispers to himself, ‘Gluckliche Weihnact, Digger!’ and lowers his rifle. The young soldier turns back to his own lines and, forgetting his rifle and scarf, walks towards his trench.
And as he walks away, from the trenches behind him he can hear hoarse, lonely voices beginning to sing: Stille nacht, heilige nacht….Then, as he gets closer to his own trench, he hears the carol continue: all is calm, all is bright, Round yon virgin, mother and child, Holy Infant so tender and mild, Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep….
