The War Game

by Terry Deary

  Albert nodded sadly. ‘I had the same trouble spelling when I was at school.’

  A ghostly silence fell over the silver scene again.

  Chapter 6

  Salutes and songs

  The men turned back to their tea. It tasted terrible but it warmed them.

  Captain Forsythe crunched through the iced mud of the trench and asked, ‘Everything all right, Corporal Embleton?’

  Charlie scrambled to his feet, snapped a salute and straightened his back. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Shouldn’t one of you be looking out? There could be Germans heading this way right at this moment!’

  ‘Sir!’ Charlie said and turned to look over the rim. ‘Cor, stone the crows!’ he gasped. ‘Look at that!’

  Albert and the officer joined him and looked across about a hundred paces. In the still evening air, about a hundred candles were flickering on a dozen fir trees that the Germans had raised above the trenches and planted in their half of No Man’s Land.

  Around each tree there were groups of five to ten German soldiers, sitting and talking. In the still evening air their voices drifted across.

  Albert called, ‘Merry Christmas, Fritz!’

  There was a short pause. Then a German voice replied, ‘Merry Christmas, Tommy!’

  ‘My name’s Albert!’ the young man shouted.

  ‘Come here!’ the German called. ‘We meet. We shake hands! You don’t shoot – we don’t shoot!’

  Albert began to scramble over the top but Captain Forsythe grabbed his belt and pulled him back.

  ‘It could be a trick.’

  ‘I never thought of that, sir.’

  ‘It’s a risk you should not take.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The German called again. ‘It is Christmas! We shake hands!’

  The young officer straightened his back. ‘I’ll go and see what they want. If they shoot me, kill every German you can see. Cover me with your rifles.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Captain Forsythe climbed into No Man’s Land. A German searchlight flooded the frozen desert of mud and made the officer shield his eyes. He slowly unbuckled his pistol belt and let it fall to the ground. British troops in the trenches to his right and left raised their heads to watch.

  One German stood up and walked out to meet him. The whole world seemed to hold its breath and even the face of the man in the moon froze.

  When the German officer met Captain Forsythe he saluted smartly. The young English soldier with the face of a startled schoolboy returned the salute. Then he stretched out a hand and the German grasped it.

  As they shook hands, a cheer broke out from the British trenches. It was answered by a cheer from the enemy.

  The German soldiers began singing Silent Night while the two men in the middle seemed to be having a long and friendly chat. When the carol was finished there was a silence in the night and a British soldier cried, ‘Can’t you sing It’s a long way to Tipperary?’

  ‘We will sing it for you, Tommy!’ a German replied and the night was filled with the curious sound of German troops roaring out a British marching song.

  One by one the British soldiers joined in. Albert forgot that he didn’t like the song. He could hardly sing for laughing.

  Chapter 7

  Pot-holed pitch

  As the German soldiers struggled to sing God Save the King, Captain Forsythe headed back to the British side and soldiers gathered round him. The officer was not much older than Private Albert Watson. His eyes were sparkling and his pale cheeks had pink spots in them.

  ‘I’ve spoken to their commander and agreed that we will have a truce for forty-eight hours. Neither side will fire till after Boxing Day.’

  The men cheered and Albert turned to Charlie Embleton. ‘That’s good news, Charlie.’

  The older man shook his head. ‘Never seen anything like it in twenty years. It never happened in the Boer War. Anyone who tried it would have been shot.’

  ‘By the Boers?’

  ‘No, by the British, you dummy! They can’t have people going round making friends with the enemy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, young feller, it would put us all out of a job.’ Charlie grinned. Then the grin faded. ‘Young Captain Forsythe is taking a bit of a chance, talking to the enemy like that. The generals won’t like it, you’ll see.’

  ‘The generals? They’re probably roasting a goose and steaming their Christmas puddings, miles away in a big warm house. What do they care?’ Albert asked.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  As Christmas Eve slipped into Christmas morning the singing began to fade. Charlie and Albert went to the rear trenches for some sleep and returned the next morning.

  Albert looked carefully over the top of the trench and saw a group of twenty Germans climb out with a football. They kicked it over the uneven ground and passed it to one another.

  ‘I was a good footballer,’ Albert said.

  ‘What? With legs like yours?’ Charlie scoffed. ‘Never!’

  ‘I was! I’ll bet I could teach those Germans a trick or two.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘You what?’

  Charlie climbed up to No Man’s Land and shouted across to the enemy, ‘Albert Watson here’s a star footballer. He says he could beat you with one foot tied behind his back!’

  The Germans laughed. ‘We are best football players in world!’

  Other sentries heard the cry and roared back, ‘Rubbish!’ More British soldiers climbed up onto the crackling mud, and someone said, ‘Eleven-a-side! Let’s see how good you are!’

  The Germans gathered into a group to choose their best eleven while the British troops did the same. Albert stood shyly in the group until Sergeant Carter pointed to him. ‘Best right-winger in the town until he joined up.’

  No one argued and Albert found himself stripping off his jacket and running onto the roughest pot-holed football pitch the world had ever seen. A German officer had a whistle and acted as referee and timekeeper.

  He blew and the match was under way.

  Chapter 8

  Shots and sweat

  For an hour there was no war.

  There was plenty of fight, though. Albert found that every time he ran forward with the ball he was kicked and tripped by a short, heavy German with a red face and thin, fair hair.

  After one tackle Albert was sure his ankle was broken. Only his heavy army boots saved him.

  His opponent booted the ball up the field, where the tall German officer hit it with a glancing header into the goal that was formed by rifles stuck in the hard earth.

  Charlie stood on the side-lines telling Albert how to play. ‘You can’t dribble on this ground. You keep losing the ball. One touch then boot it up for Sergeant Carter to head.’

  Albert was annoyed. ‘Could you do better?’ he asked.

  ‘I could,’ Charlie said. ‘But I might lose me teeth.’

  The longer the game went on, the slower the heavy German became. Albert was sweating in his woollen shirt in spite of the icy air. But his legs were as strong and quick as ever.

  ‘Five minutes to go!’ the referee cried.

  Captain Forsythe collected the ball from his goalkeeper and passed it to Sergeant Carter. A German ran at the sergeant but he bounced off the solid British shoulder.

  Sergeant Carter looked up and spotted Albert alone on the right wing. He kicked the ball towards him.

  The ball bounced and bobbled to Albert. He turned and saw his enemy charging towards him.

  The German’s boots skidded over the earth in a slide that would break Albert’s skinny legs. But Albert pushed the ball forward, jumped over the lunging German legs and raced towards the goal.

  He raised his boot and looked to shoot to the goalkeeper’s right.

  The goalkeeper dived to his right too soon. Albert had sold him a dummy. He coolly slid the ball to the man’s left and between the rifle-goalpost
s.

  The British soldiers cheered till their throats were raw and Albert had never felt so proud in his life.

  When the final whistle blew a few minutes later he was carried off the pitch on the shoulders of the happy British troops. The other players were shaking hands with their opponents.

  The British team dropped Albert at Charlie’s feet.

  ‘Lucky shot,’ Charlie said with a sniff. Albert just grinned.

  The young man jogged back to the pitch. Sergeant Carter was happy. Albert had never seen him look so pleased. ‘Well played, Watson. Cracking goal.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Lovely pass from you.’

  ‘Not bad. We could have won with a bit more luck.’

  Albert shook his head slowly. For the first time in his life, he argued with the sergeant. ‘A draw was the best result, sir. It’s Christmas.’

  Sergeant Carter wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘Aye, you’re probably right. Happy Christmas, lad.’

  As the sergeant walked away another figure walked towards Albert. The heavy, red-faced German scowled at him. Suddenly he stuck out a fat arm. ‘Shake hand, Englishman. Good played.’

  ‘Good played, Fritz.’ Albert grinned.

  The German allowed himself a small smile. It made him look much younger. Younger even than Albert. ‘Not Fritz. Hans. My name Hans.’

  ‘My name Albert. Good played, Hans.’

  ‘Good played, Albert.’

  They kept the handshake firm as they looked into one another’s eyes for half a minute or more.

  ‘Good shoot,’ Hans said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Albert replied and felt himself blushing.

  Suddenly the German’s eyes turned glassy and his face bleak. ‘Today shoot football. Tomorrow shoot guns.’

  Albert’s head dropped. ‘Aye.’

  When he looked up, Hans was marching back towards his trench. ‘Hans!’ Albert cried.

  The German stopped and turned.

  ‘Good luck,’ Albert said. He recited the words from his memory as if they were some magic charm. ‘May God protect you and bring you home safe.’

  Hans gave a brief nod. ‘You too, Albert. You too.’

  Chapter 9

  Truce trouble

  As Albert and Charlie sat in the still evening air drinking foul-tasting tea, Sergeant Carter appeared in the trench. ‘Right, you lot. On parade at base camp. The other half of the troop will take your place.’

  The soldiers bustled to collect their kit-bags and weapons and obey.

  ‘He looked serious,’ Albert said. The memory of the Sergeant’s warm arm around his shoulder that morning seemed like a dream.

  ‘It means trouble,’ Charlie said.

  When they arrived on the parade ground Captain Forsythe was waiting for them. ‘Stand at ease,’ he cried, his thin voice lost in the moon-grey clouds. ‘Now. General French has heard stories of soldiers having truces with their German enemies.’

  ‘That’s a disgrace,’ Sergeant Carter barked.

  ‘There are even stories of British soldiers playing football with the enemy.’

  ‘I can’t believe that, sir,’ Carter snapped.

  ‘I told the general that my men would never do such a thing. That football match never happened. If any man saw someone playing football with the enemy he must step forward now.’

  No one moved. At last Charlie Embleton stepped forward.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I did hear about that football game that never happened. I heard that a captain and a sergeant played for the British team.’

  Captain Forsythe turned to Sergeant Carter. ‘Have you ever heard such nonsense, Sergeant?’

  ‘Never, sir.’

  The captain nodded. ‘Do you have any toilets that need cleaning, sergeant?’

  ‘A couple of hundred, sir.’ The officers looked at Charlie.

  Captain Forsythe spoke. ‘So, Embleton. What did you hear about this football match?’

  Charlie sucked on his false teeth. ‘I heard it never happened, sir.’

  The Captain smiled. ‘Correct. Troop dismiss. And get a good night’s sleep.’ Then he said quietly, so that only Albert’s sharp ears heard the slow sad words, ‘Tomorrow we go to war.’

  Epilogue

  A Christmas truce, like the one in 1914, had been seen in many other wars. At first the British troops thought the German Christmas trees were a trick and shot them down. The Germans put them back up and the British stopped firing.

  There were many reports of football matches between the enemies. Some were organised and others were just friendly kick-abouts with a hundred men joining in.

  Some truces went on until New Year’s Day but most ended after Boxing Day. In one part of the trenches the British politely told the Germans, ‘We will start shooting again at nine o’clock.’ The Germans called back, ‘Then we’ll come over to your trenches – we’ll be safer!’ Many of the men found it hard to start fighting again. When their officers gave the order to shoot, the soldiers replied, ‘We can’t – they are good fellows and we can’t.’

  The officers replied, ‘If you don’t start firing then we will – and it won’t be at the Germans.’

  The German troops had the same problem. For several days the British and Germans fired at one another without trying to hit. A soldier wrote, ‘We spent that day and the next wasting ammunition in trying to shoot the stars from the sky.’

  The generals on both sides were furious when they heard about the Christmas truce. As the First World War grew more bitter, a Christmas truce like 1914 was never seen again.

  Text copyright © 2013 Terry Deary

  Cover illustration copyright © 2013 Chris Mould

  Illustrations copyright © 2013 James de la Rue

  This electronic edition published in August 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing

  First published 2013 by A & C Black

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square,

  London, WC1B 3DP

  www.bloomsbury.com

  All rights reserved

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  The rights of Terry Deary and James de la Rue to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  eISBN: 978-1-4081-9175-0 (e-book)

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