It is amazing to think that a few veterans of the first World War still provide a living link to the war that provided the blueprint for the bloody twentieth century. Naked aggression and empire-building, chemical warfare and ethnic holocaust and official lies, deceit and stupid propaganda all marked that war, which left millions dead in its wake and the world’s people and governments vowing – briefly – never to do it again, only to do it again and again. Armistice Day – which marks the end of that war – was soon enough re-christened “Veteran’s Day” to honor the bravery of all the poor kids who fought in the bloody wars that followed the war to end all wars.
It is ancient history, but, conversely, still a living history and we would do well to heed certain lessons. Before he died today, Alfred Anderson was the last man left alive in this world who participated in the unofficial Christmas Truce of 1914, where French, British and German soldiers embraced in No Man’s Land, exchanged pictures from home, sang carols and even played a game of soccer.
Queen Victoria’s grandchildren had only that summer quashed any concerns about their inconvenient lineage in order to drum up nationalist fervor to recruit cannon fodder for their imperialist war mongering. Predictions of speedy victory, as is their wont, resulted in protracted stalemate, as the warring sides dug in for trench warfare in the French countryside. The trenches of December 1914 were not the elaborate network of tunnels and bunkers depicted in films like “Paths of Glory” and “A Very Long Engagement.” Those came later. These were shallow holes dug in bloody mud. It was likely as miserable an experience as a man could ever expect, and it’s hardly a surprise that the men could not muster enthusiasm to go on killing on that Christmas eve.
Gunfire was so sporadic, the air so quiet, and with only a few hundred feet between them the soldiers could at last hear each other’s voices. In their rusty second languages, soldiers called out to each other. They wished each other happy holidays. They talked about their families and girlfriends back home. Finally, they told each other, “we won’t shoot if you won’t” and all came up out of their putrid holes and met in between.
This story is something of a pacifist fairy tale, although it is true. It confirms our hopes about man’s better nature. How can a man swear another man is his enemy and must die because he wears a different uniform, after he has met him and discussed his family and life with him?
The same thing that gives us hope terrified the generals, who forbade the continuation of the truce and punished participants. Soon the fighting resumed, escalated and dragged on for four more years. Future truces would be officially sanctioned breaks to collect the dead from No Man’s Land and re-dig trenches after territory shifts.
I wonder if Alfred Anderson preferred the tributes of Veteran’s Day to the mourning of Armistice Day. Interviewed for this past November 11, he gave a hint: “I felt so guilty meeting the families of friends who were lost. They looked at me as if I should have been left in the mud of France instead of their loved one. I couldn’t blame them, they were grieving, and I still share their grief and bear that feeling of guilt.”