James Riordan - War Games

Text copyright 2008 James Riordan
Illustrations copyright 2008 Jane Cope

First published 2008 by A & C Black
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square,
London, WC1B 3DP
www.bloomsbury.com

This electronic edition published in September 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing

White Wolves Series Consultant: Sue Ellis, Centre for Literacy in Primary Education

This book can be used in the White Wolves Guided Reading programme with children who have an average level of reading experience at Year 4 level

The rights of James Riordan and Jane Cope to be identified as author and illustrator of this work respectively have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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

eISBN: 978-1-4081-6338-2

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It was the clearest, most beautiful night of the year, as still and pure as Christmas should be. Christmas Eve, 1914. The first Christmas that 18-year-old Jack and Harry had spent away from home.

There was a war on. Some called it the Great War because it was the first time the whole world had gone to war. British soldiers had been sent to France to stop the Germans crossing the sea to England.

It was snowing. A thin, white sheet covered the naked earth of No Mans Land. No Mans Land was a good name: no man dared cross it. Those whod tried lay stiff and torn like twisted thorn trees. The earth was full of frosty water holes, used shells and barbed wire glinting in the winter sun.

At either end, half a football pitch apart, were trenches; deep enough for men to stand in without having their heads blown off; long enough to drag away the dead and wounded. Soldiers peered over the top, rifles at the ready, on the look-out for the enemy.

In one trench were the British in stiff, round hats, jackets, and trousers as brown as mud. In the other were Germans in uniforms of olive green. Both sides stood ankle-deep in water. Now and then, big, black rats sniffed their boots in search of food.

All at once, in the dark of evening, a strange sound drifted across No Mans Land. It was coming from the German trenches a sort of humming noise like a swarm of honeybees.

Harry turned to Jack. Listen. It sounds like a singsong.

The singing rose and dipped like a swallow in summer skies.

Silent Night, isnt it? said Jack.

He smiled in recognition. It reminded him of Sunday school when he was little. At Christmas, girls and boys would sing carols for the grown-ups.

It made him sad to think of home: Mum, Dad and the twins, Maisie and Daisie.

Lets give them a carol back, suggested Harry. How about Once in Royal Davids City?

Jack and Harry raised their voices, dum-dum-dumming to the words they forgot. Other soldiers took up the tune. When they ran out of words, there was a pause, before clapping came from the trenches opposite.

A German voice shouted, Bravo, Tommy!

Back bounced the Germans. A single bass voice sang out before a choir of male voices joined in with O, Come All Ye Faithful.

The British heard it through, then gave a cheer.

Very nice, Jerry!

Come on, boys, we can do better than that, shouted Sergeant Morris down the line. Lets teach them to sing Silent Night properly.

The sergeant had grown up in the coalfields of South Wales, singing in a chapel choir. His deep voice cut through the still, silent night. Then English and German voices took up the song. And the two choirs, friend and foe, sang together. First sweet and low, then climbing up to the starry skies.

In the hush that followed, no man dared break the magic spell. For a few minutes, there was deathly silence.

Then, all at once, a German voice rang out:

Hey, Tommy, Merry Christmas!

On both sides, voices took up the cry.

Happy Christmas!

Frhliche Weihnachten!

Then loud cheering and clapping. The grim space of No Mans Land was full of friendship and goodwill to all men, Tommy and Jerry alike.

In the darkness, a German voice cut through the frosty air.

Hey, Englisher! What about a bit of peace at Christmas? No more shooting, ja?

For a while, the British trenches fell silent. Since the officers had gone to Christmas dinner behind the lines, there was no one in charge. What were they to do? The Germans were the enemy, after all.

Then the loud voice of Sergeant Morris rang out: Right, Ill take over. OK, boys?

The roar that met his shout expressed the feelings of men at war. Soldiers had made themselves heard above the guns on both sides of the front.

To the Germans, Sergeant Morris shouted out, Fine with us. No firing at Christmas. You have my word.

At that, more songs were sung. A German played a tune on his mouth organ before voices took up the chorus: O, Tannenbaum.

As the song died away, a Scottish soldier in a tartan kilt stood on the bank and played the bagpipes. Goodness knows what the Germans made of that. But the Scot got the biggest cheer of the night, from both sets of trenches.

Jacks thoughts turned again to home. He wondered if Maisie had received his last letter. The one where he reminded her to feed his rabbits. They like dandelion and dock leaves best, hed said. Dont forget to give them clean straw once a week.