The Christmas Truce by Carol Ann Duffy

This isn’t a book review – thought I’d change things up a bit, as it’s Christmas. Carol Ann Duffy is one of my favourite poets, and a couple of years ago my Mum brought me this little illustrated book as a festive stocking filler. It’s since become one of my favourite poems, and, although it’s quite lengthy, I thought I’d type it up for you all to have a read of this Christmas; because, to me, it really seems to capture the spirit of Christmas. 

“Christmas Eve in the trenches of France,

the guns were quiet.

The dead lay still in No Man’s Land – 

Freddie, Franz, Friedrich, Frank…

The moon, like a medal, hung in the clear, cold sky.


Silver frost on barbed wire, strange tinsel,

sparkled and winked.

A boy from Stroud stared at a star

to meet his mother’s eyesight there.

An owl swooped on a rat on the glove of a corpse.


In a copse of trees behind the lines,

a lone bird sang.

A soldier-poet noted it down – a robin

holding his winter ground – 

then silence spread and touched each man like a hand.


Somebody kissed the gold of his ring,

a few lit pipes; 

most, in their greatcoats, huddled,

waiting for sleep.

The liquid mud had hardened at last in the freeze.


But it was Christmas Eve; believe, belief

thrilled the night air,

where glittering rime on unburied sons

treasured their stiff hair.

The sharp, clean, midwinter smell held memory.


On watch, a rifleman scoured the terrain – 

no sign of life, 

no shadows, shots from snipers,

nowt to note or report.

The frozen, foreign fields were acres of pain.


Then flickering flames from the other side danced in his eyes, 

as Christmas trees in their dozens shone,

candlelit on the parapets,

and they started to sing, all down the German lines.


Men who would drown in mud, be gassed, or shot,

or vaporised,

by falling shells, or live to tell,

heard for the first time then –

Stille Nacht. Heilige Nacht. Alles schlaft, einsam wacht… 


Cariad, the song was a sudden bridge,

from man to man;

a gift to the heart from home,

or childhood, some place shared…

When it was done, the British soldiers cheered.


A Scotsman started to bawl The First Noel

and all joined in,

till the Germans stood, seeing

across the divide, 

the sprawled, mute shapes of those who had died.


All night, along the Western Front they sang,

the enemies – 

carols, hymns, folk songs, anthems,

in German, English, French;

each battalion choired in its grim trench.


So Christmas dawned, wrapped in mist,

to open itself

and offer the day like a gift

for Harry, Hugo, Hermann, Henry, Heinz…

with whistles, waves, cheers, shouts, laughs.


Frohe Weihnachten, Tommy! Merry Christmas, Fritz!

A young Berliner, 

brandishing Schnapps,

was the first from his ditch to climb.

A Shropshire lad ran at him like a rhyme.


Then it was up and over, every man,

to shake the hand,

of a foe as a friend,

or slap his back like a brother would;

exchanging gifts of biscuits, tea, Maconochie’s stew,


Tickler’s jam…for cognac, sausages, cigars, beer, sauerkraut;

Or chase six hares, who jumped

from a cabbage-patch, or find a ball

and make of a battleground a football pitch.


I showed him a picture of my wife.

Ich zeigte ihm

ein Foto meine Frau.

Sie sei schon, sagte er.

He thought her beautiful, he said.


They buried the dead then, hacked spades

 into hard earth

again and again, till a score of men

were at rest, identified, blessed.

Der Herr ist mein Hirt…my shepherd, I shall not want.


And all that marvellous, festive day and night, 

they came and went,

the officers, the rank and file, 

their fallen comrades side by side

beneath the makeshift crosses of midwinter graves…


…beneath the shivering, shy stars

and the pinned moon

and the yawn of History;

the high, bright bullets

which each man later only aimed at the sky.”