Sadly, We Learned Nothing From The Christmas Truce
In a couple of days, it will be 100 years since many areas of fighting ceased during The Great War. There was fraternization between both sides, exchanges of small tokens like buttons, tobacco, coffee and discussions that led one to wonder just why the men were freezing and bogged down in trenches like rats; fighting a war when those that made the plans for the war or administered it in other ways were comfortable in chateaus or palaces.
Those who were far behind the lines, warmed by the fires stoked by servants, clean clothes and an opportunity to bathe more than once a month or so cared little for those who were dying in the trenches and on direct charges across no-mans's-land into machine gun fire that slaughtered men by the thousands. To those who "ran" things, there were no consequences for their idiotic behavior. They knew nothing of trench foot, corpses lying face down in pools of water while rats nibbled at exposed parts of the bodies. They knew nothing of the insects that bored into the skins of the living and the dead, the terror would never be known by them, they were the "privileged".
Every war, every battle, every skirmish has had it's share of the "privileged"; they abound and we hear their names mentioned in history books complete with dates from so far back it makes one wonder why we fight at all any more. The names that are etched in stone or bronze are rarely noticed. Those who laid to rest, only to be arisen with the next artillery barrage, their mouths filled with worms, their eye sockets devoid of once intelligent sight, arms and legs tossed about like broken tree limbs; this is a true vision of hell on earth, seeing a week old buried corpse sitting up, seemingly staring into the eyes of the living, jaw dropped down as if calling, "come with me!"
On Christmas Eve 1914, there was a sliver of hope, a glimmer of light that would, if men had stacked arms, lit the entire world with the light and warmth of peace. On Christmas Day, and in a few cases beyond, men refused to shoot at each other. Some parts of the front did not partake of this minor miracle, but many did, and in just a few hours, they would once again be injected into the killing fields, but for a short time, men got to know each other. Barbers from both sides cut hair for anyone who wanted to look well groomed for the future detail to death. Cobblers fixed boots and shoes, carpenters built small toys for children back home, whether German, Austrian, French, Sudanese, British, children were loved by both sides; they had nothing to do with the current affairs of those who would send millions to their deaths. Dentists treated men on both sides, doctors redressed wounds and used their own unit's medical gear to patch up wounded soldiers of the other side.
100 years ago, we came so close to ending war, but now we have children who have gone through school from Kindergarten through High School, who have known nothing but war in places far away with odd sounding names. So it was 100 years ago as well, it is always the soldier, sailor, airman or marine that takes the brunt of war and then we wonder why we ever did what we did.
100 or 1000 years, perhaps 10,000 years, we've played the same deadly game, all that has changed is that now we can kill far more efficiently, and we have the gall to state so nobly that we are the "smartest species ever evolved?" We are the only species that kills in rampant rages by the millions, devises new and deadlier weapons, and if the wrong temperament has a hold of that Red Button that plainly states, "DON'T PUSH!", some idiot will push it and annihilate what life we have here on this little blue marble of a planet.
So this Christmas, or whatever holiday you celebrate or care about, remember how close we came 100 years ago to saying, "we're not doing this anymore." Perhaps this time, it will settle in. Hug those you love, hug those you despise, hold out an olive branch, let the dove of peace fly from her perch for all to see. The only thing we should be burying is ignorance, fear and hatred.
Peace,
Ras
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