Where? Yes. Well,
I'll not ever be able to forget where.
A cold, wet, clay-grey, battlefield.
I remember,----I was there!

All through the day I had worked.
From a damp, puddled-muddy, foul tasting,
trenching.
Foul tasting, I remember most.
After awhile the mud was encroached in
everything.

The smell of gun powder no longer stung my nose.
And the constant pop of
Gunfire had faded away.
I knew the noise was still there. In the air around me.
But had heard it so much. I had ceased to hear it anymore that day.

For some reason I had lost consciousness to it.
Built up fences.
Shoved the sound and smell,
Out of my forward senses.

I had poked my rifle over the rim of the trench.
Thrust up ahead of me,
And blindingly squeezed off my last round of shot.
You did that sometimes,--sometimes, a lot of times.
When you were at the
"front line". When things were flying hot.

After spending my last shot, I slid down the mud side of the trench.
Stretching my lips into a gritty grin.
The seat of my pants were cold, damp.
And my flesh felt like the clay I was sitting in.

The night had come, stolen upon me. Without my even having seen it.
Coming. Because all was still bright.
The constant firing of the big guns.
Have kept the sky alight.

As I sat in the relative safety, at the bottom of the mud furrow,
I felt an over powering compulsion.
to know exactly what day it was for sure,
I could only remember it was someday.
Or should I say night, in December.

"Hey man," I shouted down the sullen line,
"Anybody know what day it be here?"
Came an answer loud and clear,
"It be Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve be it here."

Christmas Eve! this hole.
Certainly didn't fit my traditional Christmas Eve visions.
Brightly decorated trees, cherry warm fires and happily singing voices.
Were closer to my usual celebrations.

I laid my gun across my lap.
and took out my harmonica.
From deep within my breast pocket,
And started playing carols,
Silent Night, O ‘Little Town of Bethlehem, Hark the Harold Angles Sing,
Were now on the docket.

I played all the Christmas carols I knew.
Then I played them over again.
Some with mirth.
Gradually the men on either side of me
Cradled their guns in their arms.
Listened to the songs of peace on earth

Slowly the silence spread up and down,
That dirt hole of mine,
Until no one was firing
From our front line.

Then just as gradually, just as slowly,
The "other" line stopped their
shooting,
And from their side could be heard,
Keeping pace with my mouth-organ,
A flute tooting.

A quiet peace lay down, between the two killing fields.
Even the big guns eased their booming screams.
As everyone listened to the power of Christmas.
And to their own hopes and dreams.