Our Friends, The Enemy

The 1914 Christmas Truce

Alex Gwyther

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781783191147
• eBook ISBN: 9781783196135
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

The Western Front, Christmas 1914: lights appear from the German trenches, ghosts rise behind the horizon, soldiers meet between the firing lines. The events which follow are the most astounding stories of the Great War told through the eyes of one soldier, Private James Boyce: 'We're fighting the same enemy, just on two different sides.' Boyce takes us on a magical, haunting journey through the events surrounding the Christmas truce. Our Friends, The Enemy is a debut solo show combining theatre and spoken word to tell the story of the Christmas truce from the First World War.

JAMES BOYCE is on stage as the audience enter. He is carrying out administrative duties – cleaning his rifle; propping up sandbags, looking out towards the German trenches.

As the theatre door closes, the lights change to a single spotlight. JAMES walks forward, hands clamped behind his head. He falls to his knees and looks up. Spotlight on James’ face.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be …”

Blackout.

10th December 1914

JAMES: George woke me up before dawn. I couldn’t have been out more than half an hour! He said he’d dropped his last bacon rasher in a puddle and asked if I had any left.

I said to him, “’Ave you honestly woken me up for a bloody bacon rasher!?”

He gazed down with eyes like beaten sandbags and replied “… but it’s bacon!”

He had a point.

“Check my mess tin, I got a couple left. Slap one on for me and all will you!”

Despite the constant rain and rifle fire, the stench of death and a lingering sense that it could be your final hour, I’ve never tasted bacon so good as I have done sitting in a hole in the ground.

As we finished the bacon to a soft howl of distant shelling, George turned to me and said –

“You remember school?”
“Yes George.”
“You remember Claire Mitchell?”
“Everyone remembers Claire Mitchell!”
“Do you think she liked me?”
“No!”
“What makes you say that!?”
“Cos’ she got sent home that time remember? For spittin’ in your face!”
“But my Mum said that was a sign of
affection!”

We often talk about school. It’s good to remind us that we had a life beyond this.

A new draft of men joined the front yesterday. They looked so healthy compared to us. Like fresh shillings in a penny jar.

After a couple of hours they were already complaining about the numbness in their toes. They don’t understand – the harder you work the warmer you stay.

When the Lieutenant came, we all stood to attention, but this one lad’s feet were cemented in the mud. He reached down to free his one foot, fell over and lost both his hands. He gave up in the end and cried “For Gawd sake, shoot me! Somebody just shoot me now!” I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time.

George was called out with the wiring party to secure our first line of protection and I was called out on watch. Before he left, he said to me,

“Who’d have thought! You and me spending Christmas in a hole in the ground. ’Ere you are.”

[Drinks from the bottle.]

“Bloody ’ell George. Where d’you get that?”

“Found a couple barrels in that barn when I was collectin’ some hay. Got enough to get us through this Christmas.”

We shook hands and he walked with his wiring party towards the ladder and climbed out into the unknown. I pointed my rifle into the darkness, drank to the sound of distant gunfire and tried not to think about home.

Today, our reserve lines were being stockpiled with more men and ammunition. There’s word in the trench that we are to commence a full scale attack in the next couple of days.

I don’t see us being home in time for Christmas. Despite what the papers may say.

Private James Boyce 1st Queen’s Regiment, Surrey

[Close diary.]

St. Yves 11:00, and Lieutenant Robert Pugh of the 1st Staffordshires marches towards the front line, followed closely behind by two young soldiers lugging a heavy wooden crate.

It glides through the trench like the royal carriage – each soldier gazing up from his mudded seat.

A small green gathering swarms the crate.

As the lid is taken off, the soldier’s eyes widen.

“A tin of cigarettes, a jar of jam, two bars of chocolate, some bacon, two loaves of bread … and a football!?”

The freezing air and chattering teeth temporarily cease as a small fire of excitement is ignited amongst the men.

Pvt. David Tide and Pvt. Walter Smith sit back and spark a cigarette in a small dugout.

The football shoots past the door.

Rifleman Harry Thomas runs into the dugout.

“I tell you what, the ol’ boys are ’avin’ a laugh aren’t they?! A football? I mean, a bloody football! Right boys, where should we ’ave a kick-about? Fancy one next to their machine gun!?”

300 yards away in another hole, Corporals Alric Neumann and Lukaz Schmitt gasp at a present pinched from a nearby forest. The dark green ferns and mature body seduce both German men into childhood memories of Christmas’ passed. Mouths slightly ajar waiting for words.

“It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in the world.”

The tree trunk sunk dee...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Our Friends, The Enemy
• The UK Tour Of
• Production Acknowledgments
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Chapters