It was the war to end all wars.
The First World War.
In just four years
it consumed more than 20 million men,
14 and a half thousand a day.
But there was one day when enemies stopped fighting
and a brief window opened into a world of peace.
This is a dramatisation of the events of one day that shook the world.
It's Christmas Eve 1914.
In southern Africa, German forces invade Angola.
In the Middle East, British troops occupy Cairo
and the first ever domestic air raid targets Dover.
While in Rome The pope calls for an end
to hostilities to mark the birth of Christ.
No one knows if his prayers will be answered.
We heard a cry of a man in excruciating pain.
Someone in his death agony we thought.
But an hour later it came again.
It never ceased the whole night
nor the following night.
The cry cut like a drill into our heads,
dragging minutes into hours, hours into years.
Three nights ago British soldiers raided the German trenches.
The raid achieved nothing.
We prayed desperately for his death.
He took so long.
If he went on much longer, we should go mad.
Three days and three nights the man has lain here.
He is the 177,413th soldier
to die in the war so far
and that's just on the British side.
It all began with such great enthusiasm.
A million men volunteered in the first week alone.
It would be a great patriotic adventure.
But the fast moving battles of summer and autumn
failed to bring decisive victory for either side.
Now it's December and cavalry charges
have given way to standing in holes.
Two vast armies, each a million strong,
face each other, stopped dead in the mud
and no one is quite sure what to do next.
Fix bayonets!
Regular morning exercise is again called stand to.
At dawn
the London Rifle Brigade make ready
to face an attack by the enemy just as they did yesterday.
Stand to!
Rifleman Graham Williams is a Territorial
and one of the few Tommies to speak any German.
His friend Bassingham is known for his good singing voice
and is expected to lead the carol concert tomorrow,
Christmas Day.
Stand to lasts for an hour
and as usual, nothing happens.
At his regional HQ, General Sir Horace Smith Dorrien
is planning ahead.
The architect of the costly trench raid, he sets his sights on bigger prizes.
He will use the cream of his infantry to take
the nearby town of Ypres once Christmas is out of the way.
But this Christmas will prove to be a bigger obstacle than he could ever imagine.
Meanwhile, preparations continue for more trench raids,
to soften up the hun
before the big push.
In reality they give the Germans
little more trouble than extra target practice,
so local commanders are resorting to desperate measures
to keep their losses down.
All present and correct?
Yes Sir.
Good. Gentlemen the plan is to put a line of fence posts between us
and the Germans in a zig zag.
Someone has come up with a novel proposal;
to build visual screens for the men to hide
behind as they advance across no man's land.
They will offer no protection to a bullet
and must be built in the middle of the quietest night of the year.
Any questions?
Yes Sir.
Williamson.
Surely the sound of us knocking fence posts to the ground will be heard
and we'll be fired on?
The order has come direct from the gate and will be carried out as instructed.
Now if there are no further questions, we shall get going.
Come along.
Just 19 years old, Rifleman Henry Williamson
is already a seasoned veteran.
He's also an aspiring writer
and tonight will change
his view of the enemy and the war forever.
Right now, he fears for his own survival
and the sanity of his commanders.
Further along the same trench line the rest
of the rifle brigade sleep where they can.
Rifleman Graham Williams takes his turn on sentry duty.
He must stand here, fully alert,
for the next two hours.
He is now the first line of defence for 20 yards of the western front
and falling asleep can mean the firing squad.
It's four below zero.
In his former life, Williams was a clerk for an Anglo German insurance company
and spent a year living in Berlin.
Now, somewhere out there,
a friend called Friedrik
is standing in an identical muddy hole, holding his own loaded rifle,
duty bound to kill Williams if he gets the chance.
It's gone midnight. It's Christmas Day.
After the initial stab of fear,
I was not afraid.
Not a shot was fired from the German trench.
Everything was so still, so quiet and align.
The unbelievable had soon become the ordinary
so that as we worked, we talked
and the night passed as in a dream.
How different this Christmas was.
Just about this time,
my father would be making rum punch from an old family recipe
which was kept of all places, in the family Bible.
We'd be looking forward to toasting the occasion
with the result of my father's labours.
Instead here was I, standing in a muddy,
Flemish field.
Stand to, stand to.
A grave and tender voices rose out of the frozen mist.
It was all so strange.
It was like being in another world
to which one had come through a nightmare.
Thanks friends.
Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas.
Dawn. Christmas Day.
On the Front Line near the French town of Houplines
the Welsh Fusiliers are just 80 years from the German trenches.
Like the London Rifles,
they spent the night singing carols
and shouting Christmas greetings in the dark.
Nobody wants it to end there.
Today is Christmas Day
and private Frank Richards decides
they have to make some attempt at celebration.
'Rhubarb'... what do you reckon?
...it's not very straight, Richards...
It's only natural to share it with their neighbours.
...Merry Christmas
...Merry Christmas Tommy
...Cheers...
Now, like a playground stand off, neither side is quite sure
how to make the next move.
Come here Tommy.
You come over here.
Yeah
Yeah you first mate...
More Soldier Rhubarb
Do you want to eat it?
Watch yourself.
I will. I will.
...One, Two, Three, Go...
The shouting has stopped.
Perhaps the Germans have put up
their own sign or thrown something back.
Bloody Hell Sarge, there's a German on our wire.
Shit, stand to. Watch yourself fellows.
He's not carrying 'owt.
Richards what are you playing at? Just watch yourself.
When the enemy appears out of no man's land,
the British decide to trust their instincts
instead of their training.
The first meeting between enemies is the lower ranks.
If anyone has reason to hate,
it is them.
They've been killing each other's friends
for the last four months.
Now all that is forgotten.
And the barriers of language, of culture and politics,
like the great obstacle of no man's land
have suddenly disappeared.
Just ordinary men doing the same job.
The truce spreads, not sideways
from unit to unit but upwards.
If the Corporals don't say anything and the Sergeants join in too,
how far will it go?
Ultimately the Officers will decide.
Lieutenant Sir Edmund Hamilton Westrow Hulse
of the Scots Guards,
like all officers, is expected to set an example.
But when faced with an enemy who refuses to behave like one,
he finds the normal rules of engagement don't apply.
You're too close.
He could order his men to fire
but the enemy is unarmed and that would be murder.
Go back.
He could take them prisoner.
Do you understand?
But it just doesn't seem right, not today.
What do you want?
Good morning Sir.
We just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas.
Thank you and the same to you I'm sure.
Oh and we would like to bury our dead as you can see.
Yes of course. We should do the same.
Oh naturally you may do that. You must only come.
We have many of your men lying in front of us.
Yes I know. Your English is exceptionally good.
Ah, I used to live in Suffolk.
My girl is still there with my motorbike.
Three and a half horsepower, a beautiful bike.
This is the first time Hulse has actually met the enemy
and he is not overly impressed.
The little fellow I was talking to was an undersized,
pasty faced student type.
Talked four languages well and had a business in England,
so I mistrusted him at once.
Would you take a letter for me?
I can't get it through to her.
Very well. You'd better write it here.
The war that Hulse had trained so long to fight
had suddenly been reduced to small talk
and social encounters have even more minefields than military ones.
I'll see what I can do
but I can't imagine she'll be in the least bit keen to see you again.
Yeah.
Ghastly wounds these high velocity rounds
make especially at this range.
Mmm.
Oh we should use the old South African round on this bullet.
It makes a very clean hole.
We don't want to fight this war.
Not today, not ever
but we are ordered to do it.
The British Army is almost entirely professional.
Thank you Sir.
The German Army is mostly conscript
but Hulse finds it hard to believe that this degenerate sentiment
is widespread even among the enemy.
He certainly won't believe it
of his own men.
Alright men, carry on.
Hulse goes to check that the Germans aren't bothering his men elsewhere,
leaving strict instructions for everyone to remain at their posts.
But he finds trench
after trench completely deserted.
It doesn't take long to solve the mystery.
The sound of singing guides him to his lost sheep.
Whilst Hulse was engaging in small talk,
most of his regiment took the opportunity to
attend a carol concert, with the Germans.
Hulse's duty as an officer is to take control of this dangerous situation.
And he does.
Taking the most pragmatic course,
Hulse decides that his men deserve a day off.
He chooses to ignore the fact that they are sharing it with the enemy.
Until his Commanding Officer arrives.
Captain George painter
is the last word in authority for Hulse and his men
and the last chance to call a halt
before word reaches HQ.
Merry Christmas to you.
But instead of stopping the party...
Well chaps I've brought a little something for you.
He fuels it with Fortnum and Mason's rum.
At this moment in time, there are dozens of similar scenes all along the Western Front.
A collection of isolated outbreaks.
To stop them becoming an epidemic,
someone, somewhere has to say "no".
And Frank Richards' Commanding Officer is just the man for the job.
Captain Charles Stockwell takes an early lunch
oblivious to his men's transgressions.
They've nicknamed him "Buffalo Bill"
for his habit of threatening to blow a man's ruddy
brains out for the most trifling offence.
Come.
Sir.
Sarge.
A Sergeant reports the men have deserted their posts
and are talking with the Germans in no man's land.
They what?
Just talking Sir, no weapons, just talking.
Good grief. Well we're going to sort this...
Fraternising with the enemy is about as far from trifling as it's possible to get.
He may well intend to make a painful example of the guilty few.
50 is a different matter.
You men. Get yourself back here, now.
Stockwell's report would later suggest that his men
were still in their trenches being tempted out by the Germans.
Frank Richards recalls that they had to be ordered back in.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself son.
At the double, come on.
They do agree on the next part of the story.
With German Officers present a formal introduction is required.
Good Afternoon. Captain Charles Stockwell,
Commanding Officer, Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
My orders are to keep my men in the trench.
Stockwell instantly warms to an enemy
as keen on military order as he is.
These are clearly people he can do business with.
Herr Schmidt suggested perhaps for one day, as it is Christmas,
we could perhaps allow one day for truce.
So when they offer a truce he is prepared to accept.
Very well. Perhaps just for one day
but I suggest we set a time limit.
They agree Christmas Day only,
to finish the next morning at 8:30 sharp
with one final condition from Stockwell.
Agreed?
Very good
but I must insist our men remain in their own trenches.
Like all diplomatic negotiations, suitable gifts must be exchanged
and typically the Germans are well prepared.
They have raided a local brewery and offer some of the proceeds
as a Christmas present.
Stockwell is suddenly caught out by the lack
of a suitable return gift.
Most kind of you. Just one moment.
But then has a brain wave.
Sergeant be so good as to bring me a plum pudding.
Belgian, ah very good. Thank you Sergeant.
Thank you Sir.
On behalf of the King and the Royal Welsh Fusiliers,
I present you with this Christmas pudding.
Thank you very much.
My pleasure. I hope you enjoy it. Happy Christmas.
Goodbye.
According to Stockwell's report
this marks the end of any contact
between the two sides but according to Richards, lubricated by the beer,
they slip back into prolonged fraternisation for the rest of the day.
By midday nearly half the British
frontline army is involved in the truce.
They are in effect committing mass treason;
an offence that can mean the firing squad.
At an undisclosed location behind the German lines,
they are waiting to begin lunch.
When the missing officer finally returns, he has a guest in tow.
The account refers to him only as "Harry".
There is no record of his surname.
Perhaps for good reason.
Harry may I introduce my commanding officer Miyhor Muller.
Harry.
When the two met in no man's land,
Harry complained of missing many of the comforts of home,
most notably his favourite brand of Champagne.
The Germans have plenty.
Liberated from a nearby chateau
and invite him to share it with them over Christmas lunch.
An offer too rare to resist.
It a very good year.
Well I think a toast, to your health...
And Happy Christmas.
The British High Command is worried but not nearly worried enough.
So far they have just seen the tip of a very large iceberg.
The sheer scale of the truce will not become clear for days
when all the individual pieces are put together.
Cameras are officially banned
but High Command has not yet bothered to enforce the ban.
They will soon change their mind.
Letters and pictures find their way straight to the front pages.
Mail is uncensored.
This oversight will also soon be corrected
but not before the damage has been done.
Everywhere this Christmas afternoon,
events are taking on a life of their own, helped by the former skills of civvy streets.
Artists and artisans from every walk of life
and someone in a Lancashire Regiment
must have been a clairvoyant
because he's brought the perfect accessory for a day off at the front;
a football.
The same scene is repeated in a dozen places
with tin cans, rolled up sand bags,
whatever can be found.
With teams of 60 a side
and less than perfect pitches,
scores like the ball disappear in the melee.
Although one game did produce a familiar result.
Three two to the Germans!
Time seems to stand still. Many wish it could stop here.
It's all very well for Englishmen at home to talk
but when you're out here, you begin to realise
that sustained hatred is impossible.
God why we cannot we have peace
and let us all go home.
...hate the war and discomfort on a day like this.
I remember thinking this
indescribable something in the air.
This peace and goodwill feeling surely
will have some effect on the situation here.
It can't last.
For Harry there will be a reckoning, and he knows it.
He will soon have to account for his free lunch.
I'm afraid all this has err, put me in rather an awkward spot.
You see I was erm, the Observing Officer when we strafed you
and my report is that we've blown the whole lot to bits.
As a professional soldier,
Harry should report where he'd been.
But then he'd have to admit his previous error.
And he will be obliged to make amends for it
which would mean shelling his new friends.
Well solution to your dilemma.
You are a nation of sportsmen
and I'm certain as I am of anything that when you get back to your side of the line,
you will not remember anything you saw here.
Is that not so?
Alternatively the Germans might not let him go back.
Where did you say I was?
Other men trod the same line between treason
and friendship
and it didn't always work out so easily.
Three members of the Westminster Rifles,
visiting friends in enemy trenches, were suddenly taken prisoner.
The Germans were afraid they had seen too much
but they were enlisted men.
Harry and his friend are Officers and a gentleman's word is his bond.
By adhering to the rules of chivalry,
both sides managed to keep the game going
just that little bit longer.
Let me give you my card.
There's mine.
In Harry's case for at least another week.
By the way, on Thursday, New Year's Eve,
we will be relieved by the prussians.
We hate them
Give them hell!
But the clock is ticking. Reality is about to intrude.
And it comes, not from senior officers,
but from less fortunate friends.
In the midst of the revelry, the dead remain unburied.
A stark reminder of
why they were sent here in the first place.
Captain Hulse finds a lost friend;
Lieutenant Hugh Taylor lying by the German trench
where he fell three nights ago.
Without the truce,
the fallen would simply lie here to rot;
now they can have a hero's rest.
Enemies are united in death
and now in life too.
At Flebay, they agree to bury their dead together.
In the same scrap of no man's land
they die to claim.
And where yesterday they faced each other in war,
now enemies come together in the spirit
of Christmas peace.
Soldiers for the working day they share the same awful conditions,
the same suffering, the same guilt and grief in loss.
Now they discover another common heritage,
the act of Christian remembrance.
The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want...
In December alone the German army lost nearly 6,000 men.
He maketh me to lie down...
The British Expeditionary force lost nearly 9,000.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil...
At this rate, most of these men will never see
another Christmas.
Thou prepare us the table before me, in the presence of my enemies
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,
Amen.
Never in my life will I forget this site.
It is easy to see that man lives on,
even at a time when he knows nothing more than death and murder.
They say they're not going to fire again if we don't
but of course we must.
It just doesn't seem right to be killing
each other at Christmas time.
Sooner or later the Generals will want their soldiers back.
They have more and bigger battles to fight.
But will these men be ready to fight them?
Christmas Day is over.
Captain Stockwell of the Welsh Fusiliers
is ready to restart World War One.
His men have had their day off.
Now, in accordance with his agreement with the Germans and right on time,
he puts a formal end to his informal truce.
But according to Frank Richards,
no actual shots were fired in anger that whole day or the next.
Peace still reigns
but it's about to become a lot harder to sustain.
At his regional HQ, General Smith Dorrien
is on the hunt for information.
Still smarting from his humiliation
over Christmas lunch.
Reports from the trenches are overdue
and the officer he has come to see is absent.
He decides to go and see for himself.
In the London Rifle Brigade trenches,
Graham Williams finally gets to use his German.
Yesterday a friend managed to get hold of a pickelhaube helmet
in exchange for two tins of bully beef.
Now the helmet's owner wants it back.
Robbie, there's a man here who says he wants his helmet.
The truce has now become so entrenched
that both sides are prepared to commit amazing acts of deceit to keep it going.
The German Generals are doing their rounds.
There will be an inspection in half an hour
and he can't be without his helmet.
To keep up the truce,
they must keep up the illusion of military order.
He promises to return it once the General has gone.
And there's an afterthought;
a polite warning to keep their heads down in case
they're ordered to fire.
He said keep your heads down or he'll shoot you.
Military code has given way to a new code of friendship
but for how much longer?
Smith Dorrien has demanded his own inspection of Front Line trenches.
He arrives late in the day, with just enough time for a cursory glance
but determined to find out the truth about fraternisation.
Things are unusually quiet.
No one seems to be doing any work.
Positions are unattended. Discipline seems lax.
Attention!
But any question about meeting the Germans are met with denial.
It's true, these units have not been involved.
Someone has carefully arranged his tour
to avoid the hot spots.
He is dismayed about the overall state of affairs
but lack of firm evidence
keeps his temper below boiling point, for now.
The German High Command is largely still in the dark over the truce
and many Front Line officers intend to keep it that way by restarting hostilities themselves.
But it's not that easy.
One unit in the 107th Saxon Regiment takes the truce further than anyone else dared.
What the hell?! What's going on here?
You all falling asleep or what?
To the very edge of mutiny.
Hey you! Why aren't you shooting?
We won't shoot anymore, Lieutenant. We're on strike.
Sergeant Langer recalls that his men went on strike.
I have just given you an order and I expect it to be obeyed.
I have just given you an order now STAND Up AND SHOOT!
Damn it! DAMN IT! This is a WAR,
not a nursery school game.
Are you out of your tiny mind? Look at me you stupid wanker.
There is no record of what sparked the revolt except
perhaps that for these conscripts,
the great patriotic cause had become nothing to the bond
they felt with fellow soldiers just 30 yards away.
We won't shoot anymore.
We're good men: We will not shoot anymore.
Good men?! Have you lost your minds?
This is a war for God's sake!
Each of you has been ordered to shoot...
if you won't shoot, then I will...
The men realise that their protest can be nothing more.
The strike is over.
At last we fire and an answering shot came back
but not a man fell.
We spent that day and the next wasting ammunition
trying to shoot the stars down from the sky.
Meanwhile on the British side,
General Smith Dorrien is about to find out
the full extent of his own discipline problem.
I have just been to the trenches.
I have never seen such a shambles in all my life.
Returning to his regional HQ, he finally gets a straight answer.
It's taken nearly two days
but now his worst fears are about to be realised.
And rumours to the effect that the men were fraternising
with the Germans on Christmas Day.
I asked questions but everyone denied it.
Have you heard anything?
As far as I understand it,
most of the Fifth Division are involved.
What?
The Manchesters, the Devonshires.
Manchesters?
Yes Sir.
And what were the officers doing?
Nothing at all.
Most of the senior officers were involved as well.
Oh for God's sake.
They seemed to be getting quite pally with one another.
On December 5th I...
Smith Dorrien has the power to court martial
all those involved.
Take a memo.
I was appalled.
Apathy, lethargy, lack of discipline.
And then, on my return, I discover that Christmas Day
a friendly gathering had taken place of Germans and British recounting
that many officers took part.
But Smith Dorrien hesitates.
He is caught in a trap.
A court martial would be an open admission
that the truce had happened.
Not only is this illustrative of the apathetic state we are gradually sinking into.
Apart from illustrating that any orders I had given the subjects were useless for I have...
There are just too many involved to make an example of.
And the very men he would have to condemn are his best troops.
He needs them.
He tries pleading one last time for cooperation.
To finish this war quickly
we need to keep up the fighting spirit.
And because French is watching
he must be seen to do something.
I am asking for particulars of the names of the officers
and the units who took part in this Christmas gathering with a view to disciplinary action.
And sign it with the usual blah, blah, blah.
It's a hollow gesture.
Smith Dorrien sends his memo
but not a single court martial ever follows.
It's too late. The truce has happened.
Powerless the Generals have no choice now but to wait,
trusting the men's sense of duty will prevail,
that they will remember why they are here
and that sooner or later they will start acting like soldiers again.
It takes just one act of war to break a peace.
Sergeant Collins from the Monmouthshire Regiment
takes cigarettes to the Germans and some jam.
He has friends there now.
He showed them pictures of his wife and three children.
He won't see them again.
On both sides snipers are largely a law
unto themselves.
Like everyone they've been happy to take time off
but now, with the mass groups gone,
individuals have become relaxed and easy targets.
German soldiers have been fired on by British snipers,
retaliation is inevitable.
It's business as usual.
The New Year comes and goes.
One year on, Graham Williams has survived.
So has Henry Williamson and Frank Richards.
George painter is wounded. Edward Hulse is dead.
Both victims of Smith Dorrien's failed attack at Ypres in March.
Stand to.
Smith Dorrien himself has gone. Sacked by French.
No one knows how much his position
was undermined by the truce.
Last Christmas half the British Front Line army
took part in the greatest act of spontaneous peace of any war.
This year there will be no repeat.
The common bond of soldiers has been broken by gas and air raids
and the murder of prisoners and threats to court martial fraternisers
and shoot deserters has put the final block on any contact.
Only one attempt will be made at Neuve Chapelle
in exactly the same place as a year ago.
A million casualties in between
and nothing has moved.
Next year another million and so on,
for year after year.
By the end half of all soldiers will be dead or wounded.
Lf, when they went to meet their enemy that fateful Christmas Day
they had known what was to come,
would they have gone back?