You closed one eye and peered through the periscope of your sniper rifle with the other. "Just as expected," you grumble, ducking back in between the cold, hard dirt wall of the trenches. 

What you just saw through the scope was nothing out of ordinary— only the bleak view of No Man's Land, the de facto name troops have christened the large expanse of land between your trenches and the enemy's. The barren swamp was framed with tumbles of barbed wire from both sides, and corpses and debris from exploded shells littered the muddy, rocky ground.

It was now December 25, and you're certain that the war had been going on for a almost five months at this point. The German front lines seem to be inactive over the past few days. You aren't complaining though— the peace, no matter how brief, was always welcomed.

"Chap, get back up," your partner hissed, giving you a swift kick in the shins.

"Good heavens sir Michael, I do not wish to argue but not a soul has made a peep for at least a week now," you complained. "And besides, I heard the Pope had suggested some sort of peace treaty for Christmas."

Your spotter, who we now know is named Michael, responded. "Bah, we take orders from the head, not the Pope! Younguns like yourself have grown softer over the years," he lamented, shaking his head.  "Back in my day, young men your age would be well on their way to becoming the head of atroop  themselves! Wouldn't hesitate to fire a gun either."

"Well, I apologize for this generation's softness sir," you scoffed, tipping your helmet lower over your eyes with one hand. The algid December air was festering with the scent of the trenches—dirt, corpses, gunpowder, feces. You imagine that perhaps the other side was smelling a similar stench in their trenches as well.

Now it was Michael's turn to complain. "But well, I suppose you are right, lad," he sighed, his posture relaxing a bit. "Christmas is here, but I'm not happy. This war hullabaloo is making me depressed."

"Me too sir," you blandly respond, a sliver of agreement beneath your tone. You were about to carry on the small talk you two were having, when suddenly, a moving speck appeared in your field of vision.

"Sir Michael?" You quint at the distance, trying to confirm whether or not your eyes are deceiving you. "Sir, there seems to be a German on the opposite trench." You begin to take aim.

Your partner squints. "Seems like it," he confirms, not looking away from the speck. It was a German soldier's helmet, the camouflage print, bobbing up and down from behind the barbed wire that protected the opposing trench. "Hold your fire, chap. It might be a ruse," Michael instructs.

Your fingers curl tighter around your rifle, a finger resting on the trigger. You really had hoped that you wouldn't have to shoot anything today— or anyone, for that matter.

Before you could continue to engage in your internal monologue, a slow, foreign voice rang through the air. "Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!"

The voice was masculine, and most certainly sounded like it was German. You raised your head from your shooting position to get a view of the enemy's territory.

On the trench was a German soldier. most likely the source of the voice. "Alles schläft, einsam wacht," he continued to sing, a tired smile plastered on his face, as he pulled up a fellow soldier from his side onto the trench.

"What in the blazes are they doing," Michael whispered, incredulity thinly veiled by his raspy lilt.

You recognized the melody. "That's Silent Night, sir," you commented, turning to look at your partner. It seems that he is a step ahead of you though, as he was already gesturing at another nearby soldier to come closer and give a second opinion.

"Aye, that sure is an odd thing for 'em Germans to do," the soldier nodded. "Y'know what, I'm gonn' be calling some other lads to take a gander here," he said, and trotted off.

There were at least thirty German soldiers in their worn military uniforms standing on their trenches now, arms over each other's shoulders as they swayed left and right, singing slightly off-tune like jolly drunken men. "Uns der Gnaden Fülle läßt sehn, Jesum in Menschengestalt!"

A small crowd has started to form near the front of the trenches, where you are currently situated, in order to discuss the enemy's strange behavior.

"It's definitely a trap," one chimed in. "Those Germans are trying to lure us out!"

"Hey, why don't a sniper go ahead and just shoot while they're vulnerable, eh? This is a great opportunity," a soldier discussed with someone, shoving a thumb towards you.

"That's a pretty risky move," another retorts. "There is always the possibility that all this is a ruse to get us to reveal weak spots."

The soldiers were in a heated discussion about the predicament, though you simply do not know how or why they refuse to simply be human men today; to simply live and let live, to feel the spirit of peace that Christmas was supposed to have. Your grip on the sniper rifle becomes tenuous. You can't possibly shoot these men. You put your rifle down.

"Gentlemen, I think we do not see the point here," you finally decided to chime in, raising your voice to draw everyone's attention. "What's the big fuss? It's Christmas, for heavens' sake! Can't we be just be humans for once?" You began stretching your legs and getting on your feet, hoisting yourself over the edge of the trenches you were defending.

The men began panicking, unsure whether or not they should pull you back down. "Chap, what in the world are you doing? You're out of your mind!" someone exclaims.

You take off your helmet and looked down onto the bewildered, gaping jawed faces of the weary English soldiers crouching between the trenches. "Well, as I said," you smiled, a twinkle in your tired eyes. "It's Christmas!" You took a deep breath, and yelled from the top of your lungs, not caring whoever hears you. "Merry Christmas!"

You closed one eye and peered through the periscope of your sniper rifle with the other. "Just as expected," you grumble, ducking back in between the cold, hard dirt wall of the trenches. 

What you just saw through the scope was nothing out of ordinary— only the bleak view of No Man's Land, the de facto name troops have christened the large expanse of land between your trenches and the enemy's. The barren swamp was framed with tumbles of barbed wire from both sides, and corpses and debris from exploded shells littered the muddy, rocky ground.

It was now December 25, and you're certain that the war had been going on for a almost five months at this point. The German front lines seem to be inactive over the past few days. You aren't complaining though— the peace, no matter how brief, was always welcomed.

"Chap, get back up," your partner hissed, giving you a swift kick in the shins.

"Good heavens sir Michael, I do not wish to argue but not a soul has made a peep for at least a week now," you complained. "And besides, I heard the Pope had suggested some sort of peace treaty for Christmas."

Your spotter, who we now know is named Michael, responded. "Bah, we take orders from the head, not the Pope! Younguns like yourself have grown softer over the years," he lamented, shaking his head.  "Back in my day, young men your age would be well on their way to becoming the head of atroop  themselves! Wouldn't hesitate to fire a gun either."

"Well, I apologize for this generation's softness sir," you scoffed, tipping your helmet lower over your eyes with one hand. The algid December air was festering with the scent of the trenches—dirt, corpses, gunpowder, feces. You imagine that perhaps the other side was smelling a similar stench in their trenches as well.

Now it was Michael's turn to complain. "But well, I suppose you are right, lad," he sighed, his posture relaxing a bit. "Christmas is here, but I'm not happy. This war hullabaloo is making me depressed."

"Me too sir," you blandly respond, a sliver of agreement beneath your tone. You were about to carry on the small talk you two were having, when suddenly, a moving speck appeared in your field of vision.

"Sir Michael?" You quint at the distance, trying to confirm whether or not your eyes are deceiving you. "Sir, there seems to be a German on the opposite trench." You begin to take aim.

Your partner squints. "Seems like it," he confirms, not looking away from the speck. It was a German soldier's helmet, the camouflage print, bobbing up and down from behind the barbed wire that protected the opposing trench. "Hold your fire, chap. It might be a ruse," Michael instructs.

Your fingers curl tighter around your rifle, a finger resting on the trigger. You really had hoped that you wouldn't have to shoot anything today— or anyone, for that matter.

Before you could continue to engage in your internal monologue, a slow, foreign voice rang through the air. "Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!"

The voice was masculine, and most certainly sounded like it was German. You raised your head from your shooting position to get a view of the enemy's territory.

On the trench was a German soldier. most likely the source of the voice. "Alles schläft, einsam wacht," he continued to sing, a tired smile plastered on his face, as he pulled up a fellow soldier from his side onto the trench.

"What in the blazes are they doing," Michael whispered, incredulity thinly veiled by his raspy lilt.

You recognized the melody. "That's Silent Night, sir," you commented, turning to look at your partner. It seems that he is a step ahead of you though, as he was already gesturing at another nearby soldier to come closer and give a second opinion.

"Aye, that sure is an odd thing for 'em Germans to do," the soldier nodded. "Y'know what, I'm gonn' be calling some other lads to take a gander here," he said, and trotted off.

There were at least thirty German soldiers in their worn military uniforms standing on their trenches now, arms over each other's shoulders as they swayed left and right, singing slightly off-tune like jolly drunken men. "Uns der Gnaden Fülle läßt sehn, Jesum in Menschengestalt!"

A small crowd has started to form near the front of the trenches, where you are currently situated, in order to discuss the enemy's strange behavior.

"It's definitely a trap," one chimed in. "Those Germans are trying to lure us out!"

"Hey, why don't a sniper go ahead and just shoot while they're vulnerable, eh? This is a great opportunity," a soldier discussed with someone, shoving a thumb towards you.

"That's a pretty risky move," another retorts. "There is always the possibility that all this is a ruse to get us to reveal weak spots."

The soldiers were in a heated discussion about the predicament, though you simply do not know how or why they refuse to simply be human men today; to simply live and let live, to feel the spirit of peace that Christmas was supposed to have. Your grip on the sniper rifle becomes tenuous. You can't possibly shoot these men. You put your rifle down.

"Gentlemen, I think we do not see the point here," you finally decided to chime in, raising your voice to draw everyone's attention. "What's the big fuss? It's Christmas, for heavens' sake! Can't we be just be humans for once?" You began stretching your legs and getting on your feet, hoisting yourself over the edge of the trenches you were defending.

The men began panicking, unsure whether or not they should pull you back down. "Chap, what in the world are you doing? You're out of your mind!" someone exclaims.

You take off your helmet and looked down onto the bewildered, gaping jawed faces of the weary English soldiers crouching between the trenches. "Well, as I said," you smiled, a twinkle in your tired eyes. "It's Christmas!" You took a deep breath, and yelled from the top of your lungs, not caring whoever hears you. "Merry Christmas!"