As the German soldiers struggled to sing God Save the King, Captain Forsythe headed back to the British side and soldiers gathered round him. The officer was not much older than Private Albert Watson. His eyes were sparkling and his pale cheeks had pink spots in them.
‘I’ve spoken to their commander and agreed that we will have a truce for forty-eight hours. Neither side will fire till after Boxing Day.’
The men cheered and Albert turned to Charlie Embleton. ‘That’s good news, Charlie.’
The older man shook his head. ‘Never seen anything like it in twenty years. It never happened in the Boer War. Anyone who tried it would have been shot.’
‘By the Boers?’
‘No, by the British, you dummy! They can’t have people going round making friends with the enemy.’
‘Because, young feller, it would put us all out of a job.’ Charlie grinned. Then the grin faded. ‘Young Captain Forsythe is taking a bit of a chance, talking to the enemy like that. The generals won’t like it, you’ll see.’
‘The generals? They’re probably roasting a goose and steaming their Christmas puddings, miles away in a big warm house. What do they care?’ Albert asked.
‘We’ll see.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
As Christmas Eve slipped into Christmas morning the singing began to fade. Charlie and Albert went to the rear trenches for some sleep and returned the next morning.
Albert looked carefully over the top of the trench and saw a group of twenty Germans climb out with a football. They kicked it over the uneven ground and passed it to one another.
‘I was a good footballer,’ Albert said.
‘What? With legs like yours?’ Charlie scoffed. ‘Never!’
‘I was! I’ll bet I could teach those Germans a trick or two.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘You what?’
Charlie climbed up to No Man’s Land and shouted across to the enemy, ‘Albert Watson here’s a star footballer. He says he could beat you with one foot tied behind his back!’
The Germans laughed. ‘We are best football players in world!’
Other sentries heard the cry and roared back, ‘Rubbish!’ More British soldiers climbed up onto the crackling mud, and someone said, ‘Eleven-a-side! Let’s see how good you are!’
The Germans gathered into a group to choose their best eleven while the British troops did the same. Albert stood shyly in the group until Sergeant Carter pointed to him. ‘Best right-winger in the town until he joined up.’
No one argued and Albert found himself stripping off his jacket and running onto the roughest pot-holed football pitch the world had ever seen. A German officer had a whistle and acted as referee and timekeeper.
He blew and the match was under way.