For an hour there was no war.
There was plenty of fight, though. Albert found that every time he ran forward with the ball he was kicked and tripped by a short, heavy German with a red face and thin, fair hair.
After one tackle Albert was sure his ankle was broken. Only his heavy army boots saved him.
His opponent booted the ball up the field, where the tall German officer hit it with a glancing header into the goal that was formed by rifles stuck in the hard earth.
Charlie stood on the side-lines telling Albert how to play. ‘You can’t dribble on this ground. You keep losing the ball. One touch then boot it up for Sergeant Carter to head.’
Albert was annoyed. ‘Could you do better?’ he asked.
‘I could,’ Charlie said. ‘But I might lose me teeth.’
The longer the game went on, the slower the heavy German became. Albert was sweating in his woollen shirt in spite of the icy air. But his legs were as strong and quick as ever.
‘Five minutes to go!’ the referee cried.
Captain Forsythe collected the ball from his goalkeeper and passed it to Sergeant Carter. A German ran at the sergeant but he bounced off the solid British shoulder.
Sergeant Carter looked up and spotted Albert alone on the right wing. He kicked the ball towards him.
The ball bounced and bobbled to Albert. He turned and saw his enemy charging towards him.
The German’s boots skidded over the earth in a slide that would break Albert’s skinny legs. But Albert pushed the ball forward, jumped over the lunging German legs and raced towards the goal.
He raised his boot and looked to shoot to the goalkeeper’s right.
The goalkeeper dived to his right too soon. Albert had sold him a dummy. He coolly slid the ball to the man’s left and between the rifle-goalposts.
The British soldiers cheered till their throats were raw and Albert had never felt so proud in his life.
When the final whistle blew a few minutes later he was carried off the pitch on the shoulders of the happy British troops. The other players were shaking hands with their opponents.
The British team dropped Albert at Charlie’s feet.
‘Lucky shot,’ Charlie said with a sniff. Albert just grinned.
The young man jogged back to the pitch. Sergeant Carter was happy. Albert had never seen him look so pleased. ‘Well played, Watson. Cracking goal.’
‘Thank you, sir. Lovely pass from you.’
‘Not bad. We could have won with a bit more luck.’
Albert shook his head slowly. For the first time in his life, he argued with the sergeant. ‘A draw was the best result, sir. It’s Christmas.’
Sergeant Carter wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘Aye, you’re probably right. Happy Christmas, lad.’
As the sergeant walked away another figure walked towards Albert. The heavy, red-faced German scowled at him. Suddenly he stuck out a fat arm. ‘Shake hand, Englishman. Good played.’
‘Good played, Fritz.’ Albert grinned.
The German allowed himself a small smile. It made him look much younger. Younger even than Albert. ‘Not Fritz. Hans. My name Hans.’
‘My name Albert. Good played, Hans.’
‘Good played, Albert.’
They kept the handshake firm as they looked into one another’s eyes for half a minute or more.
‘Good shoot,’ Hans said.
‘Thanks,’ Albert replied and felt himself blushing.
Suddenly the German’s eyes turned glassy and his face bleak. ‘Today shoot football. Tomorrow shoot guns.’
Albert’s head dropped. ‘Aye.’
When he looked up, Hans was marching back towards his trench. ‘Hans!’ Albert cried.
The German stopped and turned.
‘Good luck,’ Albert said. He recited the words from his memory as if they were some magic charm. ‘May God protect you and bring you home safe.’
Hans gave a brief nod. ‘You too, Albert. You too.’
