The monstrous
absurdity of war, this devil's jest, stood revealed nakedly by those
little groups of men standing together in the mists of Flanders. ... It
became so apparent that army orders had to be issued stopping
such truces. They were issued but not always obeyed. For months
after German and British soldiers in neighbouring trenches fixed up
secret treaties by which they fired at fixed targets at stated periods to
keep up appearances, and then strolled about in safety, sure of each
other's loyalty.
From one trench a German officer signalled to one of our own
lieutenants:
"I have six of your men in my trench. What shall I do with them?"
The lieutenant signalled back.
"I have two of yours. This is ridiculous."
The English officer spoke to the two Germans:
"Look here, you had better clear out. Otherwise I shall have to make
you prisoners."
"We want to be prisoners," said the Germans, who spoke English
with the accent of the Tottenham Court Road.
It appears that the lieutenant would not oblige them, and begged
them to play the game.
So with occasional embarrassments like this to break the deadly
monotony of life, and to make men think about the mystery of human
nature, coerced to massacre by sovereign powers beyond their ken,
the winter passed, in one long wet agony, in one great bog of misery.
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