My family comes from Germany. My father, Wilhelm, was 18 years old when World War I broke out in Europe. He was soon drafted and found himself on the Russian front. The term “Russian front” has nowadays a very ominous meaning because of the hardships suffered there in World War II, but during the First World War, things were quite a bit different, at least for my father.
He wound up on a part of the front that was quite stationary. The German soldiers were on one side of a lake or river, and the Russians were on the opposite shore. Neither side attacked the other. No shooting. Each side posted sentries who walked to and fro and watched the other side for any signs of aggression — which simply never came.
Day after day, week after week, the soldiers took their turns at sentry duty, and in time came to recognize one another across the frozen water. One day someone waved hello, and the “enemy” waved back. Thus they began to share their common predicament.
One day, a Russian walked to the middle of the lake as if wanting to talk. All the soldiers readied their weapons in case this was an ambush of some sort, and then a German emissary went out to meet him. The outcome of the conversation was that the Russians seemed to have a surplus of vodka but little food; the Germans had plenty of food and no alcohol. A bit of black marketeering seemed to be in order, and the trading began.
At first, each party brought their bounty to the middle of the river, and went back to their own bunker after the exchange. Soon, however, curiosity got the better of all of them, and they simply crossed paths on the river and proceeded to the enemy’s bunker to deliver their goods and enjoy some local hospitality. Yet they were always careful to exactly match numbers of visiting soldiers.
It didn’t take much time before they were staying longer and longer, eventually settling in for extended card games!
One day in the middle of such a card game, a major arrived in my father’s bunker to inspect the site. He was immediately indignant at the German soldiers’ playing cards with their “prisoners.” Not only that, he noted, but they had done a very poor job of disarming their prisoners. It seems the Russians’ loaded rifles were standing in a corner, near the Germans’ loaded rifles! It was respectfully explained to the good Herr Major that these Russians were not prisoners, but guests.
“In that case,” he exploded, “take them prisoners at once!”
It was again explained most tactfully that this was quite impossible, you see, as there was an equal number of German soldiers visiting the Russian bunker at that very moment. On hearing that, the major ordered an immediate return of all these “visitors,” and left the bunker in a very agitated condition.
That quickly ended my father’s days on the Russian front. Within a day or two, everyone was transferred, my father ending up in France. There, he became acquainted with a brand new weapon the British fielded, something called a “tank.” The German soldiers quickly learned that these tanks were impervious to rifle and machine gun fire. Once one of these machines showed up in the neighborhood, it was prudent for infantry to execute a strategic move to the rear.
Eventually, my father, Wilhelm, wound up in the Battle of Verdun. He was badly wounded there and made a vow to God that if he would get Wilhelm out alive, then he would devote the rest of his life to his service. Well, he got out all right, and managed to carry a Bible throughout much of his life, but as to dedicated service — once he got home safely, that was another matter.
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