{"id":519,"date":"2021-12-03T06:55:04","date_gmt":"2021-12-03T06:55:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/english.illinoisstate.edu\/euphemism\/17-1\/?page_id=519"},"modified":"2021-12-03T20:16:47","modified_gmt":"2021-12-03T20:16:47","slug":"o-holy-night","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/o-holy-night\/","title":{"rendered":"O Holy Night!"},"content":{"rendered":"
Somoshree Palit<\/h5>\n
\n
\u00a0SCENE I<\/div>\n
A quiet night on the Western Front. The wintry winds gush in a harrowing whisper over bodies of soldiers, as indifferent to the shivering bodies as the bodies that had ceased all tremors and lay lifeless under the clear moonlight. Occasional gunshots heard. Snow fell in soft wisps over the dense solitude. Solitude at the war front is a dangerous thing.<\/em><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
Narrator \u2003:\u2003On either side of barbed fence,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003 \u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Where falling snow at night condense-<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 As if the earth in peace immense,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 Softly lulled in sleep intense,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 The men of mortal hunt.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Quietly fell the Christmas snow,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Songs of war it did not know.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Aching limbs of friend or foe<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Dreamt of home in trenches\u2003<\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003All quiet on the Western Front.<\/span><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The German trench. Soldiers can be seen sitting silent in the trench. A young boy of eighteen is seen bent over a piece of paper, writing.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel\u2003 : \u2003 \u2003\u00a0 \u00a0O Momma dear, how have you been?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Sweet Momma, it’s been a year.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Over lands of Ypres, Somme and Marne,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Do you, your Joel hear?<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O Momma here the copper sky.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Cannot but court the red,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That bejeweled lie on men who sigh,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Heroes when they are dead.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003But if I die, sweet Momma dear,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Know that I would never yield.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003l’d die for Germany without a fear<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003For flung from a German field.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Give my love to all, Momma,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That your gallant boy is well.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That your boy has sent you love, Momma,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Merry Christmas, yours, Joel.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Hans\u2003 : \u2003\u2003Your words might in a Church be read<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003To rouse the boys at home.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And would you vouch for ones who ‘re dead<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Decayed in the muds of Somme?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003You may not, but I have seen<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003You scream when a shrieking shell<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Fumes red with limbs all over the green<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Marking our German hell.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel\u2003: \u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 O Hans should I write the truth<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003For all of the world to know<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The ‘Roll of Honours’ gallant youth<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Are kids left dying slow?<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Of kids who smile at poppies bright<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003With nothing but wounds that ache,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The poppies know, and knows the night:<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Those kids would never wake.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Do I write of maggots that feed a-fresh<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003On roads cobbled with worms and flesh?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Or how we envy the dead who cease;<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And the dead envy living rats in cheese?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003They said we’d be back for Christmas,<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Back for Christmas from France. <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Oh lovely war! Good ol’ fashioned war <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003They never said which Christmas, Hans.<\/span><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Hans\u2003 :\u2003\u2003\u00a0Oh such a lovely war! <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Smiling they wrote our lie <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0‘Aged Nineteen’, with our shield<\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Sent to war to die. <\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Joel peeps out of the trench, as the scene closes on the German trench, shifting to show the trenches of the British. Tommy, a boy of twenty. glides his wounded fingers over his fianc\u00e9e’s picture.<\/span><\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy\u2003 : \u2003 If I could trade the world my love, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003In lieu for your gentle smile, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003I would trade my death, my life, my love, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0To kiss your eyes awhile. <\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003My lips that brushed your burning blush<\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Has kissed those frightened eyes, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Of soldier-boys’ fading flush<\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The fears the world denies. <\/span><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Sill would I return to you one day:<\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003My beloved, my spring-time dove, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Can you hear me, from trenches faraway? <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Merry Christmas, my love, fair love! <\/span><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Branden\u2003 :\u2003Hey Tommy, look at my cherubin smile, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003 O look at his face in glee, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003 O now would I exchange a thousand miles, <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003 And a million furlongs of sea <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003 To behold that face of angelic grace; <\/span><\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003 If the war would let me free.<\/span><\/div>\n
\n

 <\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
Tommy\u2003 :\u2003\u00a0 Such an angle, a sweet little child<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Bright as a morning sun<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That day I said in the barrage wild<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003”Johnny, get your gun, get your gun, get your gun'”.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003It’s best that he died, my brother John,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003He could not have borne the ring<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Of spitfire shells on Christmas morn,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And the night when angels sign.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

A buzz of voices heard. Soldiers in the trench grow restless, sensing probable danger. The scene shifts to the German Trench. <\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hans\u2003 :\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Joel! JOEL! Stay where you are,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Stay where you are, don’t leave!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Their guns don’t know it’s Christmas tonight<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Their guns no carols believe.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Joel O Hans, Hans, pray, do glance,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The Brits in France with guns.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Look them in the eye, say you deny :<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That they look not like German sons!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Look at their eyes, the darkling skies –<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The similar eries, you’l see,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Those fall in rain, in agonized pain<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003When slain can set them free.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003A Christmas bell is a shrieking shell<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Flaming hell where laughter goes.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Behind our scar, we are soldiers from far,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003But we are just children up close.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel walks out of the trench. A thousand guns point at him, threatening him with death. Joel sings, heedless of a probable death. <\/em><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel\u2003 \u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 Stille Nacht, heileges Nacht,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Alles schl\u00e4ft, einsam wacht,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh..<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The British Trench. Tommy looks out of the trench.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0It’s the night when the angels sing<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Over the dead in sand!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O rebel angel, sing. pray sing.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Shattering the No-man’s land.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy sees Joel, holding up a little Christmas tree. Behind him, Hans held up a placard, his childish handwriting read, “You no shoot, we no shoot.” <\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
Branden \u2003:\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 What if it’s a trap, a trap to kill?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 The Huns haven’t won much ground.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 What if their songs are a strategy still?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 Their Christmas: our dying sound?<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy \u2003:\u2003\u2003 The fat grey civilians at home<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Said, “Go out and fight the Hun!”<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O can’t you see them thanking God<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That they’re over sixty-one?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003All the roads to victory<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Are flooded as we go<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003There’s so much blood to paddle through<\/div>\n
\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That’s why we are marching slow.”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy and Joel meet on the No-man ‘s land, half-scared, half-brave: tired children beneath the ever-waiting firmament. Their fears vent in songs.<\/em><\/p>\n

Joel\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0:\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Stille Nacht, heileges Nacht,<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Alles schl\u00e4ft, einsam wacht…<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy\u2003: \u2003\u00a0 Round yon virgin mother and child,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Holy infant so tender and mild…<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel\u2003\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh…<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0Sleep in heavenly peace.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Slowly, the waiting sky heaves a sigh of relief. The soldiers came out of their trenches, singing greeting, laughing, embracing. It was the night of holiness. It was the night of Christmas. It was the night when the Saviour was born.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Narrator\u2003:\u00a0 \u00a0 On dreary nights of a screaming shell,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003When like rain the bullets fell –<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003When terrors convulsed rang their knell<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The hell on earth mocked Satan’s hell<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Ypres sounded as muffled scream.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003On those bare bleached bones of boys<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Who marched to death : those gagged convoys,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003On their eaten brains and tortured voice<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Blooms poppies over all warring noise<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Over the merriest Christmas dream.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Those boys so young for home did crave:<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Who were sent to kill and pretend to be brave.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Iron forged to an iron slave<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Graved in death in an uprooted grave<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Ypres still sounded as a scream.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Close your eyes and see those boys,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003They make a snowman, their laughing voice<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O hear, it is the very same noise<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That brewed love to Mary’s joys!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u2003\u00a0 \u00a0Merry, merry Christmas dream.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Dawn broke. The soldiers were now no longer distinguishable as Germans or British. They laughed, played football, sang, and remembered their lives at home.The soldiers, the machines of war, were children once again.<\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0Of men who plan our mortal wars,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And smoke cigars in your old-age barn,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And tell that God loves dying kids-<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003God died with us in the trench of Marne.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hans\u2003:\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 I have seen men choke on Somme-nian mud<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Carrion-flies dance on their rotten skin,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Dear Huns mouths with British guts and blood;<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Your God in heaven is a soldier’s kin.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Branden\u2003:\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 I have shuddered at what men can kill<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003For God, for land as big as Rome.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003When you murder a boy crying still<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Don’t you feel he ‘s crying for home?<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I had a friend, a German friend,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003At Ypres’ end he sat,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003At Marne-ian trench he killed a French,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Stabbed his lungs, liver and fat.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And then he cried for the boy that died,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003May be lied to the Verdun mud,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003He began to pale at Passchendaele,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Down the vale of holy blood.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Old men of mind say “War is kind,”<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Look behind at my German chum:<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Aching he squirms, his grim confirms<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That carrion worms ate his thumb.<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
\n
\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003He grins somewhere out in the air,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003His auburn hair but poppies anew,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003No verse or lull blooms off his skull,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003”My pal, I died, so will you.”<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003A man in a trench, Hun, Brit, French<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Has a nation, a notion, a name.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003When aching they die like children cry-<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003When dead, we are all the same.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Explosions heard. The anxious soldiers hurriedly get back to their trenches. The dream was over. Those betrayed eyes screamed for justice -but who provides justice when God is dead? <\/em><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Tommy\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 Merry Christmas<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Joel\u2003 \u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 Frohe Weinachten.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The boys return to their trenches. <\/em><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
(Exeunt.)<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
SCENE II<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
The British Trench. Tommy reclines on the sand-bags, fiddling with his helmet. Gunshots, shells, explosions and screams rage all about him. <\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Narrator\u2003:\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Amid God help Germany’ and ‘God save the king’ ,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003’God this’, ‘God that’, and ‘God the other thing’.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Amid war-cries, battalions and bugles death ring,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003All birds forgot their very job was to sing<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u2003Choking on their breath.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And now screams a copper sky,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The calm for every aching eye:<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003”Politicians are honest men who lie<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003For Europe’s peace they war at Versailles.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u2003Sent youth like moths to death.”<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
A lark gets entangled in the barbed wires. Tommy attempts to free its tangled, almost bloody wings, and succeeds. He smiles. <\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tommy\u2003:\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0O lark of skies, sweet skylark free,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003As winds brush past your amber flight,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Sing to skies, the earth, the sea:<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Fly higher and higher to the Heaven of light.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003And ask of God who sits right there,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Of worms that eat up living skin apart,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003He would not answer, he wouldn’t dare!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003We love our crooked father with our crooked heart.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Gunshot. A groan, and silence. <\/em><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
SCENE III<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
The German trench. Artillery fires rage horridly on the Western Front. Screams rise and cover the air, as if suppliant to a deity that itself is victimized. Joel crouches down, hands over his ears, trembling. writhing in pain. The Western Front knew no mercy.<\/em><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Joel\u2003:\u2003\u2003\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Christ! Christ! O why don’t they stop!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Why don’t they stop the murder of dead!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O God it hurts! Stop! Stop! Stop!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003I wanna go home I don’t wanna be dead!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Shall I awake, and find all this a dream?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003HELP! STOP THE NOISE! STOP IT! CEASE!!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O we cannot be made for this sort of pain!<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003O KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME PLEASE!”<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Joel looks over his shoulder at the explosion just behind him, worsening his shell-shock <\/em><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Out of the bullets, who is that born?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003His eyes my eyes do meet…<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Who smiles in pain on a warring morn,<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Amidst the warring heat?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003His blood is shed in a crown of thorn<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Nail-marks glow on His feet.<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Gunshot, a whimper, and silence. <\/em><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
Narrator\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0:\u00a0 \u00a0 Close your eyes, and hear them still.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003The countless graves and names they wrote.<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003Close your eyes, can you hear him sing?<\/div>\n
\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003\u2003That rifle shot him on his throat.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
EPILOGUE<\/div>\n
Five nails has killed the Prince of Peace Whose soldiers dead are children’s geist. Four shots had killed us children four And the last bullet was shot at Christ.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
*********************<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Somoshree Palit \u00a0SCENE I A quiet night on the Western Front. The wintry winds gush in a harrowing whisper over bodies of soldiers, as indifferent to the shivering bodies as the bodies that had ceased all tremors and lay lifeless under the clear moonlight. Occasional gunshots heard. Snow fell in soft wisps over the dense… <\/p>\n

Read more O Holy Night!<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":40,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-519","page","type-page","status-publish","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/40"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=519"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":588,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519\/revisions\/588"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/17-1\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=519"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}