Exchange

“Good Morning Fritz!” I call out into cold, yet still, December morning air. 

The trench water at my feet is freezing. All of the rats are tucked up inside the dugouts where the other men of my unit stir in the crisp morning air. Bulked up with a warm wool overcoat, rifle in hand, soup bowl upon my head, I’m standing behind the parapet, calling out to my enemy in the middle of a war.

“Good Morning Fritz!” I repeat, figuring he didn’t hear me the first time.

There’s been no firing from either side for the past few minutes. Most of us just aren’t that interested in shooting right now. It’s too cold to bother with a weapon. Instead of aiming my rifle, I’m hoping to talk to one of the krauts.

“GOOD MORNING FRITZ!” Booming across no-man’s land, my echo ricochets back to me.

From across no-man’s land a faint voice calls out “Good morning.”

I got him to reply, and in English no less!!!

“HOW ARE YOU TODAY?” I ask, hoping that he’ll keep talking.

Again, faintly, as if nervous to say anything, but compelled to respond, “Alright.”

There is a real guy over there.

“COME OVER AND GET SOME FAGS!” I offer, thinking that he’d enjoy a smoke as much as the rest of us.

A moment goes by, then another. Just as I’m about to repeat myself I hear, “No, I will be shot.”

That’s a legitimate concern. We are at war after all, and there is a no-man’s land to cross.  

Calling out to my boys, I declare “Nobody fire, I want to see if we can meet this guy.”

A few men look out the dugouts toward me smiling. Most ignore me, going about their quick dry shave or button polishing.

“NO YOU WON’T!” I declare.

I doubt that convinced him, but I won’t shoot him, and there’s no one else with a rifle even at the parapet right now.

More time passes before the faint reply returns to my ears, “Fear.”

“COME OVER!” I call out.

Instantly, he replies, “YOU COME OVER!” This time he’s speaking with confidence.

I’m not going over there. Are you kidding! Dashing across no-man’s land to the enemy trench for a fag is not worth it.

Turner calls out to me from within his dugout, “Meet the kraut halfway if you want to see him so much.”

Yeah, that works.

“HOW ABOUT WE MEET HALFWAY?” I offer, figuring at worst we both get shot.

“OK” he replies.

“Now you have to go.” Turner gets out before laughing.

Yes, he’s right. Now I have to meet this kraut halfway across no-man’s land.

“Cover me, will you?” I call to Turner.

He looks up at me, “You’re on your own Newton. You started this, you finish it.”

With a smile on my face, I slowly put down my rifle, placing it gently on the duck board of the trench. 

At least the water at the base of the trench is frozen so it won’t fall in.

Looking up at the parapet I pause for a moment.

This is it.

Turner, still watching from the dugout yells loudly “HE’S COMING, DON’T SHOOT!”

At that, I climb the ladder. At first I raise my head above the trench wall.

No one shot me!

Then the rest of my body.

I feel like a million eyes are upon me.

Behind me men are starting to stir. Many are beginning to come out of their dugouts to watch.

I’d imagine at least a few are expecting me to be shot any second. I know I am.

From across no-man’s land I see a single German soldier rising out of his trench as well.

“HEY FRITZ!” I call out as I place both of my hands halfway up, exposing one empty open palm, and a pack of fags in the other.

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” He calls in reply, one empty palm exposed to me, with a mass of something in a paper wrapper in the other.

Walking toward each other over shell holes, broken bodies of former comrades in arms, and through shattered barbed-wire barricades, Fritz and I keep our eyes on each other rather than the ground.

Do I give him my real name?

“Anthony Willibaugh” I declare. “What’s yours?”

“Gerhard Neufeld” he replies, less than 10 meters from me.

As we approach I can see that he’s holding a mass of something in wax paper in his left hand. He recognizes me looking at it.

“Munster Cheese” he offers, holding it out to me from just 1 meter.

“Yes, please!” I reply. “Fag?”

“That’s why I’m here.” He declares.

He begins opening the wrapped cheese as I fumble with the fag box. Taking out two fags, I hold them out to him. At the same time, he has broken off a large chunk of cheese, which he offers me with his right hand.

“Thank you!” Gerhard says to me, as I say it right back to him. He takes one of the fags from my hand. I clasp onto the chunk of cheese with my left.  

“I’m going to reach into my coat for my lighter” I inform him.

We can’t have any misunderstandings now.

“Of course,” he replies.

As I reach into my pocket I sense the presence of others approaching. Looking up, I can see three Germans coming toward me from behind Gerhard.

What is this, are they going to jump me?

Turning to see what’s behind me in case I need to run, I see four of my boys, including Turner, approaching just a few meters away. Behind them, at least five more guys are making their way out of the trench.

I look back at the Germans again. Each is holding a small object wrapped in paper. As they approach they unwrap the paper, exposing sausage, dark bread, and even a bottle of wine.

My guys come up and start shaking hands with and talking to the Germans.

They’re not so bad.

On December 11, 1914 the first truce took place between British and German soldiers facing each other across no-man’s land of the Western Front. What started out as simple baiting of the Germans by a British soldier turned into a sincere exchange of food and cigarettes. When the opposing soldiers met they realized they could speak English to each other, and that they had much in common. Most were young men away from home for the first time. They avoided talking about the war, but showed pictures of girlfriends, shared their food, and smoked for about a half-hour. When they were done they went back to their respective trenches, at which time the war resumed. This little truce was the harbinger of the Christmas Truce phenomenon that took places at many locations across the front on December 25, 1914. When soldiers met soldiers they realized they were all in the same predicament. When the high ranking officers on both sides heard about the truces they ordered artillery to fire and for the men to never be allowed to converse with the enemy again. This was the last time in the War when soldiers on both sides realized and agreed they had nothing to fight about.

NISHI

“It’s 11 already!” Susanne, the hurried nurse in the white uniform complete with the folded red-crossed nurse’s cap, blurts out to me as she rushes up to Mr. Barrymore’s room. 

“Yep, and he’s not in the best mood today.” I call back, doubting that the Master of the house can hear me through the thick plaster walls of his Mediterranean-style Beverly Hills villa. 

“Take me outside now!” I hear in a yell muffled through the walls.   

I better hurry on his lemonade, or I won’t hear the end of it until his nap at 2. 

Quickly, I begin picking out the ripest lemons from the box delivered this morning. 

Mr. Barrymore’s mood seems to shift rapidly from confused and docile old man enjoying the last wisps of life to frustrated curmudgeon energetically angry at a world he no longer understands.   

My fingers burn from the acidic lemon juice pouring over them into the measuring cup as I slowly turn the juicer with my left hand and the lemon with my right. 

“Mary, can you help with the stairs?” Susanne calls to me from atop the staircase. 

“I’ll be right there.” 

Choosing between finishing his lemonade and allowing him his daily time outside is never easy.  Why don’t I ever start making the lemonade earlier? 

Shuffling to the bottom of the staircase, I wipe my lemon-scented hands on a dishtowel that I then stuff into the beige apron wrapped around my waist. 

The Master’s wheelchair is descending slowly down the side of the staircase with machine precision so that his frail body is not jostled as he moves from one level of the house to the next.   

This German-built contraption may be the last piece of German machinery imported to the United States before the Germans declared war on us. 

Having just been installed, the wheelchair elevator is a machine that Mr. Barrymore accepts, but he does not appreciate having to use. 

“This damn NAZI machine is not needed in my home.  I can take these stairs myself!” he barks out. 

“Yes Sir,” Susanne replies. “We’ll walk back up on our return.” 

Missing the irony in this response, Mr. Barrymore grunts an affirmation, before looking up at me. 

“Where is my lemonade?” he demands. 

“I’ll have it ready as we step outside” I reply as I take his right hand to help him dismount from the wheelchair connected to the wall. 

Susanne comes down the staircase quickly and takes his left arm in her own to guide him out the door. 

 Rushing back to the kitchen to put the final touches on the lemonade, I can hear the front door open as the two of them burst into the garden. 

I pour in three soup-spoonfuls of white Hawaiian sugar, mix in a cup of ice-cold water with the lemon juice, and stir the mixture into a tall pitcher before pouring the sugary concoction into a carafe that I place on a tray next to a spotless drinking glass. 

The Master cannot accept spots on his drinking glasses; a lesson I learned only too well again yesterday when I had to clean up the shattered remnants of one off of the walkway outside the front door. 

Carrying the tray out the front door, I overhear Mr. Barrymore ask, “What are those soldiers doing with Nishi and his family?” 

I had completely forgotten that today is the day that Nishi, the gardener, and his family are being taken away. 

“They’re going away,” Susanne replies. 

“Why?” Mr. Barrymore asks, a look of concern on his face.  

Mr. Barrymore looks across the well-trimmed hedges toward the driveway, where a large ugly green truck sits surrounded by soldiers.  Nishi, his wife, and two sons fervently gather their meager belongings at the behest of multiple gun-toting boys in uniforms that match the wretched truck. 

Susanne looks up at me, hoping I can save her from having to explain to Mr. Barrymore why he is losing his gardener. 

“Sir, Nishi is Japanese. We are at war with Japan.” I softly offer as I set the tray of lemonade on a side table. At the same time Susanne lowers Mr. Barrymore into a chair on the freshly mown lawn. 

“But is there a war on with Nishi and his family?”  Mr. Barrymore asks. 

Susanne and I look at each other. 

How do I answer that? 

One day in the early spring of 1942, at the door of John Barrymore’s California mansion, Barrymore saw his Japanese-American gardener Nishi with his family and their belongings waiting to be carried away by soldiers. Barrymore was dying, his mind fading in and out of reality, and he did not understand what was happening.  When someone explained that America was at war with Japan, Barrymore could only murmur: “But is there a war on with Nishi and his family?”   

         On February 19, 1942, President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, authorizing the Secretary of War to prescribe certain “military areas” and to exile “any or all” persons from them. Though couched in broad language, the order was aimed at Japanese-Americans.  Under this order, in the spring and summer of 1942, 112,000 Japanese-Americans were removed to internment camps throughout the country, eventually ending up in 10 permanent camps away from the coasts. Germans, Italians, Romanians, Bulgarians, and Hungarians were all exempt from this roundup. Not a single Japanese-American was ever brought to trial on charges of espionage or sabotage in the United States. Thousands of Japanese Americans fought and died for the United States in World War II while their family members were held in camps for the duration of the war.  One of whom, Daniel Inouye was awarded the Medal of Honor, and became the highest ranking Asian American in United States politics. 

Source: The Home Front U.S.A., Time Life Books, 1978, pp. 27.

Relief

Sweat beading down from atop my forehead finds a path into my eyes, stinging my vision just as I dismount my black Arabian stallion. 

I feel alive!

Across my back, under my arms, and between my legs, beads of salty water pour forth, honoring a vigorous July morning ride. 

Nothing feels better than pushing myself and my steed to the limit!

I woke this morning in good spirits despite Franz-Joseph’s ultimatum. 

Why did he have to be so harsh? No one wants a European War!

I pause for a moment before entering the hall of Potsdamplaz.

Once I go in there, the world will come back.

My cotier of servants and advisers, always ready to break my sense of good feeling with the affairs of state, stand impatiently behind that door, anticipating my return.

With a false sense of self-confidence and assuredness, I thunder into the hall, looking left and right at the gaggle of staff breathless for my every word.

“Any news?” I ask, not really wanting an affirmative reply.

“Yes, Kaiser, there is news of the Serbian reply to Austria-Hungary’s Ultimatum” my Foreign Affairs adviser calls out from the front of the pack as he hands me a crisp sheet of finely typed letterhead.

With my left hand I take the paper, slapping the back of his head with my right.

We could all use a good laugh!

Laughing vigorously, I look around the room. Everyone in the room offers a nervous laugh, attempting not to look at the embarrassed man who handed me the note.

“I’ll look at this in my office. Bring me eggs.” I call out while moving through the mass to my private study.

Entering my office, I am delighted to see that everything is in its place. 

The servants are finally coming around. Show and presentation mean as much as substance.

I look down at the piece of paper before taking a seat behind my mahogany desk. Placing the crisp sheet upon the black blotter, I can’t help but be caught for a moment by the contrast between the darkness of the blotter and the bright paper upon which is written the Serbian reply to Austria-Hungary’s ultimatum. Then, I begin reading:

(Preamble) ...[Serbia] cannot be held responsible for manifestations of a private character, such as articles in the press and the peaceable work of societies ... [The Serbian government] have been pained and surprised at the statements, according to which members of the Kingdom of Serbia are supposed to have participated in the preparations of the crime...
[However, Serbia is] prepared to hand over for trial any Serbian subject . .of whose complicity in the crime of Sarajevo proofs are forthcoming [as well as officially condemn all propaganda against A-H].
[Serbia will] introduce ... a provision into the press law providing for the most severe punishment of incitement to hatred and contempt of the [A-H] Monarchy...
 
The Serbian govt.] possesses no proof ... that the Narodna Odbrana (Black Hand) and other similar societies have committed up to the present any criminal act of this nature ... Nevertheless, [Serbia] will ... dissolve the Narodna Obrana and every other society which...
 
[Serbia will] eliminate without delay from public instruction ... everything that serves or might serve to foment the propaganda against [A-H], whenever [Austria] furnish them with facts and proofs...
 
[Serbia] also agree to remove from the military service all such persons as the judicial inquiry may have proved to be guilty of acts directed against the integrity of the territory of [A-H], and they expect [Austria] to communicate ... the names and acts of these officers for the purpose of the proceedings which are to be taken against them.
 
[The Serbian govt. does] not clearly grasp the meaning or the scope of the demand ... that Serbia shall undertake to accept the collaboration of the representatives of [A-H], but they declare that they will admit such collaboration as agrees with the principle of international law, with criminal procedure, and with good neighborly relations.
 
...As regards the participation in this inquiry [which Serbia intends to hold] of Austro-Hungarian agents... [Serbia] cannot accept such an arrangement, as it would be a violation of the Constitution...
 
[States it has not yet been possible to arrest one of the persons named; request proofs of guilt from Austria]
 
[agrees to reinforce measures against illegal trafficking of arms and explosives across the frontier with Bosnia-Herzegovina]
 
[offers explanations of anti-Austrian comments by Serb officials if Austria sends examples of their actually having been made]
 
[Serbia will duly notify the measures taken, but if Austria is not satisfied with the reply] the Serbian government . . are ready . . to accept a pacific understanding, either by referring this question to the decision of the International Tribunal of the Hague [i.e., the World Court], or to the Great Powers...   

This is fantastic! Nine of the eleven demands are now met!

Picking up a pen in my right hand, I place a few notes at the top of the text:

A brilliant solution—and in barely 48 hours! This is more than could have been expected. A great moral victory for Vienna; but with it every pretext for war falls to the ground, and [the Ambassador] Giesl had better have stayed quietly at Belgrade. On this document, I should never have given orders for mobilization.

German Kaiser Wilhelm II was so satisfied with Serbia’s reply to Austria that he immediately wrote to his foreign minister, Gottlieb von Jagow. In this note he states “Austria-Hungary should use the reply as a basis for negotiation on the outstanding points. Perhaps Belgrade will need to be occupied temporarily (largely to give the Austro-Hungarian army an outing) but there is clearly no need for war.” Seeing no reason for speed, the Kaiser sent his message by courier rather than telegram or telephone. Unknown to the Kaiser, Austro-Hungarian ministers and generals had already convinced the ruler of Austria-Hungary, 83-year-old Franz Joseph I, to sign a declaration of war against Serbia. As a direct consequence, Russia began a general mobilization to attack Austria in defense of Serbia. An hour after the Kaiser read the Serbian reply, Austria declared war on Serbia, starting World War I.