Silent Night at Broadsword Inn

Helga clean the tables in the dining room.  It was almost closing time and since it was Christmas Eve, she wanted to get home to her husband and three young children.  It had been a difficult few weeks as most of Iepers had been leveled by relentless artillery from both British, French and German guns.   Peter Van Dyken owned the century-old establishment, but some of the building had been damaged in the fourth battle between enemy forces.  This part of Flanders had been under constant siege or at least that’s what it seemed like since the start of the war four years ago.  

Smoke rose from the craters created by the artillery from both sides.  A few kilometers west were the German trenches and a kilometer or two east were the trenches of the allies and again the town of Iepers lay between the two sides.  There were rumors that when the shells fell, they would open the graves of the soldiers who had died in the previous battlefields in the area.  Peter knew better than to dig too deeply in the soil around the town. A death head had settled over the area once again. 

In the dining room there was a large stone fireplace in the middle of the room.  There were about twenty tables now empty with red and white checkerboard tablecloths.  In one corner near the bar there was an upright piano that was hardly ever played since it was mainly for show.  Two large plate glass windows had a view of the muddy streets since it had not stopped raining for over three weeks at least.  

“Helga.” Peter called out as he tidied up the bar.  Helga van de Berg was his daughter who had married a bright young man from Brussels.  He was commissioned as a lieutenant and died in 1915 no more than ten kilometers from The Broadsword Inn in the outskirts of Ypres in an unsuccessful attack on the German flank. “We must hurry.  Rumors are claiming that  the Germans will begin an artillery attack at midnight.” 

“On Christmas?  What barbarians.” She hissed as she dusted the upright piano.

“This war has not been favorable to business.” He smiled as he washed some glasses.

“You only care about the cash register.” Helga sniped.

“True, true.” He nodded as a distant shell exploded somewhere near the trenches. Hart to tell whether it was German or French or even British. 

“It is good the Americans are now helping us.” She noted.

“Yah, good thing.” He was famous for his sarcasm. 

“Oh papa.” Tessie snorted as she mopped the floor. 

“Americans, I have no use for them.” He waved his hand, “Always telling us how we don’t have this or that.  Arrogant bastards.” 

His experience with Americans happened before the war when tourists would come to the quaint picturesque town of Ypres.  It was never good enough.  It wasn’t Paris.  

More artillery explosions many kilometers away.  The war was never really far away it seemed.  

“Hey.” An American soldier stumbled in the door.

“Sorry, we are closing up.” Peter waved his hand gesturing toward the door he came in, but instead three more came into the inn. 

“We will pay you.” He took out a handful of bills and put them on the bar. “We are lost.  Our unit sent us on a mission, but after sunset, it became hard to find our unit.” 

“No, no, we are closed.” He repeated, putting hands on the bar and leaning forward.

“Papa, why not?” Helga asked, seeing how beleaguered they appeared.

“I will cook something for them.” Tillie, his youngest daughter offered. 

“Bah, no good.” He shook his head.

“Please papa.” Tillie pleaded.  It did not take a scientist to know that she was interested in the men which made him even more uneasy. 

“We can...it’s Christmas.” Helga tugged at his sleeve.

Americans.  They looked like boys to him, like his son Blaine who was cleaning up the cooking area.  Blaine was going to turn eighteen in a month and then he would be called up to go fight for his country.  He had not slept well at that thought.  Once he believed the war would end a month after it began in 1914, but that did not happen and here four years later, the troops had come back to Iepers or Ypres as the French called it.  

“Very well, have a seat, but as soon as you are finished, I want you to leave.” He pointed to the door with his finger.  Tessie gave each of them a menu, but the way she looked at these men made his blood boil.  She was only sixteen. 

“We cannot thank you enough, monsieur.” The American spoke in French.  He wore a single silver bar on his collar and seemed to be in charge.

The four men sat at the table in the center of the dining room.  They began to talk in their own language, but Peter understood most of it since he had been dealing with American tourists for quite some time before the war.  

“We must have missed the road.” One of the men spoke out.

“Yes, the one back near the chapel.  I’m sure that was the one.” Another claimed.

“We will go back and have a look.” He rested his Springfield against his chair. 

“If you please, leave your rifles at the table near the door.” Peter pointed.  Each of the four nodded and put their rifles on the table as requested.  The officer did not have a rifle, but he kept his pistol safely in his holster.  The table with three rifles now laying across it was just a table away and could be easily accessed by the soldiers if need be.  

More voices were heard speaking French and before Peter could move, five French soldiers came sauntering in the door. The Americans came to their feet, but were much relieved to see an ally and not an enemy.  The French soldiers nodded and doffed their kepis when they entered and saw the Americans.

Now there were nine hungry soldiers in the Broadsword wanting to be fed.  Peter felt his face redden, but how could he tell these soldiers that his inn was closed when the Americans were seated for dinner.  

“I cannot tell you how grateful we are that you are feeding us.” The officer spoke in French, “I am Lieutenant Barkly.”

“And I am Peter van Dyken.  These are my daughters, Helga and Tessie.” He told the lieutenant.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.  Merry Christmas.” Lt. Barkly smiled. 

“Papa, aren’t we closing?” Blaine walked out of the kitchen quite surprised to see the French and American soldiers. 

“They came in before I could lock the door.” Peter explained.

“So we are going to serve them?” He shrugged.

“Yes, as they serve us on the battlefield.”  Peter nodded, “Now get back into the kitchen.  We have some goose, non?” 

“Oui papa.” He nodded and though he was not happy about it, he could understand his father’s point of view.

“Tessie, my dear.” He called to her as she stood much too close to the American soldiers and appeared to be very amicable toward them.

“Oui papa.” She walked over to him.

“Go home and get your mama.” He said smiling.

“But I am taking their order.” She shook her head.  He noticed how mature she looked to him, not a child anymore. 

“Do as I say.” He crossed his arms over his wide chest.

“Oui, papa.” She sighed.

“Gentlemen, we only have goose available for dinner.” He spoke both English and then French.  There was no descent in either group as goose would be a fine holiday dinner for all to feast on.  There also would be sweet potatoes and red cabbage to dress the dish up with some color as well as a few noodles.  Blaine took out some bread, cut it and placed it in the warmer so that it would be served warm for dinner.  

As Peter helped his son, they heard the soft voices of the soldiers singing some Christmas carols and Peter and his son began to hum along. 

Clerisa entered in a tizzy, “So what is going on?  Tessie tells me that we have customers.  After closing hours?  Don’t we work hard enough?” She hung up her coat on a hook near the sink that was overflowing with dirty pots and pans. 

“It is true.” Peter pointed to the dining room. Clerisa stuck her face through the swinging doors and saw the soldiers.

“Ah, now I see.” She nodded, “It is Christmas.” 

 “I could not turn them away.  The weather is dreadful.” Peter began to plate the duck in a bed of noodles as Blaine put a ladleful of sauce on each serving.

“You are a good man, Peter.” She kissed him on his cheek and then put an apron on.

“I was wondering if I could play your piano.” One of the Americans asked in English. “My name is Frank Morgan. I’m from Toledo...Toledo, Ohio that is.” 

“Frank from Toledo, Ohio, help yourself.” Peter nodded.

“Thank you so much.” He turned on his heel and a moment later the notes of a Christmas hymn filled the room.  Some of the keys were out of tune, but the spirit of the moment was beyond expectations.  Some of the French soldiers, singing in French got up and began to dance to “Joy to the World.”  

Plates began to be set in front of the hungry soldiers.

“I’ve never had duck before.” One of the Americans said as he looked at his steaming plate.

“Bon, bon.” Helga smiled and nodded. 

“Eat it Witowski.  It is so much better than those K-rations you've been wolfing down for the last few months.” Lt. Barkly said as he put some into his own mouth.  He closed his eyes letting the flavor wash across his tongue before he began to chew. “Oh my God, this is what they must feed the gods with.” 

The music and dance stopped as each soldier ate the food that was placed in front of them.

“I miss my folks back home.” Daniel Woodrow sighed after he swallowed his first mouthful. “Right now they’d all be gathering around the tree near the fireplace where dad would be roasting chestnuts.  Mom would be serving apple cider.”

Witowski patted him on the shoulder as tears began to flow down Daniel’s face.  He too missed his family and he understood his comrade’s emotion.

“My name is Captain Forche.” One of the French soldiers stood up, “And I would like to raise a toast to all who are here.”

There was an unrehearsed cheer that rose up.

“American, French, we are all one people.” He raised his glass, “And I am honored to share this with you on this holy day.” 

There was more cheering only a bit louder.

The cheering would stop abruptly as three German soldiers walked into the Broadsword.

Daniel got to his Springfield, but Lt. Barkly grabbed the barrel of the rifle and held it pointing to the floor.

“Not here.  Not now.” Lt. Barkly commanded.

None of the three who entered were armed and would have surrendered if asked to do so.  One of the Germans was not wearing shoes, just socks and the socks were wet.  As he removed them, everyone could see black where the frostbite had set in.  He lifted his chin and wiped the tears from his invisible blue eyes.

Peter, who hated the Germans with all his heart, could not help but feel sorry for the unfortunate man.  He was no longer German or an enemy, he was a suffering human being. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder and led him to the fire still blazing in the fireplace.  The man sat in the chair and held his hands out to the flames as well.

“Danka.” He said as turned to Peter.

“Merci.” Peter nodded.

“My name is Hans.” A tall man stood up, “Kaptain Rouse. I Graduated from the University of Pennsylvania.”

“Here’s to the graduate of Pennsylvania.” Lt. Barkly lifted his glass of wine followed by the rest of his men.  The French were a bit hesitant, but in the spirit of the holiday, Captain Forche raised his glass.  His men would follow his gesture.

“On this day of peace...good will to men, let us join in this meal together.” Lt. Barkly ordered.

Three more plates appeared from the kitchen.  The Germans ate as if it had been days since their last meal and Lt. Barkly thought that that might just be the case.  

After dinner, Frank resumed his place at the piano and the music once again filled the room as each man was filled with a hearty meal and some very good wine.  

“Please, please.” Kaptain Rouse raised his hands and Frank stopped playing.  Glancing at the two soldiers that had accompanied him, he pulled out a harmonica and in deep voices began to sing “Stille Nacht.”  Some of the French soldiers began to hum the solemn melody.  When the last note was played, Kaptain Rouse nodded and said “Danka.” 

Peter stood next to his son, both leaning on the counter as Clerisa leaned over Peter’s shoulder behind the counter wiping the tears from her eyes with a napkin.  Both Tessie and Helga embraced.  A cheer went up as soldiers embraced in what could only be described as a miracle. 

They spent the night together, sitting in front of the fire, toasting comrades who had fallen in this horrible slaughter known as the Great War. 

The Germans with Kaptain Rouse left before dawn while the French bid adieu as soon as it was light enough to see and the Americans, last to leave, thanked Peter and his family for a memorable evening.

“I think just having this one moment of reprieve will live in our memories longer than all of the bad memories.” He shook Peter’s hand, kissed both daughters and Clerisa on their cheeks.  Standing in front of Blaine, Lt. Barkly said, “Don’t be too quick in signing up.  Hopefully this war will be over soon and you won’t have to become part of it.” 

With a salute from the other three, the Americans left the Broadsword Inn as Christmas day bloomed across the town as the first day in over a month it did not rain or snow.  

Peter van Dyken would learn that there would be many versions of the story of the Silent Night at Broadsword Inn, but no matter what version you choose to believe in, the fact remains when it comes right down to it we are all the same.