1916 On Christmas Day

December 25, 1916—No Man’s Land 

Frost clung to the churned mud, slick and unforgiving under his boots, as Corporal William “Will” Morgan adjusted his woolen scarf against the bitter wind. The war had chewed up and spat out countless young men like himself, reducing them to numbers, statistics on a commander’s report. Yet here he stood, gripping an aging leather football, feeling more alive than he had in months. 

The unofficial truce had taken on a momentum of its own. Both the British and the Germans had emerged cautiously from their trenches in the early hours, their grimy faces skeptical but hopeful. White flags of truce fluttered like fragile doves with broken wings, and somewhere in the bitter cold of No Man’s Land, an idea was born. 

"Goalkeeper, Morgan!" shouted his mate, Private Robbie Bennett, who grinned with a tooth missing from a nasty scrap at the Somme. Robbie clapped Will on the shoulder and added, "Don’t let them Jerries score on us, eh?" 

"Don’t worry," Will said, stepping back toward the makeshift goal—two wooden poles hastily driven into the frozen muck. "I was born for this." 

Across the field, the Germans organized themselves with surprising camaraderie, their voices a mix of Bavarian dialects and clipped Prussian orders. Their goalkeeper, a tall, lanky man with a face as pale as the frost, waved cordially at Will. 

"Let’s see who vins this one, nein?" the German called out in accented English. 

Will smirked. "Been practicing, have you?" 

The game began with an awkward kind of ceremony, the ball rolling in the icy mud like a relic of a forgotten world. Men laughed and cheered, the haunting weight of war temporarily lifted. Gone were the rifles, gas, and mortar fire; in their place was the universal language of sport. 

For forty minutes, Will flung himself into his role with abandon. Diving, parrying, and, occasionally, shouting insults at his German counterpart. By the time half the field had turned to mush under the pounding of boots, Will had conceded a single goal—much to Robbie’s mock outrage. 

"Lucky kick," Will muttered after a particularly daring save that sent him sprawling into the muck. 

During a lull in the game, a German soldier approached him, extending a gloved hand. Will looked up warily before accepting the handshake. 

"Müller," the German introduced himself. 

"Will Morgan," Will replied. 

Müller gestured to the crisscrossing chaos of players. "You are good. Maybe you play for England after this war?" 

Will chuckled dryly. "Maybe. If there’s anyone left to play for." 

Müller didn’t laugh. Instead, his gaze drifted to the trenches on either side, where silent specters of comrades watched, rifles slung but ready. 

Neither man said anything more. Instead, they returned to the game. 

The final moments were frantic, both sides determined to take a symbolic victory back to their lines. Robbie lobbed a perfect pass toward a lanky lad named Tommy, who maneuvered past three German defenders. Will leaned forward, heart racing. 

Tommy sent the ball sailing toward the goal, a perfect arc that seemed to hang in the air longer than physics should allow. Müller leaped for it, but it slipped past his outstretched fingers, slapping the back of the net. 

A roar erupted from the British side, and Will laughed so hard it hurt. He didn’t notice the German players clapping respectfully, nor did he see Müller grinning as he shook his head. 

But just as quickly as it had begun, the spell of the game was broken. A whistle sounded from the British trenches. 

"Back to your lines!" came the order. 

Both sides froze, the harsh reality of war reasserting itself. The soldiers exchanged murmured farewells and hurried back to their positions, some daring to shake hands one last time. 

Before retreating, Müller caught Will’s eye. "Maybe next Christmas," he said quietly. 

Will nodded. "Next Christmas." 

December 25, 1946—No Man’s Land 

The field was quiet now, save for the crunch of frost under Will’s boots. He had spent the better part of the day traveling across what had once been the Western Front. The scars of war had healed here, replaced by fields, sparse woods, and the distant hum of life rebuilding itself after yet another conflict. 

But to Will, the echoes of the past were louder than ever. 

He stopped at a spot where the earth seemed flatter, less wild. There were no markers, no flags, no memorial stones—just an expanse of open land, claimed again by nature. 

For a long time, Will stood in silence, memories of 1916 swirling in his mind like the cold mist of December. He thought of Robbie, who hadn’t made it to the following Christmas. He thought of Müller, whose fate he never learned. And he thought of the game—the moment when humanity had pierced the darkness of war, if only for an hour. 

A leather football rested under his arm, weathered and cracked but intact. He had found it in an antique shop years earlier, and though it wasn’t the ball, it felt close enough. 

Carefully, Will placed the ball on the frozen ground. For a moment, he imagined the sound of voices—shouts of encouragement, laughter, and the bark of commanders telling them to return to their lines. 

He pulled a flask from his pocket, took a slow sip, and then spoke aloud: 

"Here’s to the lads who played that day. And to the ones who didn’t come back." And then he poured it into the wounded earth.

The wind seemed to carry his words across the barren landscape. 

Will leaned down and kicked the ball lightly, watching as it wobbled across the frost-coated earth. 

As it came to a stop, a sound carried on the air—a faint echo of laughter, or perhaps just the wind. Will smiled, imagining Müller catching the ball, ready to send it back toward the British line. 

With one last glance at the field, he turned and walked away. But for the first time in thirty years, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter. 

The memory of the game was enough.