The first flakes of snow began falling as Chaplain Richards made his rounds through Medical Station Two. Each bed held another letter to write, another confession to hear, another soul trying to find peace before Christmas morning they would never see. The clock on the wall showed 8 PM on Christmas Eve, each tick bringing their families closer to a holiday that would shatter their worlds forever.
"Chaplain," Private Williams called weakly. "Help me write one last letter? My hands... they're shaking too much."
Richards sat beside the dying man, paper ready. But Williams shook his head.
"Not yet. First... first I need to confess something."
The chaplain leaned closer, expecting the usual battlefield sins. What came instead broke something inside him.
"My daughter Mary... right now she's helping her mother prepare for Christmas morning. Hanging stockings, leaving cookies for Santa." His voice cracked. "She made me promise to help her check them first thing tomorrow. Said only daddy knows how to tell if Santa really ate them..."
Down the ward, someone started humming O Come All Ye Faithful. The melody caught like a virus, spreading bed to bed. Men with hours left to live finding comfort in childhood memories of Christmas Eve anticipation.
"She'll wake up so early tomorrow," Williams continued, tears flowing freely now. "Running to our room like she always does on Christmas morning. But daddy won't be there. Daddy will never be there again..."
The words poured out of him as Richards began writing:
My dearest Emily,
The chaplain says it's Christmas Eve. Our last one together, though you don't know it yet. I can see you now, arranging presents under the tree after the children are asleep. Making everything perfect for a Christmas morning I'll never see.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Three beds down, Lieutenant Harrison dictated his own letter: "My darling Claire, are you wrapping my gift right now? The one I promised to open first thing tomorrow?"
I keep thinking about Mary's stocking...
By the window, Sergeant Miller whispered his words: "Sarah, my love, did you hang my stocking next to yours like always?"
Tell her Santa came...
The voices grew weaker but held the hymn: "O come let us adore him..."
Major Chen added his voice to the letters: "My beautiful Anna, I'm sorry I'll miss our Christmas morning tradition..."
Tell Tommy Jr. his presents from daddy...
Private Rodriguez's hands shook as he wrote: "Mi amor, save the midnight mass candle for me..."
The presents are in my footlocker...
Captain Brooks dictated through tears: "My sweet Ellen, I bought our baby's first Christmas stocking..."
I wrapped them myself...
The hymn faded as voices failed one by one. Richards moved between beds, taking final confessions, writing last words. Each man trying to give their families one last Christmas Eve before tomorrow's letters shattered their worlds.
In her farmhouse cellar, Tanya received the evening's casualty reports. Her hands trembled slightly as she read the observer's note: "They're dying, Colonel, but they're thinking of tomorrow morning. Of stockings and presents and children who still believe in Santa. Of Christmas Day they'll never see."
The snow fell outside her window as the clock ticked toward midnight. Toward a Christmas morning that would turn joy to ashes for thousands of families. Toward wrapped presents that would become memorials and stockings that would hang empty forever.
The war would continue after Christmas.
But tonight, on this sacred eve,
Even Tanya the Merciless felt the weight of tomorrow's shattered joy.
Private Williams never finished his letter. The chaplain completed it, adding one final line:
Tell Mary that daddy helped Santa check the cookies. That he'll check them every Christmas Eve, watching over her from heaven.
Tomorrow would bring horror's return.
But tonight was for remembering.
For grieving all the Christmas mornings that would never come.
For stockings that would hang empty.
For children who would wake to joy transformed to sorrow.
The snow fell on friend and foe alike, covering the battlefield in false peace as Christmas Eve ticked toward a morning that would break so many hearts.
Tomorrow would be another day of suffering.
Tonight they were just broken men.
Writing letters that would turn Christmas into a day of mourning for all the years to come.
The clock struck midnight.
Christmas Day began.
And in Medical Station Two, no stockings hung for men who wouldn't live to see the morning.