Silent Night

All I could focus on was the stars. I somehow managed to find a break in the canopy of branches to view them. Along with the view of constellations came the visibility of my breath in the cold air. I could not express my admiration for astronomy or relay the captivation I was in for it was night. Not only did the night have to be dark but it also had to be silent. My existence has to remain unknown. Between the trunks of the trees, over the roots and soil lay the snow that fell weeks before. The still of the night was almost as breathtaking as the stars. There is some beauty in this silence. A beauty in which unless you were in this very moment, you couldn't comprehend. If the chill didn't rattle my very bones, this night would be perfect. The only light appeared through the trees and was supplied by the moon. If it wasn't for the unfamiliar landscape, it'd be hard to think I was anywhere but in the forests of Pennsylvania, hunting. Instead of buck, I await my opportunity to hunt the most dangerous game. Game so dangerous that it was awaiting to do the very same thing to me. They are only hundreds of meters away in their own silence and darkness. 

For as beautiful as the night was, there was a lingering sense of doom that seemed sharper than the cold breeze that riddled my body and the bodies of those around me. It was so heavy in the air that it almost felt tangible. With that, crept fear and uncertainty. That is why I find my reservation in the stars. The stars are certain. The stars are forgiving and the stars are just. I turn my back towards the Western Front, with my buttstock on the ground and my gloved fingers wrapped around my barrel, I slowly sink into my hole. My ragged dark-green trench coat dragging along the dirt wall.I close my eyes to journey to a place that wasn't here. Any place. As I sought my refuge, distant sounds broke the silent night. As I listened more adeptly I could hear it was singing. It wasn't from my side of the lines but from the lines of the Boche. The carless tone and off-key voices rang out to the tune of Silent Night. Soon, we all found ourselves singing along. Finally, there was no war. There was no hate or overhanging doom. Even after the singing ceased, men sat in their holes, grinning. All reminisced of Christmas' past. After reality slowly crept forward, the grins disappeared. The warmth quickly fled and the silence returned. One can never forget that Stille Nacht in the Ardennes forest. 

Reviews

[Keesmommy]

Good writing. Talent. So brief, it is more a vignette than a short story. You could flesh it out a bit more. Read it ALOUD to yourself and HEAR how it sounds. I think you will "fine tune" it a bit.
Christmases (the plural) in last paragraph.
Keep it up. Write more prose.

[Anneke Weg]

Woah. I can almost imagine that I am the protagonist in this story. The way you describe this scenario is wonderful. Very vivid.

[Lucas Maas]

Thank you, Anneke. They say a picture is a worth a thousand words but why not use a thousand words to paint a picture?