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  ‘They’re singing,’ the colonel said after a while, a grin spreading across his face. ‘I say, the blighters are singing a Christmas carol.’

  The sound was soft at first, but gradually grew louder until the battlefield was filled with song.

  The British soldiers cheered when the Germans finished their carol, the colonel cheering loudest of all. Then he stepped right out of the trench and gave his men a rallying cry.

  ‘Come on, lads. Fill your lungs and clear your throats. Let’s show them how the Brits can sing.’

  He led his soldiers in ‘The First Noel’.

  The Germans followed with another of their favourites, ‘O Tannenbaum’. And then, just as the morning sun broke through the clouds, both sides burst into ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, the English and Germans words fusing into one loud song.

  Napoleon joined in as well, swept along by the wave of joy and goodwill that washed over everyone.

  He could not believe his eyes or ears. An hour ago this place had seemed so grim and ugly – a place of fear and hate where men did the awful work of war. Now those very same men were singing to each other.

  And that’s when he saw something extraordinary.

  Four German officers had climbed out of their trench.

  They stood for a moment, holding their rifles in the air, and then placed them slowly on the ground.

  They began walking towards the British, not a weapon between them. When they reached the middle of no-man’s-land, they stopped. One of them held up a bottle and beckoned to the British.

  ‘That looks rather like champagne to me!’ the colonel cried. ‘I say we join them.’ He called to his lieutenant and two other officers. ‘And bring a bottle of our finest whiskey, Jones.’

  Napoleon and all the soldiers watched in silence as the British officers trudged through the mud until they reached the Germans. The eight officers saluted each other and shook hands stiffly.

  But as soon as the champagne bottle popped its cork, cheers ricocheted around the battlefield.

  A moment later, soldiers swarmed out of their trenches. Leaving their weapons behind, they strode across no-man’s-land towards each other.

  Napoleon was glued to the spot, fascinated by what he saw. Soldiers pushed past him, laughing and chattering, their faces beaming.

  ‘Go with them, BB005,’ said Skin. ‘This is a most historic event. We need to record as much as possible.’

  Napoleon soon found himself right among the soldiers. Men were slapping each other on the back and shaking hands, drinking together, swapping cigarettes, or buttons and badges, hats and scarves. Some showed pictures to each other of family and loved ones. Others shared food.

  But most of all they talked. More than anything, Napoleon was struck by the babble of voices. And when they couldn’t speak the same tongue, they gestured in sign language.

  One German soldier entertained a crowd with his juggling, another drew portraits. An English soldier gave haircuts, with a long line of German customers. There were musicians playing folk songs, with soldiers singing along, arm in arm.

  A German soldier grabbed Napoleon, lifted him up and danced a jig with him balanced on his shoulders. Soon, a crowd of English and German soldiers were dancing as well, squishing and squelching in the mud as they whooped and hollered.

  And then, out of nowhere . . .

  Something shot past Napoleon, narrowly missing his head.

  ‘What was that?’ he yelped.

  ‘The missile that avoided a collision with your head by 8.5 centimetres was of the friendly kind,’ said Skin. ‘It is identified as a soccer ball.’

  A group of Scottish soldiers had found a ball and kicked it into the middle of no-man’s-land. Almost at once the German and British soldiers split into sides and a great big soccer match began.

  ‘I estimate at least one hundred players on each team,’ said Skin.

  ‘But no referee,’ Napoleon added. ‘It’s crazy!’

  He couldn’t stop laughing. Men were slipping and sliding in the mud, bumping into each other, falling down and being trampled.

  Then he realised that the ball was coming his way.

  ‘I need some help, Skin,’ he said as the ball headed straight for him. ‘Are those MudManagers working now?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ Skin replied, and then Napoleon felt his feet lift out of the mud. ‘Also activating Hoplite software to assist with speedier movement. And,’ Skin added, ‘I have downloaded several of David Beckham’s classic manoeuvres.’

  ‘WICKED!’ Napoleon shouted as the ball reached him. He slipped past soldiers left and right, weaving between them, almost skimming over the surface.

  ‘Jolly good, lad!’ the colonel shouted, egging Napoleon on.

  Makeshift goal posts had been set up and Napoleon was heading straight for them. Another ten metres and he could go for a goal.

  He covered the distance easily, outpacing everyone. The goalie charged at him, but Napoleon side-stepped and kicked the ball with all his might.

  ‘Bravo!’ the colonel yelled, and everyone cheered.

  But as the ball speared towards the goal a very fat officer suddenly appeared.

  ‘Oh, no!’ the colonel groaned. ‘It’s the brigadier.’

  Brigadier Browning stood in the middle of the goal posts, hands on hips. With his face scowling, he opened his mouth wide and shouted:

  ‘ENOUGH!!!’

  The soccer ball hit him in the stomach and he reeled backwards.

  Napoleon covered his eyes as a loud squelch and a shout filled the air.

  When he peeked out of one eye, Brigadier Browning was lying flat on his back in the mud.

  ‘Help me up!’ Brigadier Browning blustered, squirming in the mud. ‘Help me up at once.’

  The brigadier was so fat it took several men to haul him out of the bog.

  His face was like a ripe tomato as he glared at Napoleon.

  ‘Outrageous!’ he spluttered. ‘What have you got to say, boy?’

  Napoleon thought for a moment. ‘Um … good save, sir?’

  ‘What?’ The brigadier’s face turned purple.

  ‘Well, I thought I’d scored for sure,’ said Napoleon, ‘but then you popped up and —’

  Napoleon stopped talking. A warning beep from Skin was ringing in his ears.

  ‘Vibe Detector indicates explosive build-up of strong negative emotions. Recommend silence, BB005.’

  Napoleon looked at the brigadier. He was a volcano about to erupt.

  He stepped back, sure that the brigadier would explode at any moment. But then the colonel was at his side.

  ‘Frightfully sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘The boy didn’t mean any harm. He was simply caught up in the spirit of things.’

  ‘The boy!’ Brigadier Browning shouted. ‘It’s not the boy that makes me furious. It’s all this!’ He waved his arm at the merrymaking. The soccer game was in full force again, and everywhere men were yelling and laughing. ‘What the devil is going on, Colonel?’

  ‘It’s Christmas, sir. The chaps are celebrating.’

  ‘I’m not blind, man. I can see that. But they are celebrating with the enemy. The Germans!’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. But that’s what Christmas is about. Peace on Earth and goodwill to —’

  ‘Peace? Did you say peace?’ interrupted the brigadier. ‘We are at war, man. How dare you talk about peace!’

  ‘I only meant for now, sir, for this moment.’

  ‘Never! There can never be peace with the Germans. That’s what war is all about, you fool. I want the men back in their trenches at once. Do you hear? At once!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The colonel snapped to attention and saluted the brigadier. ‘And I will carry out the order.’ He paused. ‘But not yet.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Brigadier Browning fixed the colonel with a withering glare.

  ‘The men need this break, sir. Their spirits are low and they —’

  ‘Give the order, colonel. I command you. NOW!
’

  Yes, sir,’ the colonel said. ‘I will carry out your order. When the men have finished the soccer game.’

  ‘I see.’ The brigadier was fuming again. ‘Gross insubordination! I’ll have you court-martialled for this!’

  Brigadier Browning turned and tramped off through the mud.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Napoleon whispered to Skin.

  ‘It is not your position to interfere,’ Skin warned.

  ‘I’m not going to interfere,’ said Napoleon. ‘I’m just going to follow this creep and see what he’s up to.’

  Napoleon sneaked after the brigadier.

  Napoleon followed Brigadier Browning across no-man’s-land and into the trenches. The brigadier grumbled and growled all the way.

  ‘Peace on Earth,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ll give them peace all right – a piece of my mind! They won’t know what’s hit them when I’ve finished.’

  He disappeared into a bunker. Above the doorway was a sign:

  Napoleon waited for a moment and then followed.

  He slipped down a dimly lit passage just in time to see the brigadier enter a room. He crept up to the door and peeped through the keyhole.

  The brigadier walked across to a desk. On the desk was a small contraption. He sat down and began tapping on it.

  ‘Communication system identified as morse code,’ said Skin. ‘He is sending a message.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ All Napoleon could hear was the rapid tap-tap-tapping. ‘Can you work out morse code, Skin?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  There was a pause while Skin’s nanocomputers hummed into action.

  ‘Texting the message through now,’ said Skin. ‘Use Helping Hand to view.’

  Napoleon rubbed his hands together and opened his palms. They immediately became LCD screens, and a moment later Brigadier Browning’s message flashed across them.

  Napoleon gasped and stared at his palms in shock.

  ‘SMYTHE!’ he said. ‘The colonel is a Smythe! Like me. Did you see that, Skin?’ he stammered. ‘Professor. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Come in, Battle Boy,’ said the professor.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked. ‘Can it really be? I knew he looked familiar.’

  ‘Yes, BB,’ she said. ‘He is Colonel Ulysses Augustus Smythe. Your great-grandfather.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ he shouted. ‘I don’t understand. I have to find him. Tell him it’s me!

  ‘BB,’ the professor said quickly. ‘You can’t tell him who you are. Revealing that piece of information in the Battle Book would have catastrophic repercussions. It would change the direction of history. That is why I couldn’t tell you what your mission objective was.’

  ‘But I have to warn him!’ Napoleon cried. ‘The brigadier is crazy. He’s going to blow up his own soldiers if they don’t go back to their trenches.’

  Napoleon didn’t wait to hear the professor’s answer.

  He ran as quickly as he could along the trench, pulled himself up onto the edge and peered out over no-man’s-land. All he saw was a vast sea of soldiers. He climbed a pole to get a better view, but still couldn’t see any sign of the colonel, his great-grandfather.

  Professor Perdu’s voice crackled on his Battle Watch.

  ‘You still have one objective to fulfill, BB,’ she said. ‘I want you to —’

  ‘I don’t care what you want, Prof,’ he said. He slid down the pole. ‘I have to find my great-grandfather. I have to!’

  Napoleon muted his Battle Watch and plunged into the crowd.

  He pushed his way through the throng of soldiers, calling out the colonel’s name, asking if anyone had seen him.

  ‘It’s urgent,’ he told one English soldier.

  ‘And a Merry Christmas to you,’ the soldier replied.

  ‘Brigadier Browning is planning to bomb you all!’ Napoleon told a group of men.

  They laughed. ‘Old Brown Bum? He wouldn’t dare. Not on Christmas Day.’

  Napoleon was at the end of his wits. Then he saw Lieutenant Jones.

  ‘The colonel?’ Jones said. ‘He’s gone to his bunker. Said he had an important letter to write.’

  Napoleon found Colonel Smythe at his desk. The colonel looked just like his father – sitting at his desk at home.

  ‘There you are,’ the colonel said, looking up from a letter he’d just finished writing. Napoleon was panting. ‘What’s the matter with you, lad? Too much football, I bet.’

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Great-gra . . . er, sir,’ Napoleon gasped.

  ‘Jolly good of you. And excellent timing, too.’ The colonel folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. ‘Take this to the Despatch Office, like a good chap.’ He handed the envelope to Napoleon, and then shook his hand. ‘You’re a good lad.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ Napoleon said, taking the envelope and sliding it into his overcoat pocket. ‘But first I . . .’

  ‘Of course, have a rest by all means.’ The colonel pointed to a chair. ‘Go on, sit down.’

  ‘No, sir, it’s not that.’ Napoleon hesitated. ‘There’s so much I want to tell you. So much I want to ask you. But first, something bad has happened. You must come at once.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s the brigadier. I followed him. He sent a message to Central Command about everyone celebrating Christmas together.’

  Colonel Smythe leaped to his feet. ‘What did he say?’

  Napoleon repeated the message word for word.

  ‘How dare he!’ The colonel shook with anger. ‘Come along.’ He grabbed a trumpet and threw a large cow bell to Napoleon, then strode from the bunker. ‘There’s not a moment to lose.’

  As soon as they climbed onto the top side of the trench, the colonel gave a long blast on his trumpet.

  ‘You too, lad,’ he said to Napoleon. ‘Make some noise with that thing.’

  Napoleon clanged the bell with all his might as the colonel blew as hard as he could on the trumpet.

  But it didn’t make any difference. Half the soldiers took no notice, while the other half thought this was the start of another dance, or some kind of entertainment. They clapped their hands, kicked up their heels and made even more noise.

  ‘It’s no good,’ the colonel cried. ‘They think it’s all a big joke.’ He scratched his head. ‘There must be some way to get their attention.’

  ‘There is,’ said Napoleon with a gulp. ‘But you’re not going to like it.’

  He pointed to the other side of the trench. About fifty metres away was a line of cannons. Between them were soldiers with machine guns and rifles. The Special Riot Force had arrived.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Colonel Smythe moaned. ‘They couldn’t, surely —’

  VABOOOOMMM!!!

  One of the cannons fired. Its shell passed over the heads of the soldiers, but only just. Napoleon heard the whoosh and felt the rush of wind.

  This time there was silence among the soldiers.

  Three generals stepped from behind the cannons. They were decorated with medals and ribbons, and had ceremonial swords hanging at their sides.

  One of them lifted a loud hailer to his mouth and spoke.

  ‘Enough of this foolishness!’ the general shouted. ‘Get back to your trenches at once.’

  No-one moved.

  The general stamped his foot and rattled his sabre. ‘I won’t tell you again. Back to your trenches!’

  A few soldiers from each side began moving. But then Colonel Smythe stepped forward.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, and strode into the middle of no-man’s-land until he was directly opposite the cannons. He climbed onto a tree stump so that everyone could see him, and started singing.

  ‘Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephen.’

  His voice rang across the snow. Pure and clear.

  A few soldiers joined him, and then more.

  Soon, every single German and British soldi
er was singing. Their voices echoed across the snow.

  Napoleon was singing as well, as loudly as he could. But then he heard a warning beep from Skin.

  ‘Situation extremely dangerous, BB. The generals cannot lose control of this situation. There is a Level 9 chance that they will open fire at any moment.’

  Napoleon peered across at the cannons. He noticed that they were being lowered, and that the generals had stepped behind them.

  ‘You’re right, Skin. We must do something. At once!’

  As Skin analysed the situation, Napoleon glanced down at his Battle Watch. It was vibrating with urgent messages from Professor Perdu:

  Napoleon killed the pulsing and wiped the screen blank.

  ‘Well, Skin? What’s our battle plan?’

  ‘Recommend immediate light show using laser feature on the Helping Hand. That should distract the attention of the generals while we initiate back-up plan.’

  ‘Great,’ said Napoleon, pointing his laser finger at the sky. ‘Let’s give them the works!’

  Napoleon’s finger fizzed and the sky above the battlefield burst into a blaze of colour. Rainbows danced and flickered. Their hues swirled in and out of each other. Red, greens, purples, pinks, oranges and blues mingled in an endless play of light and lustre.

  Everyone on the ground gazed up in amazement.

  ‘What’s happening?’ a soldier shouted.

  ‘It’s a miracle!’ cried another.

  ‘Very creative,’ Napoleon whispered to Skin.

  ‘Thank you, BB005. But this is not the time for artistic appreciation. We have work to do. Initiating mega-size ShieldField hologram as we speak. Please prepare for take-off.’

  ‘A Whoppagram! Awesome, Skin. Of what?’

  ‘No time to explain. Let us simply say that it is appropriate to Christmas.’

  Almost at once a hologram of a sleigh complete with Santa Claus and reindeers formed around Napoleon. Soldiers backed away, startled as the hologram rapidly grew until it towered over them.