The True Story of “Joyeux Noël”
An alternate look at an alternate history
by Arvin N. Prebost
DO YOU remember the famous “Christmas Truce”? It was a series of spontaneous ceasefires along the Western Front around Christmas in 1914. In the week leading up to this ancient holy day of our people, German, French, and British soldiers crossed no-man’s-land to exchange seasonal greetings, talk, and relax together. They honored the dead of both sides; there were exchanges of prisoners, and several meetings ended in carol-singing.
But soon the order was given to return to the trenches and resume hostilities. The men slowly and reluctantly shouldered their weapons and set their hearts toward war.
But then something happened that the history books leave out:
Suddenly a voice like unto a goddess’s, filled with calm authority and power, rang out over the frozen terrain. It could be heard for miles. Every valley and hill and riverbank resonated with its words:
“Noble Sons, put down your weapons and follow me.”
The men looked about and saw no one except their fellow soldiers. But they did see several men from both sides throw down their weapons and head to a certain part of the field. Soon, more and more men threw down their weapons and joined them.
“Come back and pick up your weapons, or you will be shot!” came the commanding threats in English, French, and German. Some men were shot. But soon the exodus was too great to stop.
This column of men set out and marched through all the fields of war, encouraging other soldiers to join them. Many more of them were shot, but the survivors did not stop. They called themselves “The Noble Sons.”
The vast majority of soldiers of all European nations joined them. The ordinary people applauded them — and gave them food and drink. Soon, it was rare to hear the sound of artillery or even of gunfire.
“What has happened to our war?!” asked the bankers, Jews, communists, politicians, weapons manufacturers, and predator-capitalists. “We must raise another army to put down this insurrection!”
So they did. It was an army of misfits, louts, Jews, criminals, and weaklings. They could not endure even one night of the European cold — and surrendered en masse to the Noble Sons, who treated them well and then loaded them on their now-peaceful naval vessels to send them all to some backwater land in Palestine.
“We have one option left,” said the bankers, et al. “We will arrange for this hired man of ours, Scofield, to preach to them, and convict them of their sins. Then they will resume fighting.”
So they arranged for a “revival” — a mass meeting, with Cyrus Scofield preaching, on the very route that the Noble Sons were marching.
The Noble Sons walked right into it while the choir was sweetly singing the old hymns. Many of the Noble Sons were overcome with emotion, remembering long-ago days in church with people who loved them.
Then Scofield stepped up to the podium, his dark eyes flashing, mouth firmly set, his limbs trembling with holy fervor. His voice resounded through the hall.
“First of all, you have earned, and received, a tremendous blessing by helping the People of God regain their Promised Land in Palestine! You have fulfilled Bible prophecy!” he roared. “But you lack one thing more to receive the true and final riches of His Glory — take up your arms again, and crush the Hun, crush the oppressor! Make the world safe for democracy! Grab the Hun by the throat, now! It is God’s will, and it will help His Chosen People, and you will be blessed forevermore!”
He lifted up his trembling hands and looked skyward, enraptured, as the organ swelled and the choir blared, “Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before…!”
Then, from no one knew where, a bare-breasted woman of most noble bearing appeared, wearing Classical garb. She walked across the stage to the pulpit and slapped Scofield, terrifically hard, across his face. The musicians fell silent. Scofield sank to his knees, stunned. Then the woman grabbed him by the hair, lifted him up, and then, as if he weighed no more than a sack of feathers, flung him into the assembled crowd.
As she threw him, she cried out, “Lies! Claptrap! Insanity!” And then she turned to the soldiers, saying, “I am Europa. I am the voice that called you.”
“This is not the time for this man’s lies and damnable nonsense. I want all my Noble Sons to live, because I am your true mother.”
“I,” she emphasized, “not ‘Mary.’ Not some peasant woman from the Middle East. Yes, remember that religion with fondness, if you wish, because you Europeans took that miserable little cult, combined it with the best of Europe, and made it a thing of wonder. But realize what comes first — the gifts of art, reason, devotion, and brilliance that are your birthright as sons of Europe! With them, you can do anything! With them, something new is beginning, ever since you heard my voice on that Yuletide night.”
The men cheered. The words of the goddess filled them with resolve to have no more wars between brothers; and to make Europe, and all colonies of Europe, the very best in the world — and forever secure from any invaders or tricksters from without. And this they did, with the joy of the Creator in their hearts.
Today, all European countries exemplify advanced art, mathematics, technology, philosophy, and sciences beyond what any dreamer has ever dreamed before. And the goddess Europa is honored everywhere the footfalls of her Noble Sons — and Noble Daughters — are heard.
Yahweh’s “Chosen People” in Palestine went on to produce the vilest pornography, the most deceptive egalitarian propaganda, the cleverest and most dishonest money-getting schemes, and the most disgusting degenerate music and art . . .
But nobody with European roots falls for any of it.
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