It’s late December 1944. The 101st Airborne is surrounded
and under siege in a place called Bastogne.
A 19 year-old Texan cleans his M-1 Garand rifle, counts his ammunition
and sharpens his bayonet; preparing for the last stand. His General has already rejected the Germans’
surrender demand with one word: “Nuts”.
There would be no surrender. The Battle
of the Bulge had come down to this place and this time at a strategic crossroads
town in Belgium.
A few Belgian citizens had remained in Bastogne. On Christmas Eve they opened their homes to the men of the 101st. After a modest meal and perhaps a glass of wine, together they prayed for strength and clear skies so Allied airplanes might come to the rescue. Patton’s 3rd Army was on the way, but could the 101st hold on? Someone read from the Bible and in the candlelight the soldiers sang Silent Night. Then gathering whatever courage they could muster went out into the cold darkness and back to the front lines.
My father was that 19 year-old Texan. He had been wounded in Holland but made it
back just in time for the Battle of the Bulge.
Like most combat soldiers, he had become a fatalist. If it was his time to die, so be it. Obviously,
he survived or I wouldn’t be here to write this. But he never really got over
the war. The ghosts of war haunted him
until the day he died…perhaps most of all at Christmas.
“I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it
all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. The Spirits of all three shall strive within
me. I will not shut out the lessons that
they teach.”- Charles Dickens
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