Christmas 1944

My family gathered together this Christmas for my father, now 90 years old, to read the Christmas stories he has been reading for 62 years now. Every year we get out the 1947 Giant Golden Book with the beautiful illustrations by Corrine Malvern and his once strong voice falters over the words to “The Cobbler and His Sons”, “The Peterkins’ Christmas” “The Harper”, and finally “The Night Before Christmas.” In recent years we have discussed having one of us younger people read the stories, but his is the voice of them, and sadly will be extinguished sometime in the future.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.