I won't be home for Christmas

Christmas night and silence broke the chaos of the battle that usually condemned us to our position. Snow fell tentatively to the ground, often floating on the soft breeze, dancing delicately to the already white ground. Charlie and I sat somberly in our foxhole, nearly frozen by the penetrating, cold air. Looking about, I thought there seemed to be no dearth of trees, except across the destitute and barren no man’s land between our line and the enemies. I saw a finite amount of stars for the clouds seemed to converge over our position. In the distance I heard a man speaking.1

“Come on boys, get up. Get up. Come with me.”2

It came from one of our men. The voice came closer and grew louder; he was walking from hole to hole, coercing men to come out. I poked my head up over the dirt to where I could view the scene. Tired soldiers warily stood and followed the man; I realized it was captain Hogan, our company commander. Men plodded after him in disarrayed formation, rubbing sleep from their eyes. As the procession neared our hole, I felt Charlie poke my arm just before he deployed to join the group. Sighing, I followed, only wishing to rest, for I had not had a decent period of repose for months.3

Captain Hogan continued to all the holes, then gathered the men in front of a small fire built by a private who sat to the side, looking dour cue to his lack of sleep. Each of us stood around the soft, orange light, some sitting on musty blankets they had carried with them or decrepit, rotting logs scattered about the forest floor. I settled myself against a small tree with pliable branches, which I bent and broke off, anxious to know why we had been called. I had an inkling, as I’m sure many others did, that it had to do with our new orders from General Peterson. Captain Hogan finally entered the circle we had formed around the small flames, looking each of us in the eyes.4

“I know you are all tired,” he said. Most all of us nodded our assent to his statement. “But it’s Christmas.”5

He then flashed us a smile of unfeigned joy as he began to sing. Looking around the circle, I saw men gaping at the Captain, mouths hanging wide open, in surprise. I myself was planning on ascertaining our new orders, but was astonished to hear our commander sing Christmas carols. Soon, many of us joined him, including me, adding to his already vociferous singing.6

Men smiled and were exulted as we sang more, some embracing others with a sideways hug, others chuckling gleefully at this Christmas surprise. After songs of our childhood, those of pure giddiness, had finished, silence fell over the circle as Hogan began a different tune.7

“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me…”8

My body went limp when I heard the words of the song I knew so well. My fellow soldiers lost their joy, their eyes distant, seeing something no others could discern. Focusing on the fire, I remembered what Christmas was like at home. The pungent smell of pine and smoke would fill the house, as mother meticulously trimmed the tree and father smoked his old pipe. On the table would be a plate topped with all my favorite cookies; nostalgia filled my head and I smiled a small, private smile.9

“Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents on the tree…”10

There would be gifts under the tree, the beautiful tree I had so proudly chosen myself. My parents extolled my perfect choice of our tree and I beamed. Mother’s face looks so pleasant, her supple, red cheeks becoming rosier as she grinned at me. Father patted me on the back, his esteem of my judgment showing in his eyes. Tears welled up in my own eyes as I mused of Christmas’ past; times I was with family in a warm house feeling nothing but love and cheer.11

“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…”12

Dropping to my knees, I cupped my face in my hands and cried softly. “I won’t be home for Christmas,” I thought. Instead, I was stuck here in this ominous land, hiding from adversaries, trying every day just to live one more hour. I wept at my situation, the memories of my parents, the unrelenting wish to be home.13

“I’ll be home for…”14

Shots rang out through the still night air.15

“Everyone down! To your foxholes!”16

The chaos began again as the enemies opened fire on our company, having heard our joyous singing, deciding to give us a Christmas gift of death. Scrambling up from the ground, I ran wildly to find my foxhole. There. It was not ten feet away. I got within two feet and dove for my hole.17

A stinging pain entered my shoulder and settled itself in my chest. I fell, writhing, on the ground, bleeding into a puddle already forming beneath me. As I lay there, dying, I thought again, “I won’t be home for Christmas…”18