A Christmas past

Column

I am, understandably, usually thought of as "that ultra conservative columnist." In keeping with the true spirit of Christmas, I decided to soften up, and share with you a still warm and bright memory of one of my Christmas evenings, retrieved from the far distant past.

It was Dec. 24, 1945; barely 18, I was the youngest crew member aboard the U.S. Army Hospital Ship, Jarrett M. Huddleston. We had been evacuating wounded out of Cherbourg, France, and taking them across the channel to Southampton, England.

Cherbourg had been a major French port, until the Germans essentially destroyed it in 1944, just prior to the Normandy Invasion. The U.S. badly wanted to be able to use it, but even 18 months later, only very limited shipping tried to use the port.

Because of a lack of tugs, our arrival and departure was always an exciting event, involving colorful swearing, shouting, along with thick hawsers snapping like sewing thread, and much unprofessional bumping into the one pier in use, which still proudly bore a huge sign lettered with Normandie, which had once been queen of the seas, but now lay in the mud of New York's Hudson River piers.

As night fell on the city, the darkness swallowed it, because electricity had been but little restored, and even that was used most sparingly. By strange contrast, our white hospital ship was blazing bright, as was normal during Atlantic crossings, so that U-boats wouldn't mistake it for anything else.

As I stood alone at the rail, gazing toward the town, which I had visited several times before, our ship's white, green, and red reflection rippled gently across the harbor's cold black waters.

Christmas Eve was always very special at my family's home in suburban New York. There was a customary concert of classic Christmas music, held in the high school gymnasium, and featuring stars of the Metropolitan Opera, whom lived in town. It seems as though, as we walked home from the concert, soft flakes of snow always began to fall.

By the time we reached our street, a soft blanket of snow slightly muffled carols being played on the bells in the old, grey-stone church I attended. Our family would go there in a few hours, for the special service honoring the reason for the season. Back home later, with brightly lighted tree, fire flickering in the brick fireplace, and cups of warm spiced cider, we'd try to guess what might be in the beautifully wrapped presents around the tree, while more, classic, Christmas music came out of the family's one radio, located in the living room.

By comparison to today's typical gifts, ours were modest indeed (ties, handkerchiefs, underwear, homemade cookies, perhaps a shirt, a rare can of Planters peanuts, a candy cane, or even a personal manicure set), but the spirit of the season was rich and unforgettable.

Perhaps I was, while there at the ship's rail, drifting away to a happier place and time, but no, it really was snowing; the soft flakes disappeared as they landed on the water. The only sound was the usual hum of a ship tied up at a pier, which we had long ago learned to tune out; then I heard distant singing, which had the familiar feel of Christmas hymns.

I strained, searching the black shoreline for signs of carolers. Within a few anxious moments, a moving string of lights appeared out of darkness at the left, and moved slowly across the darkened waterfront. Eventually I was able to make out a long line of hundreds of humans, bundled up against the cold, carrying candles or lanterns, and singing what I assumed to be traditional Christmas hymns.

As the snow became heavier, the little lights on shore flickered on and off, but the hymns came through just as before. I was thinking how these people, living amid rubble, without light or heat, and with little food, were out in the snow celebrating Christmas, just as they probably had for centuries.

My mind was turning to thoughts of my home town, and of my walk through a wonderland of falling snow, as Christmas bells rang out, and carols filled the air. Miraculously, at that very moment of deep inner reflection, the ship's disk jockey started playing a recording of Bing Crosby singing "I'll be home for Christmas," which was broadcast throughout the ship. Suddenly overcome with emotion, I held my head in my hands, and leaned on the rail, looking down at the cold black water, with its rippled reflection of our ship.

A warm arm gently wrapped around my shoulders, and a woman's soft voice whispered "Merry Christmas John." Wherever that Army nurse may be today, I wish her the Merriest Christmas possible – and thank her from the bottom of my hard old conservative heart.