One Christmas Eve in a military hospital
World War II was drawing to a close. Many men and women had spent three, four, five years or more away from all that had meant so much to them.
Here, in the surgery ward of the old Bushnell Military Hospital in Brigham City, had been accumulated the remnants of men from the battlefields of Europe and the Pacific. Here, men lay writhing in pain, legs and arms swathed in bandages. In many cases smooth sheets lay flat where an arm or a leg ought to have been. It was freezing outside as December drew near to a close. Anticipation of Christmas came into the ward through the comments of nurses and orderlies. As radios produced Christmas carols, such as “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, there were many who turned their faces to the wall to avoid the glances of others, and openly wept. How could they go home to sweethearts and family with empty sleeves and pinned-up trouser legs? It would be months, in some cases years, before some would go home.
A tree had been set up and was being decorated by hospital personnel. Tonight was Christmas Eve! Orderlies and nurses pushed hospital beds into a wide, irregular circle around the lighted tree. Ambulatory patients filled the chairs set among the beds. A volunteer Red Cross girl was seated at a piano brought to the ward for the occasion. The time grew close for the singing of carols and the giving of gifts provided by service groups.
“Now, who will lead the group in singing?” No one responded to the volunteer’s request. Then, for some unknown reason, attention centered upon a young soldier standing off to one side.
“Let him start us out,” someone shouted, and quickly the suggestion carried through the crowd. “Yeah, let him sing a carol”. Hands were laid upon the soldier, and he was gently yet firmly shoved to the front.
There, in the light of the Christmas tree, in that ward in the Bushnell Military hospital, Christmas Eve, 1945, the youthful soldier groped for recollection of words to a Christmas carol. In an almost inaudible, tenor voice, he began to sing, Silent night, Holy Night; all is calm, all is bright.
First falteringly, then with more surety the strains of the song began to fill the ward. Others joined in. At first, just a few, then more, catching the spirit of the occasion, lent strength to the singing.
Suddenly, as though a beautiful miracle were being performed, from faces that had been turned away in despair and depression, where faith had wavered behind closed eyelids and tight lips, now came a few whispered words, a spark of hope, and a rekindling of faith.
Now the words came with greater volume as men, crying unashamed, joined the singing. “Holy infant so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace; sleep in heavenly peace.” That night it seemed that a gift of hope was given to men whose hope had become dimmed by the tragedy of war.
I think back to that Christmas long ago. That young soldier singing Christmas carols was me, a young Jewish boy who grew up in a home where Christmas carols were forbidden to be sung. A Jew who had felt the pangs of anti-Semitism; who had been trounced upon by playmates; who had grown to manhood to serve his country; to stand one Christmas Eve in a military hospital ward and sing of Christ the Savior being born and to awaken His spirit in the hearts of his Christian buddies.
Max Yospe • Salt Lake City, UT
Originally Posted by Dwight Schr-Ute
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote