Here is a touching true story from the book, I'll Be Home For Christmas The Library of Congress Revisits the Spirit of Christmas During World War II. This story was written by Marine Edward Andrusko, who was wounded three times in battle.
Christmastime 1944...
Miracle on a Train
I arrived at the San Diego railroad station early one 1944 morning and joined throngs of anxious holiday travelers who were burdened with baggage and Christmas gifts. We climbed aboard the overbooked holiday train. Lines of military and civilian passengers pushed and shoved each other, scrambling for the last remaining seats.
It would take an eternity---four days and four nights---to reach New York City. Still weak from malaria and hurting from my recent battle wounds, I was not looking forward to this long, boring trip.
I struggled down the aisle, carrying my Marine Corps seabag. Panic set in as I neared the end of the car. It was the last one, and all the seats looked occupied. My anxiety was interrupted by a loud voice: "Over here, Marine, and hurry up; I have a seat for you."
I hurried over, sat next to a sailor and thanked him for the seat.
"Hi, mate," he said. "They call me 'Ski,' because of my long Ukrainian name."
We both grinned and clumsily shook left hands. My wounded right hand was in a sling; and his right arm was amputated, with his empty jumper sleeve pinned up at the shoulder.
When I saw the many Navy men and women struggling through the narrow aisle, I asked Ski why he, a Navy man, gave me, a Marine, this seat. "Well, I saw your shoulder patch, your combat ribbons, and battle stars, and I knew that you and I fought in the same campaigns. You were on the land, and I was on the sea. I served aboard the USS Chicago, a cruiser named after my hometown. I lost my arm when we were torpedoed off the island you were fighting on."
The locomotive's loud steam whistle blew, then with the clang of its large bell we started to move, heading east across southern California.
Ski and I were both proud of the Navy and Marine Corps, but were bitter toward the military hospital we had just left. It had an inefficient administrative system and the medical staff was overworked and burned out. Four years of war and the continuous flow of casualties had created a callous attitude.
We were disenchanted with the negative treatment we had received from the military and the apathetic civilian world since our return to the United States. It was this type of poor management that put rehabilitating servicemen on this crowded train rather than on an airplane.
This would be my fourth Christmas away from home, and the season always made me sad because of the many friends who had died in battle during this holiday.
Our train was traveling at maximum speed, but across the great American desert it seemed like we were not moving fast enough. We had too much time on our hands.
We could sleep sitting up in our seats, stand in line for meals and washroom, or reminisce bittersweet battle memories with our train mates. Ski and I agreed that we both became near atheists and cynics after three years of war. Soon we tried to sleep the time away.
En route to Denver, our train would wind ever so slowly through many tunnels, around picturesque snow-covered mountains and valleys. I consoled myself that time was no longer important. What was my hurry-- I would miss Christmas at home by a day. My parents had split up, and I had no hone to go to. My girlfriend of four years sent me a "Dear John" letter, saying she had waited too long for me to return and found someone else, And worst of all, when I was well enough for duty, I could be sent overseas to battle again.
We left Denver early in the morning in a snowstorm. Our train's whistle blew often as we charged across the prairie states through a howling blizzard. It was nightfall somewhere in Illinois. Our train slowed to a crawl because of poor visibility. It was freezing outside and getting colder inside our passenger coach on this Christmas Eve.
The train conductor entered our car and called out, "It's ten o'clock, two hours to Chicago, next stop Chicago!" He dimmed the lights and left.
Ski turned to me and said, "Eddy Lee, I'm worried about my family meeting me at the Chicago station and seeing me like this. I asked my girl not to come. What should I do or say to them?"
"Act natural, they know about your arm, try to be yourself," I said. "You all love each other, and I'll bet they will thank God that you made it home alive. It will all work out fine; you'll see. Now let's try to get some sleep."
Our train suddenly made an unscheduled, metal-screeching stop. A few waking passengers muttered, "What's going on?" Most went back to sleep.
I looked out the window and could see only a small, dimly lighted railroad station surrounded by large snowdrifts. The door at the other end of the car opened, and in the darkened car, I could just barely see a small boy and a mature woman coming into our coach.
They walked slowly up the aisle, looking at the passengers, apparently looking for a seat. The two strangers cautiously headed toward my end of the car.
I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep, wondering why the train was not moving. It just sat there at this lonely, dark railroad station. I fell asleep for a few minutes, until I heard a noise in front of me. I slowly opened my eyes and saw the young boy, about eight or nine years old standing in front of me, staring.
The boy smiled and said, "Welcome home and a Merry Christmas, Marine. My grandmother and I would like to give you a gift and thank you for serving our country."
The boy handed me a dollar bill and then shook my hand. The grandmother put her arm around me and said, "God bless you." Then they both smiled and said, "Merry Christmas and good-bye."
I was surprised and moved. I said, "Thank you, thank you very much." I searched in my seabag for some sort of Christmas gift for the boy. When I looked up, they were gone.
Our train whistle blew; we lunged forward and were rolling again. I quickly looked out my frosty window and saw the boy and his grandmother leaving the dismal railroad station. I waved goodbye as they slipped into the darkness. They did not see me.
I sat back in my seat bewildered, wondering what had just happened. Had it been real? I queried Ski and the two soldiers sitting across from me if they too had seen the little boy and his grandmother. The said, "No, we were sleeping." Ski added, "You must have been dreaming."
My mind raced with questions. Who were they? Why did they pass by all those other servicemen, including other marines, and then stop in front of me? Maybe I was sleeping, and with all the medication I was taking for pain and malaria, it just could have been a strange, nice dream.
It was two more hours to Chicago, and I decided to try to get some sleep. But before closing my eyes, I looked down at my tightly closed fist. I slowly opened my hand and there was a crumpled-up dollar bill.
I contentedly fell asleep with my precious gift tucked safely in my pocket and a pleasant feeling in my heart, the nicest feeling I had in a very long time.
The conductor came into the car and announced our arrival in Chicago. Passengers took their baggage from the overhead compartments. I helped Ski with his seabag. He was getting off. He was home.
Ski and I said our emotional good-byes as the train came to a stop. The crowd of passengers left through both exit doors. I sat back, waiting to continue my odyssey of another thousand miles to New York City.
It was midnight. As I looked out the train window, I was surprised to see hundreds of people, young and old choirs of many ethnic and racial backgrounds on the station platform, all holding candles and sheet music and singing Christmas carols. The people and the station were all decked out with the holiday spirit and decorations. It was a bitterly cold, snowy Christmas night in Chicago, but the holiday spirit was cheerful and warmed all our hearts.
As I enjoyed the joyful singing, our train car doors opened and the singing choirs of young people paraded in. Each singer carried a tray of food and drinks. Each tray held a complete Christmas dinner with a small gift on it. There were enough trays for everyone on the train. We were no longer strangers. We all sang, ate and celebrated together. It was the most beautiful, festive Christmas I had ever had. Our generous Chicago hosts cheerfully wished us a "very Merry Christmas and a welcome home!"
This train odyssey and these unbelievably beautiful events changed my bitter feelings. I really felt I did make it home for Christmas.
Many years later, I told this story to my family at Christmas time. I pondered out loud, "Who was that little boy on the train, and why did he and his grandmother choose me? Why me?"
Our visiting young niece was playing on the floor with her Christmas toy. She had quietly listened to my sentimental wartime story and replied, "I know."
We all looked at her and I said, "You know what?"
"I know who the little boy on the train was, and why he picked you. The little boy was God, and he chose you because you were very, very sad and disappointed with everyone and everything. He wanted to make you happy again and welcome you home--- and he did."
And then I knew a Christmas miracle had happened to me when I needed it most, during the war, on that train and in Chicago.
Christmastime 1944...
Miracle on a Train
I arrived at the San Diego railroad station early one 1944 morning and joined throngs of anxious holiday travelers who were burdened with baggage and Christmas gifts. We climbed aboard the overbooked holiday train. Lines of military and civilian passengers pushed and shoved each other, scrambling for the last remaining seats.
It would take an eternity---four days and four nights---to reach New York City. Still weak from malaria and hurting from my recent battle wounds, I was not looking forward to this long, boring trip.
I struggled down the aisle, carrying my Marine Corps seabag. Panic set in as I neared the end of the car. It was the last one, and all the seats looked occupied. My anxiety was interrupted by a loud voice: "Over here, Marine, and hurry up; I have a seat for you."
I hurried over, sat next to a sailor and thanked him for the seat.
"Hi, mate," he said. "They call me 'Ski,' because of my long Ukrainian name."
We both grinned and clumsily shook left hands. My wounded right hand was in a sling; and his right arm was amputated, with his empty jumper sleeve pinned up at the shoulder.
When I saw the many Navy men and women struggling through the narrow aisle, I asked Ski why he, a Navy man, gave me, a Marine, this seat. "Well, I saw your shoulder patch, your combat ribbons, and battle stars, and I knew that you and I fought in the same campaigns. You were on the land, and I was on the sea. I served aboard the USS Chicago, a cruiser named after my hometown. I lost my arm when we were torpedoed off the island you were fighting on."
The locomotive's loud steam whistle blew, then with the clang of its large bell we started to move, heading east across southern California.
Ski and I were both proud of the Navy and Marine Corps, but were bitter toward the military hospital we had just left. It had an inefficient administrative system and the medical staff was overworked and burned out. Four years of war and the continuous flow of casualties had created a callous attitude.
We were disenchanted with the negative treatment we had received from the military and the apathetic civilian world since our return to the United States. It was this type of poor management that put rehabilitating servicemen on this crowded train rather than on an airplane.
This would be my fourth Christmas away from home, and the season always made me sad because of the many friends who had died in battle during this holiday.
Our train was traveling at maximum speed, but across the great American desert it seemed like we were not moving fast enough. We had too much time on our hands.
We could sleep sitting up in our seats, stand in line for meals and washroom, or reminisce bittersweet battle memories with our train mates. Ski and I agreed that we both became near atheists and cynics after three years of war. Soon we tried to sleep the time away.
En route to Denver, our train would wind ever so slowly through many tunnels, around picturesque snow-covered mountains and valleys. I consoled myself that time was no longer important. What was my hurry-- I would miss Christmas at home by a day. My parents had split up, and I had no hone to go to. My girlfriend of four years sent me a "Dear John" letter, saying she had waited too long for me to return and found someone else, And worst of all, when I was well enough for duty, I could be sent overseas to battle again.
We left Denver early in the morning in a snowstorm. Our train's whistle blew often as we charged across the prairie states through a howling blizzard. It was nightfall somewhere in Illinois. Our train slowed to a crawl because of poor visibility. It was freezing outside and getting colder inside our passenger coach on this Christmas Eve.
The train conductor entered our car and called out, "It's ten o'clock, two hours to Chicago, next stop Chicago!" He dimmed the lights and left.
Ski turned to me and said, "Eddy Lee, I'm worried about my family meeting me at the Chicago station and seeing me like this. I asked my girl not to come. What should I do or say to them?"
"Act natural, they know about your arm, try to be yourself," I said. "You all love each other, and I'll bet they will thank God that you made it home alive. It will all work out fine; you'll see. Now let's try to get some sleep."
Our train suddenly made an unscheduled, metal-screeching stop. A few waking passengers muttered, "What's going on?" Most went back to sleep.
I looked out the window and could see only a small, dimly lighted railroad station surrounded by large snowdrifts. The door at the other end of the car opened, and in the darkened car, I could just barely see a small boy and a mature woman coming into our coach.
They walked slowly up the aisle, looking at the passengers, apparently looking for a seat. The two strangers cautiously headed toward my end of the car.
I closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep, wondering why the train was not moving. It just sat there at this lonely, dark railroad station. I fell asleep for a few minutes, until I heard a noise in front of me. I slowly opened my eyes and saw the young boy, about eight or nine years old standing in front of me, staring.
The boy smiled and said, "Welcome home and a Merry Christmas, Marine. My grandmother and I would like to give you a gift and thank you for serving our country."
The boy handed me a dollar bill and then shook my hand. The grandmother put her arm around me and said, "God bless you." Then they both smiled and said, "Merry Christmas and good-bye."
I was surprised and moved. I said, "Thank you, thank you very much." I searched in my seabag for some sort of Christmas gift for the boy. When I looked up, they were gone.
Our train whistle blew; we lunged forward and were rolling again. I quickly looked out my frosty window and saw the boy and his grandmother leaving the dismal railroad station. I waved goodbye as they slipped into the darkness. They did not see me.
I sat back in my seat bewildered, wondering what had just happened. Had it been real? I queried Ski and the two soldiers sitting across from me if they too had seen the little boy and his grandmother. The said, "No, we were sleeping." Ski added, "You must have been dreaming."
My mind raced with questions. Who were they? Why did they pass by all those other servicemen, including other marines, and then stop in front of me? Maybe I was sleeping, and with all the medication I was taking for pain and malaria, it just could have been a strange, nice dream.
It was two more hours to Chicago, and I decided to try to get some sleep. But before closing my eyes, I looked down at my tightly closed fist. I slowly opened my hand and there was a crumpled-up dollar bill.
I contentedly fell asleep with my precious gift tucked safely in my pocket and a pleasant feeling in my heart, the nicest feeling I had in a very long time.
The conductor came into the car and announced our arrival in Chicago. Passengers took their baggage from the overhead compartments. I helped Ski with his seabag. He was getting off. He was home.
Ski and I said our emotional good-byes as the train came to a stop. The crowd of passengers left through both exit doors. I sat back, waiting to continue my odyssey of another thousand miles to New York City.
It was midnight. As I looked out the train window, I was surprised to see hundreds of people, young and old choirs of many ethnic and racial backgrounds on the station platform, all holding candles and sheet music and singing Christmas carols. The people and the station were all decked out with the holiday spirit and decorations. It was a bitterly cold, snowy Christmas night in Chicago, but the holiday spirit was cheerful and warmed all our hearts.
As I enjoyed the joyful singing, our train car doors opened and the singing choirs of young people paraded in. Each singer carried a tray of food and drinks. Each tray held a complete Christmas dinner with a small gift on it. There were enough trays for everyone on the train. We were no longer strangers. We all sang, ate and celebrated together. It was the most beautiful, festive Christmas I had ever had. Our generous Chicago hosts cheerfully wished us a "very Merry Christmas and a welcome home!"
This train odyssey and these unbelievably beautiful events changed my bitter feelings. I really felt I did make it home for Christmas.
Many years later, I told this story to my family at Christmas time. I pondered out loud, "Who was that little boy on the train, and why did he and his grandmother choose me? Why me?"
Our visiting young niece was playing on the floor with her Christmas toy. She had quietly listened to my sentimental wartime story and replied, "I know."
We all looked at her and I said, "You know what?"
"I know who the little boy on the train was, and why he picked you. The little boy was God, and he chose you because you were very, very sad and disappointed with everyone and everything. He wanted to make you happy again and welcome you home--- and he did."
And then I knew a Christmas miracle had happened to me when I needed it most, during the war, on that train and in Chicago.
