Merry Christmas from Korea -- December 25, 1950

It's early in the morning, Christmas day 1950. Bobby, sits inside his tent around a makeshift heater and writes a letter home to his wife, Mary:

December 25, 1950

My Darling Mary,

Merry Christmas, my darling wife! I hope this letter finds you and Ronnie both feeling well.

It is a little after midnight here in Korea, Christmas Day. It is bitterly cold this evening and it doesn’t look like we’re going to have a white Christmas even though some of the guys are con­vinced that we will. Then again, a white Christmas just might make us feel all the more homesick.

Some guys in the company cut down a pine tree and decor­ated it with some ornaments they had shaped out of foil from some packing crates. I think they did a pretty good job to bring the rest of us a little holiday cheer.

Tonight some Korean children serenaded us with a Christmas Carol. It was very touching. They sang “Silent Night” and it really got to a lot of the men.

I got some stuff from the Red Cross the other day, some paper and some chocolate.

I pray this war ends soon and that I am home with you and Ronnie. It was two years ago this week when I proposed to you. Can you believe that? Even though I have been away from you most of this time, being married to you and having a son are the best things that have ever happened to me and they are what I am most grateful for this Christmas. The thoughts of you and Ronnie have gotten me through some rough times here and are a continual source of strength for me.

Be strong my love. We will be together soon.

Give my best to the family, give Ronnie a big hug, and kiss for me.

Merry Christmas my Darling.

Your Affectionate and Loving husband,

Bobby

"Silent night...Holy night..." -- Korea, 1950

Christmas Eve in Korea, 1950...

They clanked their cans together and took a drink of the icy cold beer. It was the first beer either had tasted since the regiment withdrew to Chunju. They were about to take a second drink when they suddenly stopped. It had gotten very quiet outside and inside the tent and that’s when they both thought they heard what sounded like some far-off singing.

“Did you hear that?” Bobby asked. “Sounds like singing.”

What Bobby and Harold had thought was singing had started off low, almost like a whisper and had grown louder and nearer. They recognized the song immediately. One by one, the men in the platoon crept out of their tents to find the source of the mellifluous melody, which turned out to be a dozen young Korean boys and girls aged around 10 or 11 huddled together with a middle-aged Korean man around a fire burning inside an empty fuel drum. Bobby, Harold and the rest of the men who had come out of their tents to investigate, gathered around these tiny carol­ers.

Silent night, Holy night,

All is calm, all is bright.

‘Round yon virgin Mother and Child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace.

It was the first time that most of the men had had close con­tact with any Koreans, especially children. They had come across thousands of refugees fleeing burning villages along the Pusan Perimeter last summer, had passed thousands on the road to the Naktong and on the road to Pyongyang. Seeing all these refugees had always put a different perspective on the war for the men, but this was different.

Flames from the fire burning inside the fuel drum danced in the cold night air and illuminated the dirty, rosy-cheeked faces of the children. The girls were bundled up in thick woolen jackets over traditional Korean hanboks while the boys wore similar jack­ets over baggy trousers. They sang slowly and eloquently, enunci­ating each word clearly and carefully.

The men stood silent, transfixed by the carolers and their sweet, angelic voices. A few of the men with children of their own back home thought about them and how much they missed them, especially at this time of the year. Those without children, thought about parents, brothers, sisters and other loved ones at home. Al­most all of the men were a little misty-eyed, even First Sergeant Marshall, who was never known for showing any kind of emotion in front of the men, looked a little choked up.