ramcharger
Dismember
Here is a true story I felt I must share with all.
I had to work today, pick up my fiance's little girl, finish shopping, then came to finace's place were I chipped all the ice from the drive and washed her vintage BMW 2002 that her father just dropped off last weekend. I came in, cold and tired, thinking that Christmas can be just a tremendous hassle.
I plugged in the laptop, and proceeded to check my e-mail, and pour myself a glass of wine, the wine a gift from my boss in lieu of a Christmas bonus. I found this true story from a historian who has tracked my family back many generations to the late 1500's. I am an Eisensteiner, meaning that my fathers family had emigrated here in 1882 from Germany and setteled in Northern WI.
Anyway, after reading this I realized how lucky I am and I hope that you all will feel the same, so here goes:
Dear All Americans and Eisensteiners:
This is a Christmas letter written over 50 years ago by Colonel David Hughes, then a Lieutenant with the 7th Cav Regiment of the 1st Cavalry Division, United States Army. It is a genuine story about a Lieutenant Shank during the cold, forlorn and seemingly hopeless days of the Korean War in December of 1950. His letter follows.
Ray Hilgart
An Eisensteiner & Secretary, DC Chapter of the 82nd Abn Div Assn
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>
It was during the dark days of the December retreat when I first saw them. They were hanging from the cold muzzle of an old, battered, Springfield rifle - a pair of tiny blue baby booties. Their pale silk ribbons ended in a neat bow behind the front sight, and each little boot hung down separately, one slightly above the other, swinging silently in the wind. They reminded me of tiny bells, and even though one had a smudge of dirt on its soft surface, and part of the ribbon that touched the barrel had lost color from scorching heat, they seemed to me to be the freshest, cleanest objects in all of drab Korea.
At first I fixed my attention on the booties but after the surprise of seeing these symbols of home in such an incongruous place had worn off, I focused on the one who was carrying them.
He was a youthful lieutenant and I could see he was very tired, not so much from the exertion of the trudging march, but with the wear of long days and nights in combat. He was talking to men from his platoon, all of them together staring at the core of a small fire in their center. I could tell that he was answering some of their disturbing questions about the war. There was a tone of hopelessness in the men's voices, but the lieutenant sounded cheerful; there was a glint in his eye, and a squint that melted into an easy smile when he spoke.
As my companions moved on, I glanced back briefly to the blue booties still fresh, still swinging. Since he was in my battalion I saw him occasionally over the next few weeks while we moved southward before the onslaught of the Chinese hordes. On one occasion, during a rest period over a warming fire, I heard some of the soldiers tell the simple story of the lieutenant and his booties. The lieutenant was named Shank, and he, twenty-two years old, led a rifle platoon. He had come over from Okinawa while the Army was clamped in the vise of the Pusan perimeter, short on manpower. Shank had his baptism of fire on the hills outside Taegu. His youth and fire helped keep his decimated platoon intact, while the North Koreans frantically tried to crack the American lines. Then came the breakthrough, and Shank's company, rode on the record-breaking tank and truck dash northward. He picked up the Springfield rifle then, and kept it because of its renowned accuracy and apparent immunity to the cold weather. A violent day south of Pyongyang won Shank a Silver Star for gallantry, as he led his flesh-and-blood infantrymen against T-34 tanks and destroyed three of them. The Chinese intervention and beginning of the American retreat brought him up to where I met him, south of Kunari.
The booties? That was simple. He was an expectant father, and the little boots sent by his young wife in the States reflected his whole optimistic attitude while the battle was the darkest. I also learned that when the baby came it would be announced by a new piece of ribbon on the boots - blue for a boy, pink for a girl.
Then I forgot about him as we prepared to defend Seoul from above the frozen Han River. The Chinese hit us hard. They streamed down from the hills and charged the barbed wire. They charged again and again, piling up before our smoking guns. The days were but frantic preparation for the nights. Companies dwindled, and my platoon was halved as cold, sickness, and the enemy took their toll. I neared the end of my mental reserves. Names of casualties were rumored, and I heard Shank's among them. I wondered where Shank's booties were now.
Then the endless night of the retreat from Seoul came. When we got the word my few men were too dulled to show any emotion at the announcement. Most were too miserable to want to retreat again for twenty-five miles, Chinese or no. But we did, and the temperature dropped to 30 degrees below zero as our silent column stumbled along the hard ground. It was the most depressing night I had ever endured - pushed by the uncompromising cold, the pursuing enemy and the chaotic memory of the bloody nights before. I, as a leader, was close to that mental chasm. Only the numbness prevented thinking myself into mute depression.
We plodded across the ice of the Han River at four-thirty in the morning, and marched on south at an ever-slowing pace. Finally the last five-mile stretch was ahead. We rested briefly, and as the men dropped to the roadside they fell asleep immediately. I wondered if I could get them going again. Worse yet, I didn't think I could go myself - so tired, numb, and raw was my body.
Then in the black despair of uselessness I looked up as a passing figure brushed against my inert shoe pacs. There walked young Lieutenant Shank up the Korean road, whistling softly, while every waking eye followed him to see the muzzle of his battered Springfield rifle. Swinging gaily in the first rays of the morning sun were Shank's booties, and fluttering below them was the brightest, bluest, piece of ribbon I have ever seen.
I had to work today, pick up my fiance's little girl, finish shopping, then came to finace's place were I chipped all the ice from the drive and washed her vintage BMW 2002 that her father just dropped off last weekend. I came in, cold and tired, thinking that Christmas can be just a tremendous hassle.
I plugged in the laptop, and proceeded to check my e-mail, and pour myself a glass of wine, the wine a gift from my boss in lieu of a Christmas bonus. I found this true story from a historian who has tracked my family back many generations to the late 1500's. I am an Eisensteiner, meaning that my fathers family had emigrated here in 1882 from Germany and setteled in Northern WI.
Anyway, after reading this I realized how lucky I am and I hope that you all will feel the same, so here goes:
Dear All Americans and Eisensteiners:
This is a Christmas letter written over 50 years ago by Colonel David Hughes, then a Lieutenant with the 7th Cav Regiment of the 1st Cavalry Division, United States Army. It is a genuine story about a Lieutenant Shank during the cold, forlorn and seemingly hopeless days of the Korean War in December of 1950. His letter follows.
Ray Hilgart
An Eisensteiner & Secretary, DC Chapter of the 82nd Abn Div Assn
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>
It was during the dark days of the December retreat when I first saw them. They were hanging from the cold muzzle of an old, battered, Springfield rifle - a pair of tiny blue baby booties. Their pale silk ribbons ended in a neat bow behind the front sight, and each little boot hung down separately, one slightly above the other, swinging silently in the wind. They reminded me of tiny bells, and even though one had a smudge of dirt on its soft surface, and part of the ribbon that touched the barrel had lost color from scorching heat, they seemed to me to be the freshest, cleanest objects in all of drab Korea.
At first I fixed my attention on the booties but after the surprise of seeing these symbols of home in such an incongruous place had worn off, I focused on the one who was carrying them.
He was a youthful lieutenant and I could see he was very tired, not so much from the exertion of the trudging march, but with the wear of long days and nights in combat. He was talking to men from his platoon, all of them together staring at the core of a small fire in their center. I could tell that he was answering some of their disturbing questions about the war. There was a tone of hopelessness in the men's voices, but the lieutenant sounded cheerful; there was a glint in his eye, and a squint that melted into an easy smile when he spoke.
As my companions moved on, I glanced back briefly to the blue booties still fresh, still swinging. Since he was in my battalion I saw him occasionally over the next few weeks while we moved southward before the onslaught of the Chinese hordes. On one occasion, during a rest period over a warming fire, I heard some of the soldiers tell the simple story of the lieutenant and his booties. The lieutenant was named Shank, and he, twenty-two years old, led a rifle platoon. He had come over from Okinawa while the Army was clamped in the vise of the Pusan perimeter, short on manpower. Shank had his baptism of fire on the hills outside Taegu. His youth and fire helped keep his decimated platoon intact, while the North Koreans frantically tried to crack the American lines. Then came the breakthrough, and Shank's company, rode on the record-breaking tank and truck dash northward. He picked up the Springfield rifle then, and kept it because of its renowned accuracy and apparent immunity to the cold weather. A violent day south of Pyongyang won Shank a Silver Star for gallantry, as he led his flesh-and-blood infantrymen against T-34 tanks and destroyed three of them. The Chinese intervention and beginning of the American retreat brought him up to where I met him, south of Kunari.
The booties? That was simple. He was an expectant father, and the little boots sent by his young wife in the States reflected his whole optimistic attitude while the battle was the darkest. I also learned that when the baby came it would be announced by a new piece of ribbon on the boots - blue for a boy, pink for a girl.
Then I forgot about him as we prepared to defend Seoul from above the frozen Han River. The Chinese hit us hard. They streamed down from the hills and charged the barbed wire. They charged again and again, piling up before our smoking guns. The days were but frantic preparation for the nights. Companies dwindled, and my platoon was halved as cold, sickness, and the enemy took their toll. I neared the end of my mental reserves. Names of casualties were rumored, and I heard Shank's among them. I wondered where Shank's booties were now.
Then the endless night of the retreat from Seoul came. When we got the word my few men were too dulled to show any emotion at the announcement. Most were too miserable to want to retreat again for twenty-five miles, Chinese or no. But we did, and the temperature dropped to 30 degrees below zero as our silent column stumbled along the hard ground. It was the most depressing night I had ever endured - pushed by the uncompromising cold, the pursuing enemy and the chaotic memory of the bloody nights before. I, as a leader, was close to that mental chasm. Only the numbness prevented thinking myself into mute depression.
We plodded across the ice of the Han River at four-thirty in the morning, and marched on south at an ever-slowing pace. Finally the last five-mile stretch was ahead. We rested briefly, and as the men dropped to the roadside they fell asleep immediately. I wondered if I could get them going again. Worse yet, I didn't think I could go myself - so tired, numb, and raw was my body.
Then in the black despair of uselessness I looked up as a passing figure brushed against my inert shoe pacs. There walked young Lieutenant Shank up the Korean road, whistling softly, while every waking eye followed him to see the muzzle of his battered Springfield rifle. Swinging gaily in the first rays of the morning sun were Shank's booties, and fluttering below them was the brightest, bluest, piece of ribbon I have ever seen.
