A Soldier’s Christmas Story
Quietly, his story begins… It was in North Africa, near a place called Libya. I guess the year must have been 1943. My career as an Army sergeant of the 323rd took me all across Africa, Egypt, the Middle East, Italy, and finally even Rome itself. We were, as I said, at a place near Libya, in North Africa. General Rommel—the Desert Fox, as they used to call him—had led the Allies on a merry chase across Africa, and somehow, even as Christmas approached, the 323rd ended up at Libya. When I think back now I can’t really recall any moments when the sand wasn’t blowing like snowflakes in blizzard back home. It was becoming a long war for us. We were tired of sand; we were sick of Wings and Cravens (cheap cigarettes) and we were homesick. There wasn’t a guy in our outfit who didn’t want to be anywhere but in Libya that December. But, just the same, Christmas was coming, and we weren’t going anyplace else. I guess war can bring out the best and the worst in a man. For the 323rd war was bringing out the worst. Even the prospect of Christmas could do little to lift the spirits; in fact, it seemed to make things even worse. You have to remember that we had been overseas for better than two years. The war raged on, the propaganda rolled in, the war machine rattled along, and all anybody wanted to do was to go home, see his family, kiss his girl, hug his baby, and wish the war on the moon. But instead of all that, we had only two things to think about— Nazis and sand. Which was worse?