Our immediate future could hardly have been more bleak.
We were less than halfway through military basic training during an unusually wet, cold, and bleak Arkansas winter.
Even worse, in three weeks most of us, including me, would be spending our first Christmas away from home, family, and friends. It was no wonder we just wanted to get Christmas over and done with as soon as possible.
As it turned out, however, it wouldn’t be that way for me and the other nineteen guys who had volunteered to sing in the Camp Chaffee chapel choir.
Captain Cuthbert, the chaplain, was also choir director. For us, as well as for him, it was light duty — practicing one night every two to three weeks and singing during the chapel service each Sunday. That was the most time the Army was willing to give us for this “extra curricular” activity.
During the last rehearsal, Cuthbert told us he’d been called by a church in Heavener, Oklahoma, a small town about sixty miles away. Somehow, they had found out about us and were wondering if it would be possible for us to participate in the church’s annual Christmas program staged by church members and followed with a potluck meal. They suggested we sing three songs of our choice. Correctly assuming we’d be glad to get away from Chaffee, Cuthbert had already gotten approval from military headquarters.
We made the trip to Heavener in a military school bus that had definitely seen better days, but the warm and inviting greeting we received when we got there made us quickly forget the noisy, hard ride. The people were delighted we had accepted their invitation and impressed the U.S. Army had made it possible for us to be there.
The nearly one hour program called for both children and adults to sing, read Christmas poems, tell stories, and perform a short play celebrating the birth of Jesus. All was going well. Parents were excited and proud to see their children performing. Everyone, including us, were getting into the Christmas spirit.
Then it was time for Paul, a little nine year old boy, to come up and sing Silent Night. As he approached the stage, however, it was plain he wasn’t suffering from just a bit of ordinary stage fright, he was really scared.
He made his way onto the stage to where he had been told to stand, hesitated, then faced the audience. The lady at the piano began playing, but instead of singing, Paul and, in one big heave, vomited, lost everything. Greatly embarrassed, he began to cry. Everyone, including us, gasped as we felt so sorry for him. His mother hurriedly came to his rescue, wiped his face, then wrapped her arm around his shoulders and eased him off the stage. While that was happening, two men with mops and buckets began cleaning up the mess.
As soon as everyone had quieted down, the church’s minister introduced Chaplain Cuthbert who, in turn, introduced us and gave the signal for us to come on stage.
We sang our three songs, but instead of ushering us off stage as expected, he motioned for us to stay where we were. Turning toward the audience, he said we’d be happy to sing the song that Paul hadn’t been able to sing. He then looked toward Paul and reassured him that although everyone has bad times, everything was fine. Nothing had been lost, not even his song.
With that, all of us were able to remember enough of the words to make Silent Night sound pretty good. As the last note died away, there was a big round of applause, and down there on the front row, Paul was all smiles.
After joining everyone for the big feed, many people, some tearfully, told us how honored they felt that we would come all that way just to be with them at this most special time of the year, how wonderful it was that we had tried to make up for little Paul’s unavoidable misfortune.
On the way back through the dark night toward Camp Chaffee, we talked about how that experience added to not only what we had always known Christmas to be, but also to what it could and should be — a joining together of the spirit of Christmas and helping others in need. Along with that, Cuthbert was proud of how well we had not only come through for ourselves, but also for him and for the U.S. Army.
Nobody ever said it, but the irony was inescapable. After such a wonderful evening, come the next morning, we would be resuming our training to become soldiers, learning how to repel any enemy threatening to take from us everything we held near and dear.
Looking back, I needn’t have worried. Although the next day has long been forgotten, what happened the night before became truly memorable.
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To all my readers, here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
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