Each year for the past 16 years, local author G. Mark LaFrancis has written an original, fictional, Christmas story for readers. Here is this year’s story, “Christmas Cross.”

By G. Mark LaFrancis

The scent of Mrs. Williams’ pine candle wafted through our classroom. We squirmed in our chairs waiting … waiting for her to give back our final reports, the very reports that would determine a huge portion of our final grades before the Christmas break … whether our break would be one of joy or sorrow.

She had given us the assignment just before Veterans Day. “Veterans are our most important men and women. We need to honor them. Your report needs to address the theme ‘A Veteran I’ll Never Forget.’ It must be about a real veteran. Some of you will need a very, very good grade on this to pass this semester.” I felt her eyeballs drilling into mine.

So there it was: the pressure-cooker challenge. My parents already had decided this was the year to start looking for cars for me if … those grades …

“Mom!” I hollered when I arrived home. “I need a veteran … one I’ll never forget.”

She turned the corner into the kitchen. “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”

“Our report’s gotta be on a veteran I’ll never forget. Like how can I do that? I don’t even know a veteran I remember, let alone forget. You gotta help. Find me a veteran, puh-leese.”

Mom gazed to the ceiling. “Well, there’s your uncle Cliff. He served in Iraq, and your cousin Jeff, he’s going to go overseas soon, and …”

“Mom! No family member. I need a good grade, and every kid will do something on someone in his family. Geez.”

Around the dinner table, mom and dad tossed out names … a guy dad knew at work, the fella at the supermarket who wore an American flag pin – “He must be a veteran,” mom conjectured- someone from a magazine or book.

Exasperation sunk in as I sensed my grades – and hopes for a car – evaporating.

“How about Captain Bob?” my younger brother chirped. “He’s got all those flags in his front yard. Gotta be a veteran. He’s old enough.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “He just might do. That is, if he can remember much.”

I had seen the old fella shuffle to his old car and back once in a while. Never knew where he went or what he did. He would wave. I didn’t wave back.

“Yeah, I can do this,” I said. “Just gotta grab a notebook and run over. I’ll be back for dessert. I can see the title now, ‘Captain Bob: The Veteran I’ll Never Forget.’”

“Now Son,” Dad said. “Veterans are very proud people who have sacrificed a great deal for our country. You can’t just run in and run out of their lives.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know. Listen to the boring stuff as if I’m interested … bombs, tanks, planes and stuff. I’m cool.”

As practically skipped to Captain Bob’s house, I envisioned myself behind the wheel, a girl in the passenger’s seat, cool tunes playing.

 

I knocked, and knocked, and knocked. The door opened slightly

“Hi! Mr. ah Captain Bob … I’m …”

“I know who you are,” a gruff voice shot through the crack. “You’re the kid who never waves back. What do you want?” Captain Bob asked gruffly.

“I need a little of your time … very little. I got this school report about a veteran, and …”

He shut the door.

“Well that was …”

The door opened. There was Captain Bob, barely five feet, seven inches, a bit portly with thin, white hair.

“What’ya want to know?” he asked, inviting me in. He pointed to a weathered arm chair. I sat. He settled into his own arm chair.

“I … um … want to know what it’s like being a veteran, you know …”

“How much time do you have?” he asked.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes tops.”

He grinned. “Better open that notebook and begin writing. Oh, and you’ll be here a while. Got a lot to tell.”

He began by talking about his childhood on a farm in southwest Mississippi, raising hogs, hunting deer and squirrels, fishing for bass and bream. “Just a country boy,” he said.

I interrupted, “About being a veteran?”

“We’re getting there. Would you like a Coke?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

He shuffled into the kitchen, then to a back room, returning with a thick scrapbook. He opened it in his lap and beckoned me to look. In it were report cards, pictures of him and his three brothers. “That one there is Carl. He drove a tank in the war. And Otis. Well, we lost him at the Battle of the Bulge. The little one Zeb was in the Pacific. There’s me. Pretty skinny back then, wasn’t I?”

I sighed so hard, he must have heard.

“Did I tell you dad was a farmer?”

“Yes, Sir. Um, I really have to go … help with the chores, you know.”

“Oh, I know all about chores,” he said. “Plenty of chores on the farm. Come back tomorrow same time. We’ll pick up where we left off. Okay?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said rolling my eyes.

“How was Captain Bob?” Dad asked.

“Boring! With a capital B. He never even talked about being veteran. I honestly don’t think this is going to work. I can tell he’s really, really lonely. Wants me to return tomorrow.”

“Will you?”

“Yeah, I’ll give him another chance. And I have to get something for my report.”

When I returned, he had more pictures and memorabilia. Each came with a story.

“That’s when my brothers and I played ball in high school. I was shortstop; Carl was on first base; Otis was in the outfield. You play ball, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, how did you know?”

“Saw your picture in the paper once in a while.”

Time melted away as we relived games, high school.

“You must have great memories,” I said.

“Yeah, I do. Not all are good, though.”

“Yeah, mine neither. I get picked on a lot.”

“I know the feeling,” he said. “Got called lots of names. Even got stuffed in a locker once. Had my share of black eyes. Gave my share, too. Guess that toughened me up for the war. Say, don’t you have chores?”

“Oh, I can get to them later.”

For the next three weeks, we met every day, even on Saturday and Sunday. I learned about his wife, Mildred, who passed away a year ago, his children, who rarely visited, and about his passion for flying. “After the war, I flew for United Airlines,” he said proudly.

I became more and more anxious, though, as the deadline for my report was approaching.

One evening, he said, “You’ve been very patient with this old fella.”

“No, Sir, I’ve enjoyed our visits. You’re the only guy I can share stuff with.”

“Now, about being a veteran. Get out your pad and pen. About your age, we heard about bad things happening in the world … wars … killings … Boys were signing up to fight. My brothers and I quit high school and enlisted in the Army. That was, let’s see, nineteen hundred forty two, just after Pearl Harbor. World War II.”

I tried to write everything just as he said it.

Captain Bob kept talking. “Rifle training … big ship … across the ocean … dozens of ships … sickness … troop train … France … Germany … snipers … winter … frozen … captured …”

“Captured? You were captured?”

“Shot down over Germany. Lost two of my crew. Wasn’t much older than you.”

He stopped, sighed deeply, and wiped a tear from his eye.

“I tried to run after my plane went down, but they shot at me, so I stopped, raised my arms, and they got me. Forced me into a railroad car with forty other guys. No food. No toilet. Cold as ice. We rode for three days to the camp. I promised myself then that if I ever got out of this mess, I’d come home and marry my Mildred.”

He went on, “It was cold that December. I couldn’t feel my toes. We were bad off, some near death. Hope hung by a thread. Christmas Eve came and we decided if we were going to die, we’d go out singing. Our hut started, ‘Silent Night’ and other huts started. We didn’t care if we got beat or shot. We sang and sang.”

He began singing.

Silent Night. Holy Night.

All is calm. All is bright.

He stopped.

“Look at me, an old fool boring you with old war stories. Better be getting you back home.”

“No, Sir. Please go on.”

“I finally did get out of that camp. I was mighty skinny, but we all were. The war was ending and the Germans were losing, so they let us go. We walked and walked for miles until we found American soldiers. Ha, we must’ve been a sight. And smell? Whew!”

I returned for many more days. I had more than enough for my report, but not enough for me.

One evening he had a wooden box on the table. “These are special,” he said, opening the box with care. “This one here, a Purple Heart for being injured. Ha, a piece of shrapnel popped me in the head. This one, a Silver Star for valor. We all had plenty of valor back then. We had to. Haven’t taken them out in a long, long time.”

We stood there looking at the medals. I picked up the Purple Heart Medal. “Wow, a Purple Heart.” I put it back with the others.

“Well, that’s about it. Not much more I can tell,” he said. “You’ve been a patient young man. Did you get enough to write that report?”

“Yes, Sir, turned it in last week.”

“Oh, so you’ve been coming back?”

“Yes, Sir, just to listen. I’d like to come back, too, if you don’t mind. I mean you’re a real hero. You’ve listened to me, too.”

He teared up and sighed heavily. “I’d like that. I’d like that.”

As I headed out the door, Captain Bob stopped me.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I want you to have something.”

He went to a small Christmas tree on the dining room table.

“Here, I’d be honored if you had this.”

I looked down at the simple cross in his hands. It was a simple straw cross bound by a few strands of wire.

“I made this from the bed straw and a piece of wire in the camp. Hid it from the guards. Gave me strength that the Lord was watching over me. Managed to keep it all these years. It was Mildred’s favorite ornament. My years on this earth are far fewer than yours, young man. When I go, I know they’ll think it’s just a silly straw cross. I want you to have it.”

He gripped my hands, his trembling. Mine too. Tears flowed down my cheeks; my heart was about to explode.

“Yes … sir … I’d be glad …”

“Keep it safe. It’s been through a lot … like me.”

“I’ll keep it safe, sir,” I said. “I …”

“I know, young man. I know.”

He patted me on the back. “You’re going to be okay. You’ll get through high school. I did. You’re going to be somebody.”

I smiled and shook his hand.

“I know, Sir, I know. You’ve helped me a lot.”

“Not as much as you’ve helped this old veteran.”

 

My report, well, my grade was through the roof. I did get that car. And I visited Captain Bob often, never tiring of his stories. I definitely got through high school. We parted ways when I enlisted in the Air Force. Like Captain Bob, I became a pilot, and in the air, I often thought of him being shot down and captured. Oh, the Christmas Cross. I still have it, and each year it sits in a place of honor on our Christmas tree. When we place it on the tree, we say a prayer for Captain Bob and sing “Silent Night.”

 

THE END