Dear Editor:

During the Second World War, I spent four Christmases overseas. At that time it was just another day in a wartime situation. However, there was one that I shall never forget.

My wife and I were married in England, on December 2, 1944 in her hometown in Lancashire. We spent a week together in Chester, but that was all we could get. She returned to her station in Yorkshire and I to the south of England, near Southend. We had no idea when we would meet again.

Two days before Christmas I was posted to another station, on the Welsh border, and arrived there on Christmas Eve. I didn’t know a single person. People were friendly, but I missed my wife and all my friends that I had left at Southend. To make matters worse, the officer didn’t assign me for duties until Boxing Day.

This station was called Clee Hill and sat near the crest of the Clee Valley. Its lovely location was its redeeming feature. I spent the day roaming around the area and feeling sorry for myself, what with being alone and off-duty on Christmas.

While I was feeling blue, I began to feel ashamed because at that very moment our soldiers were fighting to the death in France and Holland. They were dying, and I was moping. How could I be so selfish? All I could do for them was stop and pray.

Ron Crawford
Millgrove