My Guardian Angel's Christmas Gift (12/19/99)

My Guardian Angel's Christmas Gift

by Edward Andrusko

In December 1944 I was returning home from the battlefields of the South Pacific during World War II. My 8,000 mile odyssey took over two and one-half months by hospital ship, medical evacuation plane, ambulance, truck, bus and, finally, by train.

I had survived three years of war, had been wounded three times, and finally neared home on December 26 - the day after American Christmas. Being Ukrainian I would still make it home for "our Christmas" on January 7.

I was on the last leg of my trip on a bitterly cold night as our train left New York's Grand Central Station heading for the New Jersey shore cities. The train was running late due to the heavy snow.

We all had dreamed of a white Christmas while faraway in the tropical South Pacific, and I was sure getting one! I also dreamed of the great Ukrainian cooking and baking my mother promised me as soon as I got home. She would make all my old favorites: pyrohy, stuffed cabbage, borsch, babka, sausage, poppyseed cake ... and much more. I savored and pictured each delicious dish of food as a work of art ... Gosh, this train was going slow!

Passengers disembarked our train city after city. After the Perth Amboy, N.J., stop, I was the only passenger left in my car at that late hour. The next stop was my destination. The conductor entered and told me that we would arrive in about 15 minutes or so, and that I must disembark quickly for the already late train would spend only a few minutes at my stop. Although tired and sleepy, I was very anxious to get off the train and head home. The train rumbled along for a while toward South Amboy then suddenly, with wheels screeching, we came to a halt. I grabbed my seabag, buttoned my overcoat, and raced to the doorway. I was finally home!

I opened the large heavy door, and in the dark took hold of the railing and started down the stairs. I halted in mid-step and stared at the ground. How strange - why was I seeing a bright shiny moon at my feet? In that instant of hesitation, before I could take my last step off the train, a gust of wind burst from the bitter cold night and pushed me backward. Then the train lunged forward, hurling me off balance and down to the train's floor.

I sat stunned on the freezing floor and stared in shock as the moon raced along with the moving train. As structures of a bridge passed, I realized to my horror that the train had not stopped at my station, but on a narrow old train bridge that crossed the Raritan River. Had I taken that final step off the train, I would have plunged into the icy black river 20 feet below. There was no protection, no guardrail, just a dark abyss. Had it not been for the reflection of the bright moon moving over the waves of the wide river, I surely would have fallen and been swept out to sea with the rushing tide.

Still sitting on the cold iron floor in the exit doorway, I watched the trestle bridge structure flashing by, racing like my thoughts. After three years of war and combat on the other side of the world, my guardian angel protected me again - this time with a Christmas gift of a bright, shining moon reflected at my feet, and a miraculous gust of heavenly wind, saving my life - just a mile away from home.

The train pulled into South Amboy. I saw the station decked with a thick blanket of snow and bright Christmas lights. As I stepped off the train I thanked God for bringing me home.

There were large "Merry Christmas" and "Welcome Home Servicemen" signs hanging over the station door. The signs reminded me of my two servicemen brothers fighting somewhere overseas. I had not seen them in years, and I worried for their safety.

When I opened the station door, I was greeted by my excited and cheerful relatives. And there in their uniforms stood my two older brothers, also home safe from the war.

As we left the train station I looked up into the night and marveled at the big, downy flakes falling as soft and white as the feathers of angel's wings.

* * *

Free-lance writer Edward Andrusko was born in Perth Amboy, N.J., and now resides in Boulder, Colo. This is his fourth Christmas story for The Weekly.

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