Silent Night, Holy Night (12/22/02)

Silent Night, Holy Night

by Edward Andrusko

During the early part of World War II on Guadalcanal Island in the South Pacific, we battle-weary survivors, Marines and sailors of the 1st Marine Division were being rotated off the island and out of combat one regiment at a time. It had been a long costly battle; a bitter contest of naval, air and ground forces between the United States and Japan. This small tropical island situated near the equator was a steamy green inferno, the home of many tropical diseases and a tenacious enemy. This crucial conflict had continued for over six bloody months. Our seventh regiment would be one of the last to evacuate to safety as the end of the conflict neared and victory was in sight.

On December 24, 1942, a U.S. Army regiment of soldiers relieved us from the front lines, where we had served for 96 consecutive days. We wished the soldiers well and left the jungles for the beach.

It was Christmas Eve, we walked toward the relatively safe beach area to board our evacuation ship, but the ships had not arrive. What a huge disappointment!

As the last of our bedraggled, demoralized file of troops staggered toward our new staging area, a speeding jeep approached our column and came to a grinding halt.

A tall, impressive Navy Chaplain stood up in his vehicle and announced loudly. "There will be an inter-denominational church service tonight, a Christmas midnight mass. It will be held in a coconut grove near the airport. Everyone is invited. Please come; it is Christmas Eve!" The jeep and its occupants sped off.

We pitched camp in a large area under palm trees near the shore. In his rear encampment we cleaned ourselves, our equipment and our raggedy, filthy clothing as best we could. Although we were in a relatively safe zone, enemy artillery shells harassed us periodically and kept some of us in foxholes or trenches throughout the day. Hopefully and anxiously, we continued to look out to sea for our promised ships and safety.

That afternoon we visited the battle cemetery which was nearby and said our last prayers and good-byes to our fallen friends and comrades whom we would have to leave behind ... they would remain forever young and battle no more. God Bless their souls.

Later that evening, we who were off duty headed for the church service which was near the notorious battle-scarred Henderson Field airport and evacuation hospital. The church was in a coconut grove. A modest tent covered a makeshift altar, the clearing was filled with coconut tree logs for pews, and bomb shelters were nearby. Shelling and bombing were commonplace at this airport, for both sides had fought over it for the last five months.

This night, hundreds of off-duty service personnel from all branches of the military congregated at the small church for the religious service. It was a beautiful service with candles, caroling, prayer for peace on Earth, and memorials to our dead and wounded.

But then ... an interruption of loud, warning sirens howled warnings of approaching enemy planes. It was a condition red alert of an enemy air raid. The officiating Navy chaplain, a Catholic priest, a battle-seasoned veteran, calmly warned us of the incoming enemy and pointed to the nearby bomb shelters and trenches. The priest said he would stay and continue the Christmas Eve service regardless of the air raid, for whatever happened was "God's will!" The father recommended we put out our lighted candles and leave for the shelters if we wished. Some of the troops hastily disappeared into the underground bomb shelters. Many returned quickly, saying the conditions in the shelters were deplorable - hot and wet with muddy floors, full of mosquitoes and overcrowded ... And some returned to defy the approaching adversary.

Most of the men from our company were concerned but stayed in the dark outdoor church, where one single candle lit the altar while the priest and the Marines serving as his altar boys continued the service. I'm sure many of us deliberated as we prayed in the dark, why would God want to harm us in His Church in this rear area, after surviving 96 days in battle at the front lines? Maybe we were stubborn in our devotion for staying in the church, but we did! The priest prayed on ...

Soon we heard the drone of enemy planes and the whistling of their falling bombs and explosions approaching closer and closer.

Instantly the dark night was brightly illuminated by our large searchlights from the airport, sweeping the black sky for the enemy bombers. A triangle of brilliant beams focused and caught one of the enemy planes in their combined spotlights. Soon, nearby batteries of our anti-aircraft cannons blasted away at the plane. The guns fired loudly and rapidly, and their high overhead explosion bursts would light up the sky near the bomber. Our bright red tracer shells added to the awesome fireworks display. More bombs fell, but soon passed us by. We waited for the enemy plane to drop its eerie green parachuted flare which would descend slowly and brightly in the night. This signaled to the enemy warships offshore to commence a naval bombardment of our area as they had done many times before. But it didn't happen!

It was a paradox on this Holy Night, as we sang "Silent Night, Holy Night. All is calm. All is bright," as the enemy planes passed slowly overhead. After a while their bombs fell further and further away from us. Our prayers and carol singing must have been heard through the din of battle, and answered, for soon the all clear was sounded. No one was hurt at our church service. That was our first and last Christmas Eve midnight mass on Guadalcanal Island.

Several days later our evacuation ships arrived, and on the afternoon of January 6, 1943, we weary but happy Marines and sailors boarded our awesome troop transport and we sailed away.

That evening aboard ship, we heard a Navy chaplain, a Greek Orthodox priest announce on the ship's public address system that all passengers and crew of Eastern Europe background wishing to celebrate the Orthodox Christmas Eve and Christmas should report to the enlisted men's mess hall.

Out of the thousand men on the ship, a hundred or so of us Ukrainian, Russian or Greek lineage entered the dining area. It-was decorated with a small Christmas tree and a long buffet table of ethnic dishes or as close to it as possible. Both our ship's cook and our battalion cook were of Ukrainian-Polish ancestry. The rest of the mess hall attendants were typical Americans, of mixed backgrounds.

The priest led us in prayer, and we sang ethnic and English Christmas carols. It was unbelievable, we celebrated a wonderful blessed Orthodox Christmas Eve and merry Christmas morning aboard ship in a combat area and a long way from home.

When the feast and services were over, we all headed topside to the darkened ship's main deck. Our convoy of ships was now headed due south, and high above us in the celestial night were bright twinkling stars of the Southern Cross, guiding us to Australia and safety.

Free-lance writer Edward Andrusko was born in Perth Amboy, N.J., and has lived in Boulder, Colo., since 1958. His art and historical compositions have been published in many magazines and newspapers. This is his seventh Christmas story published in The Ukrainian Weekly.

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