A Thoughtful Christmas Gift
Copyright© 2025 by Paladin_HGWT
Chapter 1: Rest & Relaxation is Over
Camp of the 82nd Airborne Division, near Reims, France
2016 Hours (Local) [8:16 PM] Saturday, 16 December, 1944
It was cold, but at least it wasn’t raining; again. Not only did the heater work in the jeep we had – acquired; unlike most jeeps in the 82nd Airborne, it had a canvas roof and side kit; none-the-less, due to the bitter cold we still had to wear our Melton wool overcoats atop our snazzy ‘Ike’ jackets to prevent hypothermia. ‘Mac’ one of my buddies in the I&R (Intelligence and Reconnaissance) Platoon of the 508th PIR (Parachute Infantry Regiment), dropped me off at the building being used by the Supply Company of the 508th PIR.
After passing through the front area, I set my musette bag on the counter, and a half-full duffel bag on the floor, as I took off my gloves and overcoat, I said, “Hello Charlie. Got some hot Java?”
Charlie, Technician Grade Four, Wilson, said, “Help yourself to a cup from the pot on the stove. I brewed it ‘bout fifteen minutes ago. We just got a call from the G-Four, 1 they are insisting we provide an immediate update of our inventory before oh-nine-hundred tomorrow! We’ll be pulling an all-nighter.”
I went in back, and as I poured a cup of coffee, Charlie asked, “so, how was Paris?”
“Well, it’s not quite back to being the ‘City of Lights’ that it was before the war. Blackouts, in case the Luftwaffe wants to add to the damage the Krauts already inflicted. However, I wouldn’t mind spending a couple years there. At least a couple of months.” I said.
Charlie said, “I figure there ain’t no chance of that. Least not until the war’s over, and it ain’t gonna be over by Christmas, like they said back in August.”
I said, “Yeah. Market Garden was a bust! By the time the British tanks got over the Waal at Nijnmegan, their paratroopers at Arnhem were wiped out. We spent another month there, and never got a bridgehead over the Rhine. Some wags say this war will drag on another year or more.”
Charlie said, “we are short of just about everything, and it’s worse on the front lines. Couple of days ago we got our first of these newfangled winter uniforms, but not many of them. They’re try’n t’ get as many as possible to them poor bastards at the front. Least we’ll be gett’n a big Christmas dinner, with all the fix’ns, on the twenty-fourth.”
I said, “after our losses in Normandy, then Market Garden, and then months in that meat grinder in the Hürtgenwald, and around Metz, most of our infantry units are under strength, and it is just as bad in Italy. Except for the green divisions, fresh from the good ole U. S. of A., all of our divisions are short of infantry, and it won’t be long until they suffer casualties too.”
I took another sip of coffee, then said, “I’ve heard the new divisions are being sent to a quiet sector, the border between Luxembourg and Germany, and up in southern Belgium. They are relieving the Fourth, Ninth, and the Bloody Bucket, 2 who suffered so much in the Hürtgenwald. The Second Division is grinding forward to gain jumping off points east of Monshau, Germany.”
Charlie asked, “Did ya hear them rumors in gay Pair-ee?”
I chuckled, then said, “Rumors are everywhere. I had better things to do in Paris, than just listening to more rumors. But I did hear those veteran divisions will be placed in reserve, to receive replacements, and begin training them up, like we are supposed to be doing. Everyone expects a big offensive in the Spring. Eisenhower wants an offensive on a broad front, the Brits and Canadians in the Netherlands, and our boys from Aachen down to the French in Alsace.”
Charlie said, “While you was off drink’n champagne, and stroll’n through the Louvre, we got us some of them replacements. Children, mostly, but some of our guys that got wounded in Holland, or Italy. ‘Nuff of that. What’d ya bring me from Paris, an’ whad-ya want for ‘em?”
I flashed a smile, as I pulled treasures from my musette bag, then said, “I got some genuine Kentucky bourbon. Evan Williams brand, and some decent cigars. Better than those stogies you usually chomp on, and stink up the place.”
Before Charlie could reply, Captain Duke, the S-4 and C.O. (Commanding Officer) of the Supply Company of the 508th PIR, walked in and said, “Corporal Hamlin, hustle on over to Regiment, and go see the S-One.”
As I walked over to put on my overcoat, I said, “I got a couple of bottles of cognac, and some Napoleon brandy too, as well as some wine.”
Captain Duke said, “personally, I am glad to hear that. But, leave your overcoat here. They want you on the Double! Besides, they keep the Hôtel warm enough. We will secure your items in your footlocker.”
I took off at a run. It is bad to have the Regimental Supply Officer not happy with you. Besides, I’ve known Duke since he was a brand new ‘Butter Bar’ (Second Lieutenant) when we first formed the regiment back in 1942. I had been transferred from the 502nd Parachute Battalion, to be part of the cadre for the 504th Parachute Battalion, and then the 504th PIR. It had long been said in the 504th and the rest of the ‘All Americans’ (the nickname of the 82nd Division since the Great War, back in 1917); that you cannot get cold if you keep running; for PT (Physical Training) that is. Paratroopers don’t run from battle, we run to combat!
It was less than a quarter mile from Supply, to the Regimental Headquarters, so I didn’t hardly exert myself even at a flat out run. What the fuss was I couldn’t figure, because I had until 2100 Hours to report back in. The members of the I&R Platoon are all veterans, so, we don’t have to bother with too much of the chicken shit. Staff Sergeant Barr was going to sign me back in, while I was cutting some deals with supply. Nobody should have cared about be not signing back in myself, as long as I wasn’t malingering in Paris, or detained by the Military Police.
Before I could duck into the S-1’s office, and sign back in, Major Schorzman bellowed, “Get into My office Hamlin!”
I dashed into the Major’s office, and snapped to attention in front of his desk; he thundered, “Why are you Out of Uniform Hamlin!”
I tried to covertly check my uniform for any obvious defects. I had looked sharp in Paris. I had obtained an ‘Ike’ jacket back in England, London, actually. Bespoke, from Hawkes, at No. 1 Savile Row, in London. ‘Ike’ jackets are based upon the British Army’s ‘Service Dress’ uniform. General Eisenhower admired them so much, he had several jackets made for himself, by Hawkes. While I would not typically be allowed into such a posh establishment, my second cousin had provided a letter of introduction; that, my willingness to make a sizable down-payment, and I showed that I could pay in full upon delivery. Money is a powerful motivator, and the British economy was suffering in 1943. Doubtless they rarely have a Corporal for a customer, but they even let me walk out the front door, when I was suitably attired. I had them sew on the pre-war silver and black rank insignia, as well as the 82nd Airborne Division patch, and other distinctions, in accordance with AR-670-1.
Major Schorzman glared at me, but he spoke softly, well, softly for him, when he said, “Did you hit any more Officers, Hamlin?”
I blurted out, “I didn’t get into any trou– ... well, I didn’t get into any brawls. Nor even a contest in the manly art of pugilism. I have not struck an officer. At least not since the incident back at Camp Mackall.”
Major Schorzman said, “Perhaps you have learned your lesson! If there is a next time, you’ll lose more than a couple of stripes! You should have never allowed Captain Ferguson to provoke you–”
“I let him hit me several times. Sir. I tried to block his punches, but when he rang my bell. Well, I guess I saw red...” I said.
Major Schorzman interrupted me back, and said, “be that as it may. Enlisted men should never strike officers. It is worse for an officer to assault an enlisted man. That is why Captain Ferguson was banished from the Regiment. Sent to a straight-leg unit. Did you know he was Killed In Action, back in early August, while serving with the Thirtieth Division, west of Mortain. You were a Platoon Sergeant, and on Colonel Tucker’s short list to become a First Sergeant. Likely you would have become a Sergeant Major by now. Instead, you have been skulking around with the Intelligence and Reconnaissance Platoon.”
The Major paused, then said, “Well, Sergeant Hamlin, you get to sew another stripe back on. You are now a Squad Leader in Fox Company, Second Battalion of our beloved Regiment. Don’t fuck it up! Go see Lieutenant Anderson for your orders. Dismissed.”
I saluted smartly, then departed the X.O.’s office with alacrity. Without further ado, I went to see the Adjutant, aka the S-1 (Personnel Officer). Turns out that Staff Sergeant Barr had already signed me back in; I didn’t know if he already knew that I had been reassigned. Lieutenant Anderson presented me with a copy of my orders. Squad Leader of the First Squad, Third Platoon, of Fox Company. It was unusual that the Lieutenant was here this late; it is typical for Major Schorzman, the Executive Officer to be here at all hours. It seemed that a lot of the staff was working late. Odd.
Mentally I flipped a coin, and headed over to Fox Company first. It seemed prudent to find out where I would be bunking, than to schlep all of my gear around before meeting my new Platoon Sergeant. Of course I would have to report to the Platoon Leader, but it is the ‘Platoon Daddy’ the Platoon Sergeant who knows the soldiers in the platoon, and the rest of the company. Paratrooper officers are often better than ‘Legs’ but, sometimes, due to casualties, some of the NCOs have less experience than even the Lieutenants.
There was no need to run over to the Second Battalion. It was chilly, despite the overcast; hopefully it wouldn’t start raining, again, when I had to relocate me gear to my new unit. My pace was brisk on the way back to the Supply Company. They were busy with the inventory they had suddenly been ordered to conduct. They let me lock the treasures I had acquired in Paris, in a footlocker. Upon entering I had tucked my overseas hat under my left epaulet; when I put on my overcoat and gloves, I also took out my knit wool ‘jeep cap’ out of one of my overcoat pockets, and put it on when I left the building. If I was seen my an officer, or a senior NCO, I might get yelled at, but that was less likely this time of night.
Before I entered the Fox Company orderly room I took off the ‘jeep cap’ and asked the company clerk where I could find the Platoon Sergeant of the third platoon, and what his name was. He told me that Technical Sergeant Coffey was in the next room with the First Sergeant, and the other Platoon Sergeants. Inside they were playing a card game, I waited until they finished the hand, then asked if I could speak with Sergeant Coffey for a couple of minutes. One of the other sergeants said something about he could to afford sitting out a few hands, and the others chuckled.
We stepped into the orderly room, but since he didn’t have an overcoat, we didn’t go outside; so I took off my overcoat, as he said, “what’s up Airborne? I was on a winning streak.”
I said, “I hope I didn’t bust your luck. I have just been assigned as a squad leader in your platoon. I know I am supposed to report to the First Sergeant, and the Company Commander, first. But I figured I would ask your advice first.”
Technical Sergeant Coffey said, “I haven’t heard anything about you being assigned to my platoon. I already have a Corporal running one of my squads. I have heard we are supposed to be getting replacements, and some guys back from hospitals...”
I gave him my copy of my orders, and said, “I just got promoted to Sergeant fifteen minutes ago. If circumstances were different, I would have shown up tomorrow morning. But I think something might be up. I just got back from a three day pass to Paris, with some other members of the I and R platoon. When I went to sign in I was informed of my promotion, and assignment. More importantly the regimental staff is busy with something on a Saturday evening, and so is supply. There seemed to be more people on duty than when we left on Thursday morning.”
Sergeant Coffey had glanced at my orders, before listening to me; now he looked at his watch, and said, “That is unusual. I will let Top know. Okay, Hamlin, you have orders, and it seems they decided not to promote Corporal Lisle. It would be best if you rack out with I and R, and come back in the morning. I would appreciate it if you would have your sergeant stripes sewed on by then.”
I asked, “Mind if I attend divine divine services before reporting in here?”
He said, “no problem. Lieutenant Miles is letting the whole company sleep in Sunday morning. Or, attend service. Bring your gear with you. We have spare cots. First Squad only has six men, including Corporal Lisle. He was their Assistant Squad Leader in Holland, and when their Squad Leader became a casualty, he did well as their acting Squad Leader, and we expected him to be promoted. Although, he was newly promoted to Corporal in September.”
I nodded and was about to depart, when Sergeant Coffey said, “You don’t seem to recognize me, but I remember you. You used to outrank me. You were one of our Instructors when we formed the Five-Oh-Fourth Parachute Battalion, and eventually the Regiment. I heard the rumors of course. But, what really happened? You were demoted from Staff Sergeant to Private First Class. That is pretty extreme. Yet, you weren’t sent to a correctional barracks.”3
I replied, “I don’t want to go into all of the details here. Maybe somewhere private, just you and me. Mostly the rumors were true, at least many of the rumors I have heard about it. An officer lost his military bearing and started punching me. At first I just blocked his wild swings, I didn’t know why he was attacking me. He got a couple of punches through, and one really rung my bell. I saw red, and started punching back. The Battalion Commander decided the needs of the Army dictated neither of us should be cashiered. I was only an ‘acting jack’ Staff Sergeant, although the paperwork for my promotion was in. So, officially, I was only reduced two ranks, from Sergeant to Private First Class, they just rescinded my promotion paperwork.”
Sergeant Coffey nodded, and said, “that checks. Figured it was something like that. Later, I’d like to here some more details. I know who you are, and your reputation. But I don’t know you.”
I said, “I understand. I recall you. Vaguely. We are likely to work better together if we get on the same page.”
Sergeant Coffey said, “back then I was a Corporal, and a Squad Leader.”
We shook hands, then Sergeant Coffey went back to their card game, and I put on my snivel gear and headed back to the Supply Company. When I got there they were involved in conducting the inventory, and I was asked to come back tomorrow. Late tomorrow, as they would be sleeping in. There was no choice but to agree. So, I walked back to where the Intelligence & Reconnaissance Platoon was quartered. As you might expect, some of the guys were playing cards. Corporal Franklin was fiddling with a radio playing a Glen Miller song, he was trying to coax a better signal from it; Franklin should have been named Marconi. Sadly, Glen Miller and his band were lost when their plane went missing over the English Channel a couple of months ago.
After I took my overcoat off, I went to see Staff Sergeant Baumgarten, my Section Leader, who had my other duffel bag of swag from Paris, he asked, “What took you so long Hamlin? Lose your ill-gotten gains in a poker game with your cronies in supply?”