By Marijune Hauta Wissmann

Christmas, 1945, was bittersweet. Sweet, in the sense that World War II

was over and the boys would be coming home. Bitter, in the sense that

thousands of service men would never come home. They were buried in

military cemeteries in Europe, North Africa, Asia, and the Islands

of the Pacific and entombed in sunken naval vessels on the bottom of

the oceans.

After VE Day, many of the soldiers from the European theater were shipped

to the United States, enjoyed a brief furlough, and were ordered to report

to army bases on the west coast to undergo training for the inevitable

invasion of Japan.

General George Marshall’s plan to invade Japan, island by island, was

estimated to cost half-a-million American lives. The atomic bomb saved

these lives as well as those of about 400,000 prisoners of war and

civilian detainees held by the Japanese.

On a bitterly cold, wintry evening a Chicago railroad station was filled

with hundreds of homecoming troops. My roommate and I also waited for

a train that would take us to Northern Michigan for the Christmas

holidays. Many of the soldiers were still shaky from a rough trip across

the Atlantic Ocean in mid-winter. These were corn-fed boys, who had gone

to war in 1941 and were now returning, thin and pale, who would never

forget the horrors they had witnessed on the battlefields of Europe.

Returning servicemen from the South Pacific were not yet acclimated to

the frigid weather of the Midwest and shivered with cold.

As the train pulled out of the station and traveled through Northern

Illinois, more dischargees boarded at Port Sheridan and Great Lakes

Naval Station. The diner was packed so we bought sandwiches from a vendor in Milwaukee, a slice of bologna between two slices of dry bread.

As the train approached the small towns in Wisconsin, snow-covered

figures waited for their returning heroes. We watched the emotional reunions through the frost-covered windows of the coach. At one

particular town, a large, beautifully lit Christmas tree stood on

the platform, surrounded by a noisy crowd. At the corner of the

platform a group of carolers sang Christmas songs. When a young

soldier stepped off the train, two burly men lifted him above their

shoulders, while everyone cheered his arrival. They gently placed him

down and a pretty young girl rushed up and embraced him. The servicemen

in the car whistled and cheered as the train pulled away from the station.

The voices of the carolers drifted into the car and my roommate who

had a lovely voice, joined in song. From the other end of the car,

the voice of a tired baritone sang along with her and the two

harmonized the beautiful old carol, Silent Night.

After they had finished, everyone in the car applauded and the mood

brightened considerably. Someone passed around a flask of brandy,

the conductor passed out Pullman pillows and turned up the heat

in the car. We fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, I woke with a scratchy throat, a headache and a

temperature. The train was moving very slowly, plowing through huge

snow drifts as we finally reached our destinations. Dad was waiting

with the old Packard, which he drove skillfully over the ice, through

the snowdrifts to our home.

After a hot bath I went to bed, where I remained for the entire

vacation, missing the welcome home parties and visits from friends

and relatives.

On January 1, 1946, having recovered from the flu, I boarded the old

train for the trip back to Chicago. On my way back to the University,

I met a handsome naval cadet who told me he was from California and

was anxious to get back to the sunshine. As that moment, I decided I

would marry this young man, who could take me away from this cold

city, and eleven months later, I did.

(Editor’s note:  This wonderful story is being republished in loving memory of my friends Frank and Marijune Wissmann.)