‘The Package’

by Burt Baldwin

The divine is in each of us. It exists. It is what gives us our essence, our soulfulness. We survive through our sufferance and wit, but it doesn’t come without a greater sense of faith, without a sense of history, without a sense of grace. Many years ago, my father told me the story of “The Package.” It had to do with a promise that would hopefully be fulfilled despite extreme circumstances.

In the winter of 1944 the Allies were poised to begin a spring offensive and enter Germany along the Belgium-French border. What they didn’t realize was that they were in for the surprise of their lives, as Hitler and his generals decided to throw everything they had militarily into one last desperate offensive.  This offensive was widely known as “The Battle of the Bulge.” The attack began just before Christmas.  The front was in chaos as thousands of American troops tried to fend off a savage and relentless panzer attack. Thousands were captured by the Germans and sent to the interior of Nazi Germany. Many died of their wounds, frostbite and sickness. Some were indiscriminately executed.

It was during this offensive that my father found himself squarely in the brunt of the maelstrom. He was delivering supplies with a quartermaster company when the attack began. Part of his company’s mission was to deliver mail and ammunition to the troops. Chaos reigned. Troops found themselves surrounded by German armor. Units were shattered, many soldiers were lost and shell shocked with only their intuition to guide them through the relentless bombardments. Receiving orders to bolster the weakening front, dad commandeered a mail truck which now served as troop transport. By happenstance, one of the infantryman that was assigned to his truck had just received a package from home. He flung it in the back. He made it clear with a profane shout that if anything happened to him that all survivors could partake of its contents.

It was at a jump- off point, somewhere in the Ardennes, that men and supplies became separated. My dad’s new friend was lost in the horrific days that followed. My father and a few lucky engineers made it back to the retreating lines; “The Package” remained undamaged in the back of the truck. It was discovered days later during a lull in battle. Undamaged, they decided to keep it intact and everyone signed their names to it that Christmas. It was given to the company commander for safe keeping. It stayed at headquarters for several months. Fortunately, the owner of the package was expatriated from a prisoner-of-war camp by March. With great astonishment, he found that his long-awaited Christmas package made it through the carnage. A few months after the war, my father and the men who autographed the package were reunited at a beer hall in Graffenwohr.

I guess the divine works in many ways. “The Package” became a talisman for desperate men in desperate times, a symbol of hope originating from their collective faith to survive. A simple, brown-paper package, sent at Christmas, became the center of hope, grace and sanity, giving strength to a few G.I.s, who never failed to recognize that compassion could endure the shadow of death during their most righteous cause.