A Chapel for Christmas

It was early on Christmas Eve, 24 December 1943, and I was far away from home on duty at a U.S. Navy medical facility. I had always requested duty on holidays to cover for my medical buddies who were not of my own faith, and they did the same for me. My patients were a large group of 17-, 18-, and 19-year-old Marines fresh off Guadalcanal where they had aged so rapidly in combat with enemies and tropical illnesses. They were truly ill, both physically and emotionally.

I worked and slept in a little area between both wards heavy with these casualties. That morning, I heard a gentle knock at my door. I called, “Come in,” and the door opened, revealing 2 young-old shivering Marines in U.S. Navy pajamas. Both were at stiff attention. Their Atabrine color and …