Christmas of 1943

From my Dad's journal of WWII:
On December 15th, 1943, the war was still raging. With the snow four inches deep, accumulating an inch an hour and temperatures in the twenties, we were told to pull out of the forest. It didn't look like a forest with tree tops blow off and dead bodies laying face down in the white snow.
We were given orders to move in on a small town in Germany. I walked along the path to the company tent for further instuctions. It was then that I heard the loud engine of a fast approaching German plane just 100 yards ahead of me. I dove into the nearest hole. I could hear bullets from the plane's machine gun as they bounced off the trees and hit the ground around me. But I was safe in the fox hole. When I felt it was safe, I got up and joined the other soldiers.
I was shaken up that day and kept wondering to myself- Why was I here hiding in fox holes, fighting for my life on foreign soil in freezng weather instead of being home for Christmas in my warm little house. I began to wonder if I would see another Christmas, but I had to serve my country. I had a job to do.
As we were packing to leave, rations of liquor were brought to us. I hated the sight of the stuff and knew this was no time for a soldier to be filled with booze. A soldier was trigger happy before he got that stuff in him. I left my ration on the ground. I don't know if someone picked it up or not. I only knew that I didn't want a soldier firing live ammunition behind me with that stuff in his body, that would make him do foolish things.
We marched on in the freezing cold to our next assignment. There was a duel on our left by the Germans and the Americans. The smell of burning flesh was nauseating. Once again, the shells were bursting around me, hitting the frozen ground and bouncing off my helmet. It was getting dark and we couldn't tell that our own men were marching out in front. Someone in our squad opened fire on them. It was a miracle that our own men weren't killed by our squad that snowy night.
We were ordered to take shelter in a deserted building to wait for daylight. It was one of the worse nights of my life. My canteen had water that was not safe to drink. I came down with dysentery that lasted until morning. The city was shelled all night, we couldn't sleep. It was so cold.
By morning, we were exhausted and hungry, but we had orders to march to the 'Hill'. Once we got there, we had to dig fox holes. We were told to dig in pairs, but one soldier a few feet ahead of me decided to dig alone. I heard a shell come screaming in and we all fell down, the lone soldier was a direct hit. I got up to see if he was still alive. All that was left of him was his shoe.
I still say that War is a small taste of the tortures of Hell, but God was protecting me.
By December 18th, we had taken the Hill. Finally it was night fall and I sat down to rest. When I took off my boots and my feet felt like they were on fire. When morning came, I could barely get my boots back on. The pain lasted all day. A few men were sent out to scout the area and I was asked to go, but I chose to stay back and help my men dig more holes. I learned later that the soldiers scouting walked right into a mine field. One soldier lost his leg, one lost his sight, some had minor injuries and others, well, they didn't come back. God protected me again,
The next day, December 19th, I could hardly walk. I was sent to an Aide Station, where they soaked my feet, but the pain stayed with me. I lay in my bed a week without treatment.
On December 23rd, I was ordered back to the front lines. I waited for my uniform and my boots, but I never got my old boots back. They gave me a new stiff pair of boots. My feet were swollen and it took me some time to get them on, the pain was almost unbearable. When I stood to walk, I had to use my rifle for a cane. I tried limping to the transport jeep and finally had to crawl.
The jeep was transporting us one mile from the front lines, then we had to walk the rest of the way. I began the walk with a limp as the pain in my feet was so bad. The Lieutenant saw me and was appalled that I had been released to fight. The Colonel was arguing with him about soldiers who lied about their injuries, saying they were 'Gold Bricking'. I was in too much pain to care what he thought by then.
I tried to continue my walk, but I fell to my knees. It was almost Christmas Eve, I was thousands of miles away from home and heading to the front lines to fight for my life. If crying would have helped, then I would have. Had God forsaken me?
The Medic saw me fall on my knees again and he stopped me to examine my feet. I was then put on a stretch and put in an ambulance and taken to a hospital in Belgium. I had frost bite, but I was one of the lucky ones, I didn't lose a limb.
I lay there all day and night. It was warm, but I couldn't stand a sheet to touch my feet. I realized it was Christmas Eve. In just this one week, I had escaped death three times. I stared out the window and thought of home so far away and my wife that I loved so much. I hid my face and cried in my pillow.
In the near distance, I heard soft voices singing, like angels. There was a soft glow coming down the hall. It was the nurses, carrying candles and singing carols to us.
Their music brought peace to my aching heart and soul. I will never forget that night, No I didn't get home for Christmas, but I thanked God for keeping me safe. God had not forsaken me, but was beside me all the time. I knew then that I would make it home someday.