And our old buzz-saw he'd captured never let us sleep too late
When he used it as a war-drum around Christmas, '68!
I remember well that morning, it was twenty-four below,
With a bright sun striking crystals from the endless fields of snow.
We had finished with our breakfast of beans and bacon-fat,
When someone cried, "Look yonder, along the bluffs! What's that?"
We looked, then cheered like demons. The mail-guard, sure as fate!
A welcome sight, I tell you, on Christmas, '68!
They ploughed in through the snow-drifts across the barrack-yard,
Their fur caps rimmed with hoar-frost, their horses breathing hard.
They bore orders from headquarters, but we soldiers bade them hail
Because they'd brought us, also, our sacks of Christmas mail.
We had never hoped till springtime to have that precious freight;
Was it strange it raised our spirits on Christmas, '68?
We crowded in a corner around old Sergeant "Jack"--
A Santa Claus in chevrons with a mail-bag for his pack--
And with horse-play, yells, and laughter we greeted every flight
As he called the names and fired them their bundles left and right.
For some there came no tokens, but they kept their faces straight
And smiled at others' fortune on Christmas, '68.
"Tom Flint!" A woollen muffler from his sister back in Maine.
"James Bruce!" His father'd sent him a silver watch and chain.
"Hans Goetz!" A flute and song-book from the far-off Baltic's shore.
"George Kent!" A velvet album from his folks in Baltimore.
And how we cheered the pictures from the girls in every State
To their sweethearts in the army, on Christmas, '68!
"Fred Gray!" A sudden silence fell on that noisy place.
Poor Fred lay in the foot-hills with the snow above his face.
But his bunkie loosed the package of its wrappings, one by one--
'Twas a Bible from his mother, with a blessing for her son.
And the hardest heart was softened as we thought of our deadmate
And that lonely, stricken mother on Christmas, '68.
But the Sergeant raised the shadow as he shouted, "Jerry Clegg!"
In hospital was Jerry with a bullet through his leg--
The gayest lad in Buford---and we plunged out through the drifts
To take his package to him, forgetting our own gifts.
'Twas a green silk vest from Dublin, and, bedad, it sure was great