Hero General John Borling's POW Christmas Poem

The Other Christmas

-By General John Borling, Republican candidate for U.S. Senate

In the spirit of the season, General John Borling (GOP U.S. Senate candidate) recalls the holidays he spent as a POW in North Vietnam by writing poetry mentally composed (including the one below) while in a communist prison camp. Borling would tap it through the walls as a present to his comrades and as a reminder of what Christmas means. Since our nation is blessed to have the continuing service of its military men and women, the message is contemporary still.


The Other Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, and out at alert,
Not a creature was stirring, card table desert,
The pilots and crew chiefs in bunk rooms asleep
Toss fitful awaiting the klaxon to leap,
And off in the corner, a dark, tinseled tree,
It’s Christmas again in the land of the free.

Twas the night before Christmas out over the pond
Where a Starlifter strains for far Europe beyond.
The drone of its engines an ole carol say,
Germany tomorrow, Mid-East next day.
The instrument panel dull red all aglow,
Back home at McGuire, it’s starting to snow.

Twas the night before Christmas so far out at sea,
Be it cruiser, destroyer or Battle Group CV
Up forward, the lookout marks tolling of bells,
No church steeples here, just salt spray, and ground swells.
And on watch, on the bridge, the O.D. doth roam,
The Captain’s Chair empty, both here, and at home.

Twas the night before Christmas, up over the pole,
There’s a B-52 on atomic patrol.
With peace their profession, its crew doth attend
Their fortress of strength to deter and defend.
Strange, all electronics of this modern day
Show nary a sign of old Santa and sleigh.

Twas the night before Christmas, a deployment call comes,
So good-bye little children who dream sugar plums,
Tomorrow they’ll wake, their young eyes all alight,
Then blink back the tears, Daddy’s left in the night.
Now far from the hearth where each stocking is hung,
Cross cold, starlit skies, a small aircraft is flung.

Twas the night before Christmas, down deep in the pad
Stands a Minuteman poised, if the world should go mad.
Its cold chimney silo hath no warming place
Nor rooftop awaiting a swift courser’s pace.
And what yuletide missal from men waiting still,
Though strange it may seem, peace on earth, and good will.

Twas the night before Christmas mud up to the knee,
Here’s a lone foxhole dug by a young PFC.
He’s only eighteen, Christmas Eve seems to close
But ready he stands, to destroy unknown foes.
He’s scared, but he’ll do the grim job that he must,
In him have we placed, our defense and our trust.

Twas the night before Christmas, all over the earth,
There’s a serviceman standing, no mistletoe mirth.
He’s Army and Navy, Air Force and Marines,
If asked, he could tell you, how much Christmas means.
You don’t know his names, waiting children or wife,
But for you, if need be, he’ll lay down his life.

Twas the night before Christmas, and then, Christmas Day,
And just maybe you’ll think of those troops far away,
And just maybe, take out a moment or two,
Say a short prayer for them, the family and you.
A small price indeed for your bright, tinseled tree,
It’s Christmas again, in the land of the free.