The following stories are included in one of my favorite books, I’ll Be Home For Christmas.  This book, published by the Library of Congress, celebrates the spirit of Christmas during World War II.

$12.00

Quantity:

Eddie Rickenbacker's Deliverance: A World War II Christmas Story

Americans know Ohio native Eddie Rickenbacker as a World War I hero. He was the ace fighter pilot of the Ninety-fourth Aero Pursuit Squadron who personally shot down twenty-six enemy aircraft. He was awarded the Medal of Honor and received many other decorations for bravery and service to his country.

Two decades later, Rickenbacker, over fifty years old and the president of Eastern Airlines, served his country again. In October 1942, he was inspecting air bases in the Pacific when his B-17 crashed into the ocean 200 miles north of Samoa.

Rickenbacker and seven other men survived. Adrift on three rubber rafts, they had four oranges, a little water, and two fishing lines - but no bait. One man died and the other seven suffered terribly from thirst, hunger, and heat.

One of the men had a Bible in his pocket and he and his fellow sufferers sustained themselves by reading aloud. On the eighth day, they prayed "frankly and humbly" and a seagull landed on Captain Rickenbacker's shoulder. It became bait and the starving fliers caught some fish and survived for twenty-three days before they were rescued.

At the beginning of World War II, this was a special Christmas story. For those who reflect on it today, it is a reminder that faith will bring deliverance.

Captain Rickenbacker's ordeal also becomes a metaphor for our lives, because we are adrift in a sea of ignorance, vulgarity, irresponsibility and genuine evil. If we pray for guidance in 2011, it will come as surely as it came to Eddie Rickenbacker and his crew in 1942.

Rickenbacker's story is included in a magnificent book, I'll Be Home For Christmas. This book, published by the Library of Congress, celebrates the spirit of Christmas during World War II.

DEATH OF A PILOT

We dreaded Christmas that year.  It was 1944, and the war would never be over for our family.

Born in the midwest, my brother rode horseback to school but wanted to fly an airplane from the first day he saw one.  By the time he was twenty-one we were living in Seattle.  When World War II broke out, Bob headed for the nearest recruitment office.  Slightly built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds underweight.

Undaunted, he persuaded Mother to cook every fattening food she could think of.  He ate before meals, between meals and after meals.  Finally, he passed the weigh-in with eight ounces to spare.

When he was named Hot Pilot of primary training school and later involuntarily joined the “Caterpillar Club” (engine failure causing the bailout) at St. Mary’s, California, we shook our heads and worried.  Mother prayed.  Bob was born fearless, and she knew it.  Before graduating, he applied for transfer to Marine Air Corps at Pensacola, Florida.  He trained in torpedo bombers before being sent overseas.

They said Bob died under enemy fire over New Guinea in the plane he wanted so desperately to fly. 

Mother’s faith sustained her, but father aged before our eyes.  He would listen politely when the minister came to call, but we knew Daddy was bitter.  He dragged himself to work every day but lost interest in everything else, including his beloved Masonic Club.  He wanted a Masonic ring real bad, and at Mother’s insistence, he’d started saving for the ring, but that, too, ceased.

I dreaded the approach of Christmas.  Bob had loved Christmas.  His surprises were legendary:  a doll house made at school, a puppy hidden in a mysterious place for our little brother, an expensive dress for Mother bought with the very first money he ever earned. Everything had to be a surprise.

What would Christmas be without Bob?  Not much. Family was coming, so we went through the motions as much for his memory as anything, but our hearts weren’t in it.

On December 23, another official-looking package arrived.  My father watched stone-faced as Mother unpacked Bob’s dress blues.  Silence hung heavy.  As she refolded the uniform to put it away, a mother’s practicality surfaced, and she went through the pockets almost by rote.

In a small inside jacket pocket was a folded $50 bill with a tiny note in Bob’s familiar handwriting: “For Dad’s Masonic Ring.”

If I live to be one hundred, I will never forget the look on my father’s face.  Some kind of transformation took place—a touch of wonder, a hint of joy, a quiet serenity that was glorious to behold.  Oh, the healing power of love!  He stood transfixed, staring at the note and the trimly folded bill in his hand for what seemed an eternity, then walked to Bob’s picture hanging prominently on the wall and solemnly saluted.  “Merry Christmas, son,” he murmured, and turned to welcome Christmas.

"This book would be a great gift for any World War II veteran" says World War II aviator & Jesse Stuart Foundation board member Carl Leming.