Love Letters to High
Pockets
By Ralph L Myers
The recently hired nurse orderly knocked softly on the door
of room 106. Not getting a response to her knock she opened the door, entered
the room, and walked across the carpeted floor to where the ninety-year-old U.S.
Army Colonel (Retired) John (High Pockets) Packard was seated in his wheel
chair staring blankly at the drapes that were partially closed on the window
blocking his view of the Ohio River as its current carried a barge downstream.
“High Pockets, it’s time for your night time meds,” the
nurse orderly tells him causing a small smile to show on his aged and wrinkled
face.
Slowly picking up his cane that he had hooked over the side
of the wheelchair, he points to a bedside table and tells the orderly “put the
meds there.”
Walking over to the table she places several pills and a
small glass of water that was easily within his reach. “Colonel Packard, as he
preferred to be addressed as, “how did you get the nick-name high pockets?”
Turning in his wheelchair and facing the orderly “you’re
new aren’t you?”
“Yes Colonel I am new but I have worked in other veteran
retirement homes and I was told of a hero of Bastogne living here that was
loved and respected by his troops he commanded and they respectfully referred
to as high pockets. “Why did they call you high pockets,” the orderly repeated?
“Help me up young lady and I think you will see how I got
that nickname.”
The nurse wheeled the wheelchair across the room with him
in it to a wall that had a wooden railing attached to it for the purpose of
support similar to what one would find in a dance studio that is used by ballet
dancers. “Is this close enough Colonel?”
“Close enough young lady,” he replied taking his cane and
hooking the curved end of it over the railing and then began to slowly pull
himself up to a standing position.
The nurse watched as the old man gradually stood up. She was
amazed when the now standing Colonel towered over her even taking into
consideration his 90-year-old frame was now partially bent over due to his age
and osteoporosis he was suffering. “My
goodness Colonel, how tall are you?”
Smiling down at her he remarked, “in my younger days before
mother nature and father time took over the aging process I stood nearly 6 foot
7 inches. “I was much taller than all the men in my command as well as the
commanding officers in my battalion. “Just before D Day in 1944 I had the
privilege to meet General Eisenhower who was 5’10” and I towered over him by
nearly afoot. “When he shook my hand he looked up at me and smilingly said,
my, my Colonel the pockets on your combat fatigues are sure up high. Then
turning to his orderly he remarked “I sure hope he can keep a lower profile
when we hit the beach at Normandy otherwise Colonel High Pockets will be an
easy target for the Germans. “The nickname high pockets stuck with me for the
rest of my military career and when I retired Ike was President and he
personally sent me a letter of congratulations and said he remembered that June
day in 1944 when he met a young and very tall Colonel Packard thanking me for
my service adding a postscript “to Colonel “High Pockets” Packard.”
“What an amazing story Colonel you were given a nickname by
the future President of the United States and obviously you kept a low enough
profile from the Germans snipers or else you wouldn’t be standing here today.
Sitting back down in his wheelchair he requests the nurse
orderly to help him get back to his bed so he could get the night medications.
“Don’t know why I should be so tired I haven’t done much today, just the usual
breakfast, a few games of cards, watched some day time TV shows, lunch, and then
back up here to my room. “Why I can remember leading my battalion on 20-mile
marches and didn’t feel as tired as I do right now.”
“You didn’t mention having dinner Colonel Packard, did you
eat this evening?”
Sitting on the edge of his bed and taking the pills that the
nurse had placed on the bedside table a puzzled expression appeared on his
face. “You know, I thought I did go down to the mess hall at 18:00 hours but I
can’t remember for sure. Drumming his fingers on the bedside table he struggled
to remember, “let me see, just let me see what did they serve?”
Trying to help him the nurse orderly said, “Tonight they
served rigatoni with Italian sausage, salad, and some Chianti and then Spumoni
for dessert.”
Suddenly remembering and smiling, “oh yes, now I remember
the chow was unusually good for an Army mess hall. “Remind me to compliment the
mess sergeant nurse.”
It was obvious that Colonel High Pockets was confusing the
retirement center’s cafeteria with a military mess hall the nurse orderly
didn’t want to correct him and softly assured him that she would pass his
compliments on to the cook.
Colonel High Pockets with the assistance of the nurse orderly
gets into bed. “Do you want me to turn out the lights when I leave Colonel?”
Turning on the reading lamp above his bed’s headboard he
says “yes please nurse, I just want to
read for a while before I go to sleep.” Once the nurse had left his room he opens
the drawer of the bedside table and carefully takes out a bundle of old, frayed
envelopes containing letters bearing his name and removes an old and faded blue
ribbon that was tied and holding them together. Smiling, he opens the first
envelope and takes out its contents and begins to read it out loud, as his mind
wanders back in time as old memories are displayed in it like a movie he was
now seeing again for who knew how many times before, yet it seemed as though
each time he read it there would be yet another revelation of something that he
had not noticed the last time. It was dated August 23, 1945, and was postmarked
Antwerp, Belgium.
“My Dear Colonel High
Pockets:
I hope this letter
finds you well and happy. It has been almost 8 months to the date since you and
your American Army soldiers found my papa, mama, and me hiding in the old barn
behind our farmhouse. You will be happy to know our home has been how you say
it, fixed. My papa and the other farmers around here have been helping each
other put their homes and farms back into order and just last week all the
farmers near the town of Bastogne had the best harvest since before the war
began.
If you are ever back in this area please promise me you will come to visit us.
Love,
Claudine
Gingerly folding the note and placing it very carefully into
the worn and tattered envelope and placing it on the bedside table he smiles as
he remembers the first time he had seen the beautiful young Flemish girl with
the long auburn colored hair and somewhat frail body. It was Christmas Eve,
1944 as Colonel"High Pockets" John Packard and the men from Charlie Company of
the 82nd Airborne were being driven out of Bastogne towards the surrounding
farmlands by a vastly superior and combat-hardened German battalion of SS
Troops. The weather was bitterly cold made even worse by the blizzard that was
being magnified by almost gale force winds as they blew across the open fields that
they were being pushed towards a farmhouse and the barn that was about 100
yards behind it. Yelling orders to his NCO’s he hoped he could be heard as
artillery shells exploded all around them and the howling, whistling wind made
it even more difficult for them to hear. “Sergeant, take the first and second
platoon and head for the house and secure it, I’ll take the third platoon and
take cover in the old barn and we’ll make our stand from there.”
“You got it, Colonel, first and second platoon follow me,” he
yells as he starts running towards the farmhouse, “and kill anyone that gets in
your way!”
Raising his long arm over his lanky body, “third platoon,
run like Hitler himself is breathing fire down your necks and is still angry that
Jesse Owens beat his superhuman race in the 1936 Berlin Olympics. “We’ve got
to make it to that old barn about 100 yards behind the house,” he yells while
starting to run. “Ike, I sure as heck hope there aren’t any German Snipers
aiming for Colonel High Pockets,” he thought as he recalled that day he had met
the 5 Star General.
Running across open farmland the first and second platoons were
systematically being picked off by the German M80 machine guns being fired from
the woods at the edge of the farm fields. Their positions were concealed by the
trees but could be seen when they fired as flames shot out the muzzles.
“Colonel High Pockets, sir the fourth platoon should be in
position soon and able to knock out those M80’s” a corporal yells as he catches
up with him.
Running in a crouched position trying to minimize the size
of a target he was with clumps of dirt being kicked up all around him by the
bullets from the M80’s Colonel High Pockets yells, “corporal, it had better be
soon or else there won’t be much of Charlie Company left.”
Reaching the old stone walls surrounding the farmhouse the 1st
Sergeant ordered two rifle squads from the first and second platoons to take up
a position and lay down a deadly field of fire directed at the dwelling. The
brick and mortar structure of the house was literally being disintegrated by
the rifle squads 30 caliber M1 Garand rifles and the BAR’s (Browning Automatic
Rifles) as thousands of rounds struck it. “Ceasefire,” the 1st
Sergeant orders as there wasn’t any return fire coming from the house. “If there are any krauts inside they’re either dead or hiding someplace. “Corporal,
take the third and fourth squads and set up a perimeter around the house, first
and second squads, follow me we’re going on a little exploration adventure
inside the farmhouse!”
There wasn’t any need to breakdown the doors or windows of
the house in order to gain entry, as none were left after the barrage of firepower, had been inflicted on them by the two rifle squads. Once inside all
floors and the basement of the house was thoroughly searched by the two
platoons. “All clear, the house is empty, the Corporal reports to the 1st
Sergeant.”
“Not surprised,” the 1st Sergeant replies, “but
someone was here recently,” he says, pointing to a still-burning fire in the
fireplace. “They were smart, that they got out probably when they saw us
running across their field.”
Loud explosions and then small arms fire could be heard
coming from the woods and then there was silence as the German M80 machine guns
stopped firing. “The fourth platoon accomplished their mission and knocked out
those kraut machine guns,” Colonel John “High Pockets,” said as he and his third
platoon troops surrounded the old barn at the rear of the farmhouse.
A young 1st Lieutenant and two squads of
infantrymen cautiously and slowly approached the doors to the barn. “It sounds pretty quiet in the barn, too
quiet, stay alert,” he cautions “there might be some SS soldiers waiting inside
for us to come in. He orders one of the
squad leaders to take 10 men with him. “See if you can get close enough to look
inside, just try and keep your head down and not become an easy target for Gerry
to pick you off if he’s inside.”
The squad leader and ten of his squad members with one of
them using an old side mirror taken from a destroyed jeep looked inside the
doors that were partially open as streams of the cold winter sunlight shined
through the bullet holes in them making little beams of light reflecting inside
onto the floor. “Sort of like stage lights shining on a theater’s stage,” he
thought. “No one seems to be inside Lieutenant,” he calls back.
“Alright squad leader, take your men and go inside,” the
Lieutenant orders.
By this time Colonel High Pockets and the rest of the third
platoon had taken up a position closer to the barn when he heard one of the men
that had entered the barn shout out, “we found someone, probably the farmer and
there are two women in hiding with him. “Raus he yells, (get out) and keep your
hands up high.” Soon an older man and woman walk out of the barn, a confused
look on their faces but with their hands held high above their heads. They were
followed by a strikingly beautiful young woman who appeared to be 18 or in her
early twenties with long auburn colored hair.
Walking over to the man and two women Colonel High Pockets
mustering what little German he could speak asks them “sprechen sie English?”
The old man and woman looked more confused and somewhat
fearful when they saw how tall the Colonel was and turned to the young woman
speaking to her in what sounded like French to him. The young woman nodded her
head and then looked up at the Colonel smiled and said, “I am Claudine and this
is my papa and mama. Turning and pointing to the house that was badly damaged
and on the verge of collapsing she said, “That is our home, we live here as did
my grandpapa and grandmamma as well as their papa and mama before them.”
“Sergeant, make sure you leave some K rations with these
folks, it looks like it’s been a while since they had anything to eat,” Colonel
High Pockets orders.
“Yes sir Colonel, we’ll give them enough to last for about
two weeks as that is all we can spare until the weather breaks and more ammo
and supplies can be airdropped to us.”
The old man and woman smiled and thanked Colonel High
Pockets as the beautiful young lady named Claudine stood on her tiptoes
motioning for him to stoop over a little and kissed him on the cheek. “My papa,
mama and I thank you so very much American G.I, Mr. Colonel High Pockets,” she
laughingly said.
“No thanks needed, uh, I think you said your name is
Claudine miss, if anything I am sorry that we have destroyed your house.”
The sound of a cart being pushed through the corridor
outside his room 106 brought the Colonel’s mind back to the present. “I lost
track of her after that as we continued our advance towards Berlin. “I wonder
whatever became of her and her parents,” he thought while opening yet another
letter he had saved for more than 60 years.
Unlike the letter he had just read from Claudine this one
was from a man, Issac A’brim who had been a Jewish prisoner at the Nazi
Neuengamme subcamp located on the outskirts of Wobbelin, Germany which was
northeast of Frankfurt, on the road to Berlin. It was dated June 18, 1945, less than two
months since it had been discovered by the advancing 82nd Airborne
Division troops on May 2, 1945.
My Dear Herr Colonel
Packard:
It has been 47 days since you and your American soldiers stumbled upon
the Neuengamme concentration camp where I and thousands of others were being
starved, tortured, and systematically murdered by our Nazi oppressors. Had you
not found us I am almost positive I would probably just have been another
emaciated body cast into one of the many mass graves. I owe my life to you and
our American liberators and for that, you will and your men will always be in my
thoughts and prayers as I daily say The
Birkhat Ha‑Gomeyl blessing is
said after surviving illness, childbirth, or danger (including a hazardous
journey or captivity)... You have my eternal gratitude.
Signed, Issac A’brim
Wiping tears from his eyes Colonel John (High Pockets)
Packard struggles for words as he always did when recalling or speaking about
that horrible discovery he and his soldiers made on that day in May 1945. “I
hope God has brought you some peace and comfort all the remaining days of your
life my friend if you like myself has lived so many more years.” Carefully he
places the letter back into its envelope and puts it on the bedside table on
top of the letter from Claudine.
Picking up another stack of letters that were bound by a red
ribbon and all being from Barbara Ergmann whom he referred to affectionately as
“Babsi,” the one and only true love of his life. Thumbing through the stack he
locates the letter postmarked from Kassel, Germany dated new Year's Day, 1948
and takes it from the stack and like the others delicately unfolds it after
taking it from the envelope. Holding the envelope up to his nose and breathing
in he can still imagine the fragrant smell of the perfume she always wore.
My Dearest Colonel
John:
The haunting and the melodic sounds of the Strauss waltzes are still playing in my mind. Dancing and
being with you at the New Year’s Eve party at the Officer’s Club as we held
each other so very close and then kissing at midnight when 1947 turned into
1948 shall always be a pleasurable and indelible impression in my thoughts and
on my heart.
Although there were
hundreds of others at the dance when I think of the two of us being together
and waltzing the hours away it seemed as though we were the only ones there on the dance floor. I shall always treasure that evening and being with you Johnny
and hope that you share with me those feelings of happiness and love.
Signed, Your Babsi
Folding and gingerly putting the letter back into its
envelope he thought, “Oh how well I remember that evening “Babsi” as that was
also the night that you said yes, yes you would marry me and become Mrs.
Colonel John “High Pockets” Packard. Then asking her as though she was in the
room sitting beside him, “do you remember the night we first met at the
Hauptbahnhof (main train station) in Frankfurt? “The war had just ended and I
was having a beer with a group of G.I.’s that like me had been transferred to
Frankfurt as part of the occupying forces. It was almost time to leave and head
back to the Gutleut Kaserne when we all noticed four beautiful young Frauleins
getting off a train. I turned to my
buddies there with me and said “now this is what we just fought our way across
Europe for,” pointing to the four young ladies. One of the girls was at least 6
feet tall and perhaps a little taller with what appeared to be natural blond
hair. Being 6’7” myself I was immediately attracted to her and told the others
“that fraulein is mine you guys can fight over the rest of the girls if you
want but she is definitely mine.”
“I have to agree Colonel, she’s beautiful and I wouldn’t
mind getting to know her myself but alas I am only a Major and you outrank me,”
one of the guys seated with me said.
“You’re right Major, I outrank you and I am pulling my rank
on you so back off,” I laughingly told him as I got up and started walking
towards the four girls all the while focusing my attention on the beautiful
young blond. “I hope she can speak at least a little English,” I thought as I
was now standing directly in front of her and the other three girls. Before I
could say anything she smiled at me and said in perfect English, “my, my you
sure are a very tall G.I,” which caused the other three girls to giggle like
school girls.
At least I now knew that she could speak English as I
reached out my hand to shake hers and to introduce myself, “I am Colonel John
Packard but my friends and fellow G.I. simply refers to me as Colonel High
Pockets. “May I ask you what your name is Miss?”
Smiling back she replied “my name is Barbara Ergmann and
like you, I have a nickname, my friends call me “Babsi.”
“I would very much like to be your friend Fraulein Ergmann, may
I call you Babsi also?”
“If you would like and I can also call you Colonel High
Pockets,” she replied with a mischievous grin.
Once more, holding the letter close to his nostrils and
deeply inhaling it trying again to get
any scent of the perfume she wore he smiled and said, “that night in the train station was to be the first of many nights they would spend together for the
next 52 years,” as a tear began to run down his cheek. “Oh Babsi, precious
sweet wife I have missed you so much these past ten years since you were taken
away from me, and since we never had any children I can only share you with
myself in my memories. “Be patient my love I think soon we will be together
again.”
The morning sun shined brightly into Colonel John “High
Pockets” Packard’s room as the orderly came in with his morning medicines.
“Rise and shine Colonel High Pockets,” the orderly calls out, “time for your
meds.”
Not getting any response the orderly walks over to his bed
to awaken him. As he approaches the bed the Colonel was laying in he noticed
the letters that he so carefully protected were strewn about on the floor, all
but one, that was the letter from his beloved Babsi which he was still tightly
clutching in his hand that along with his arm was draped over the side of his
bed. It wouldn’t take a doctor or nurse to see that Colonel John “High Pockets”
Packard had left this world and was now with his Babsi, leaving behind all the
love letters to High Pockets.
The End
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