American St. Nick: A TRUE story of Christmas and WWII that's never been forgotten

By Peter Lion

The American St. Nick tells the remarkable TRUE story of a handful of American soldiers who during the chaos of war, help bring Christmas back a small Luxembourg town, and unknowingly create a holiday tradition that continues to this very day!

It's December 1944, the Germans are retreating. It appears the war in Europe may be over

• Language: English
• Publisher: TFE Publishing
• Release date: Jun 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578481753

Peter Lion

Peter Lion is a 7-time Emmy winning Producer, Director and writer.

Book preview

PRAISE FOR

AMERICAN ST. NICK

One more memorable and inspiring story from the greatest generation—soldiers who put down their weapons and brought Christmas to a beleaguered town and its kids. It will touch your heart and make you proud. —Tom Brokaw, author The Greatest Generation

On December 5, 1944, against the bleak backdrop of World War II, a group of American GIs unleashed the strongest weapon in their arsenal: humanity. Peter Lion recaptures the magic of Santa to transcend even the darkest of times. The children of Wiltz, Luxembourg, never forgot their American St. Nick. And now neither will you. —Meredith Vieira, coanchor of NBC’s Today (2006–2011), TV talk show host, journalist

Better than any Christmas fable, this is a remarkable true story that I can’t believe I didn’t know: American soldiers putting down their guns in the heat of World War II battle to offer a sliver of light and holiday hope. An uplifting must-read. —Willie Geist, coanchor of NBC’s Today and MSNBC’s Morning Joe

Richard Brookings is a real-live American legend who is honored every single year in Wiltz on December 6. His story and how it affected Luxembourgers during the war is touching and should be heard by all. —Alison Shorter-Lawrence, Chargé d’Affaires, US Embassy Luxembourg

This story is one of the most heartwarming of World War II. Expertly written, American St. Nick captures the bond that exists to this day between American soldiers and those they liberated in Europe during World War II. The story goes to show that humanity and compassion does have a place in war and that one act of kindness can last centuries. —Tim Gray, chairman, The World War II Foundation

An uplifting story about man’s humanity to man in the midst of a bitter war and how the goodness of a 28th Infantry Division soldier has continued over seven decades. Speaks to our army values and the warrior mindset.

—John Gronski, Major General, Commanding General 28th Infantry Division 2012–present

Heroism comes in many forms. A simple act of kindness that liberated hearts and returned a beloved tradition to the people of Luxembourg. —Helen Patton, granddaughter of Gen. George S. Patton and CEO of the Patton Alliance

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AMERICAN

ST. NICK

© 2015, 2019 Peter Lion All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

ISBN: 978-0-578-48174-6

Published by TFE Publishing, PO BOX 314, Canton, CT 06019

Distributed by TFE Publishing, www.TFEPublishing.com

Cover design by TFE

Cover design © 2019 by TFE.

Edited by: Karen O’Flynn

Printed in the United States of America

To the members of the 28th Infantry Division:

ROLL ON!

To all those who served.

To the people of Wiltz for always remembering.

And to you, for wanting to know the true story.

If Luxembourg would stand another thousand years, we will always be grateful to the American soldiers and their most brave and valiant nation, who gave their blood so that we may live in a free Europe.

—Father Victor Wolff (1977)

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Chapter 1

1977

It’s amazing we weren’t all killed, he mumbled under a heavy sigh. Through a light rain falling since morning but now easing as the afternoon waned, he surveyed the surrounding dense forest and was surprised by how little it had changed. The forest floor, with only hints of sunlight on the brightest of days, was littered with pine needles, wispy ferns and the dead branches of ancient pines stretching skyward ninety feet or more. Each was a standing testament to the creep of time in these woods that Frank McClelland had come to visit on the outskirts of Doncols, Luxembourg. He came here to remember, certainly, but also to forget. He came hoping to find the answer to a question that had remained in a corner of his mind, hidden but never really forgotten, for more than thirty years.

He was a solidly framed man, his sixty-two years marked not by his barrel-chested build, but rather by thinning black hair mixed with threads of white, and by a rounded, pugnacious face; a pair of rectangular, gold colored wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. As the distance between the now and then of the war grew, Frank always wondered what, if anything, he could he have done differently back on that bitterly cold snowy December day in 1944. It was a painful question he repeatedly asked himself through the years, as time tried and often failed to heal his emotional and physical wounds. Frank knew he would never find his answer without going there, being there and standing in those woods once again. He knew that if he could return to this stand of trees in this patch of woods it would somehow take him back in time, slicing through the layers of years to December 21, 1944, when twenty-nine-year-old Sergeant Frank McClelland led a small group of MPs and soldiers out of the town of Wiltz for the last time.

The MPs, the last of the rear guard of the American 28th Infantry Division, had been ordered to hold the town as long as possible against the attacking German Army, buying enough time for the rest of the soldiers to withdraw westward. After the town was cleared, Frank and his men were to move along any of the available roads snaking through the Ardennes Forest, staying ahead of the swiftly advancing Germans and making their way to the rally point town of Bastogne in Belgium a few dozen miles to the west.

It was the beginning of the last major German offensive of World War II, an offensive that Army Command had deemed highly unlikely. The German army was said to be on the defensive, retreating into Germany and fortifying its defenses for a final stand against an Allied push. The fall of Berlin and the end of the war were forthcoming. Rumors circulated through the troops that there was a slight chance that the war might be over by Christmas but certainly by the New Year.

What command hadn’t told them was that Army Intelligence had information to the contrary: information indicating that the Germans were amassing troops in the Ardennes. Commanders at Division Headquarters had also ignored information from townspeople living near the front lines. Local people had been detained, questioned by the Germans, and then released. They had risked their lives to tell the Americans what they had witnessed—the build-up of troops, armor and artillery behind the German lines—but the information was deemed unreliable and set aside.

It was here in these Luxembourg hills, along an 50-mile front thinly protected by American troops that the Germans launched a surprise counterattack. The Germans pushed through porous American lines in an effort to reach Antwerp, with the hope of driving a wedge between Allied forces. The Battle of the Bulge had begun. In the six weeks of fighting that followed, more than a million men would engage in battle that would push eighty miles into Allied held territory. It would prove to be the largest and bloodiest battle of the war, with the Americans suffering 89,000 casualties including 19,000 soldiers killed more than 47,500 wounded. German losses were even greater with an estimated 100,000 men killed, missing or wounded. Additionally more than three thousand civilians were killed, some executed by the Germans for aiding the American soldiers. As the fighting raged, scores of towns were reduced to nothing more than piles of smoldering rubble.

In Wiltz, the 28th Division Headquarters was overrun by the German spear-head. In some of the war’s fiercest fighting, Frank and the other MPs, along with a handful of soldiers who volunteered to stay behind, held the town until the morning of December 20. When Wiltz was finally cleared of troops and any civilians who wanted to leave with the American troops, Sergeant McClelland and his men assembled behind a light armor tank and followed it out of Wiltz ahead of the German assault.

They had gone about a mile toward Bastogne when they were spotted by a German reconnaissance troop. The Germans opened fire disabling the small tank with a rocket from a Panzerfaust Anti-tank gun. Machine gun and small arms fire followed and Frank and the others were forced to scatter, retreating into the thickly wooded hills.

For the remainder of the day and into the night, the men managed to dodge German troops by moving carefully and quietly through the woods. Heavy snowfall and blankets of thick fog slowed their progress but also provided some extra cover. The following day, the same snow and fog that had helped hide the MPs now caused them to walk right into a squad of German soldiers. The weather conditions had concealed the Germans so well that Frank and his men didn’t see or hear them until the Germans yelled and opened fire. The otherwise tranquil forest erupted. Frank and his men instinctively dove to the ground for cover. Bullets sizzled the air, splintered trees and threw up tufts of mud and snow. When the shooting abruptly stopped, Frank could hear someone yelling in German. He cautiously lifted his head and spied several German soldiers approaching through the fog, smoke and trees. The Germans were yelling commands as they slowly advanced, their weapons trained on the MPs. Although he understood only a few words and phrases in German, Frank knew he and his men were being told to surrender. He looked around to check on the other men. Most only looked scared and confused, but two of them weren’t moving, the snow around them melting and mottled a reddish-brown. Frank again looked up at the advancing Germans, their weapons ready to tear into the Americans. Their situation hopeless, Frank put his head down and breathed deeply taking in the scent of fresh snow, wet earth and cordite. He slowly rose to his knees, tossed his Thompson submachine gun to the side and cautiously raised his arms, all the while holding his breath. He said nothing as he surrendered. His men looked at each other for a the moments that passed as if suspended in the thick air, and then reluctantly mimicked Frank's actions.

For the rest of the day the men now POWs were marched east through the Luxembourg countryside and deeper into German held territory. They had no food and little water and ate snow to keep up their strength. By nightfall the cold, hungry, thirsty and exhausted soldiers were taken to a barn just outside the small farming community of Nocher. After sitting in the barn for several hours the Germans began interrogating the soldiers, trying to glean any information they could about Allied troops movements and strengths. Being the highest ranking soldier, the interrogations started with Frank. He stood while an English speaking German captain fired question after question at him repeatedly offering only name, rank and serial number in reply. Even when the German captain leading the interrogation delivered backhand blows to Frank’s face and head, he spoke only his name, rank and serial number. The Captain’s frustrations grew until finally he pulled his pistol from its holster and barked out commands. Three German soldiers grabbed Frank and pulled him outside the barn, the Captain angry and still barking. Frank didn’t understand anything the German officer said but as he was hurried along he suddenly realized what was happening. He was being taken out to be executed. Stepping out into the cold, snowy night, Frank steeled himself to what was about to happen, accepting his fate, knowing there was nothing else he could do. As he was prodded to the spot where his life was about to end, one of the German soldiers, the oldest looking of the trio, leaned close and whispered to Frank in broken English, no shoot. Although scared Frank was now stunned. He stole a glance at the German's grizzled, battle-soiled face that managed to show a reassuring countenance. Frank’s fear quickly abated along with the knot in his stomach. He knew then this was all a ruse designed to entice the other POWs to talk. None did.

Frank would spend the next two months as a prisoner of war. He was moved to three different POW camps in Europe, then finally to a camp in Poland. By that time, the German army was back on the defensive. Their advance through Europe had been halted by the heroics and tenacity of the Allied forces. Frank’s POW camp was eventually liberated by the Russian army as it advanced on the Germans from the east. For Frank the war was just about over, but in those two months as a POW and in the tormented nightmare filled years that followed one question lingered: what, if anything, could he have done differently to prevent his capture and the death of two of his men?

Now, after returning to this forest, Frank realized that nothing would have changed the events of that day. He and his men had been unlucky, plain and simple. Despite all their training and caution, the woods had been too overgrown, the fog too thick, the snow too heavy, and the Germans wearing white battle dress too well concealed. There was no way he or his men could have avoided them.

After more than thirty years, Frank finally had his answer. He took a deep breath, the moist evening air filling his lungs. He saw everything differently now. Everything in his memory was clearer. He scanned his surroundings once again. Christ, it’s a wonder we made it this far.

He stood with hands fisted, buried deep in his jacket pockets. Sunlight now strained against the steel-grey clouds. He took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately, gave the wooded hillside a final look. As he peered through the trees, he could feel his eyes begin to swell with tears. He looked down for a few moments and thought about the war and in particular, the friends who never made it out of these woods. Such a waste, he whispered. He cleared his throat. Another deep breath. He then turned and headed back to the car. He hiked the few hundred yards back to the rain wet logging road, one of many that now weaved through the forest. As he left the tree line he spotted his navy-blue rental car parked along the edge of the road, just as he’d left it hours earlier. He didn’t have a planned itinerary, but he knew where he wanted