Pure Joy

Bumping the door frame as they enter with a seemingly heavy large box, the two women in matching green outfits barely manage to carry it into the front room of our orphanage.

“What is it? What is it? What is it?” a quickly gathering crowd of small orphans demand of our nanny while scrambling to help carry the load.

As excited as the other children, I rush to help, tripping over the loose cardboard base of my shoes.

Holding my hands as high as their six years of growth can reach, I try to help keep the box from falling.

I’m helping, just as nanny says to do!

“I don’t know,” nanny replies, tiny uplifts of her lips framing her lined and skinny face.

“Who brought it?” four-year-old Heda tugs at nanny’s dirty skirt by letting go of the small section of box she had been holding up.

I want to be next to nanny.

I lower my hands from the box, pushing them together before shoving them like an arrow between Heda and nanny.

“It was left by Santa.” Nanny offers, her bony fingers curling over Heda’s fragile left shoulder.

Touch ME!

Love ME!

I’M helping.

Many of the others start jumping up and down, holes in the bottom of their flimsy shoes flitting in sight as their feet rise with squealing delight.

The box starts rocking as its weight is shifted between bouncing kids.

Notice ME!

I push up against Heda; my bigger body moving her away from nanny.

“See ME helping, Nanny?” I ask while looking up into the strained face of nanny.

“Yes, thank you for helping.” Nanny replies, a smile coming to her face as she places her left hand on my right shoulder.

All the other kids are jumping.

I want to stay with nanny.

Rocking from the many heights and altitudes of hobbling holders, the box starts to tip over.

What’s in it?

One of the women in the matching set of green pants and shirt, with a white armband on which sits a red plus symbol, starts to lose her grip on one end of the box.

It crashes to the floor, its contents spilling out from a crack in the side.

Squealers gather, blocking my view for a moment before the contents are revealed to all.

SHOES!

THEY ARE SHOES!

NEW SHOES!

We scramble into a big pile, each of us trying to grab at the shoes.

“There are enough for everyone,” Nanny calls out. “Please look for matching pairs. Everyone will get a pair.”

I just need two!

Grab any two!

Tim elbows me.

Greta kicks him with her socked left foot.

I grab two which look alike.

They look so new!

So Clean!

So Big!

Nanny and the two women in green are on their knees now, moving through the cluster of kids to check each pair of shoes, exchanging the non-matching pairs with each other.

“Check mine, Check mine!” I call out, handing my two toward nanny.

She turns toward me, taking my two shoes in hand.

Please match!

Oh, Please!

Handing them back to me with a full smile, she says, “Hans, you chose well. These will last you a long time.”

“THANK YOU!” I blurt as I dive onto nanny’s shoulders, almost dropping my shoes.

She picks me up as she rises, turning a little so I’m facing the door.

This is the greatest day, EVER!

A small squeeze by nanny around my body comforts me before she puts me down.

I scurry over to the stairs to look at my shoes.

As I sit, I gaze at them.

I can’t believe we got SHOES!

One in each hand, I bring them to me for a giant hug and sniff.

They smell new.

They feel strong.

They are BEAUTIFUL!

Thank you Santa!

Thank you!

Tilting my head to the sky while hugging the shoes tight, I can’t believe this day.

THANK YOU!

THANK YOU!

THANK YOU!

Six-year-old Austrian orphan Hans Werfel shows true JOY in this photograph from 1946. A photographer from LIFE magazine captured the moment Hans sits alone with his new pair of shoes. The shoes were a donation from The American Red Cross, and thus the American people to the war ravaged of Europe. Hans was one of millions of orphaned children from the war. Yet, in this moment, there is nothing but Joy in his life. A new, clean, solid pair of shoes is all he needed to feel such bliss. War often leaves behind the innocent with nothing to their name. How many orphans are there from The 20th Century’s War? At least, in this instance, one found ecstasy from the simplicity of a pair of shoes. What would bring you such Joy? What can you do to help those suffering the ravages of War today experience such joy themselves?

This is Werfel, six-year-old Austrian orphan, hugging a new pair of shoes from America. For nearly five years LIFE reader Mrs. Richard Henry Wehmeyer kept this picture as a visual object lesson. "Every time I heard some petty complaint," she says, she told friends about the little boy with the new shoes, un unfolded the clipping to shoe them.

As Mrs. Wehmeyer said in her letter "This picture of a child's ecstasy over a pair of shoes has meant something personal to me for a long time." It is a special attribute of the photograph that it lasts so long - in a treasured clipping, and in the memory.

LIFE magazine

September 24, 1951

Finally

“Yes my Fuhrer!” I shout just as the door to the Chancellery bunker glides open.

In walks General Dietrich von Saucken, newly reinstated from being fired last month for insisting it is pointless to continue the war.

How will The Fuhrer treat this Prussian aristocratic general? How will a general who was just fired and rehired handle meeting The Fuhrer?

General von Saucken slowly and casually walks into the room wearing his cavalry sabre and monocle.

He has his sword and monocle on, not to mention his sidearm, all are forbidden in The Fuhrer’s presence.

Seeing the Fuhrer, the general offers a soft, almost half-hearted military salute without removing his monocle.

The Nazi salute has been compulsory for all officers since the assassination attempt last July.

I eye Bormann; he looks back at me.

What will The Fuhrer do to this general who is blatantly disrespecting him?

“General Guderian, brief General von Saucken on conditions in East Prussia, and the Danzig area, where he will take over 2nd Army Group,” Hitler orders.

Did The Fuhrer not notice the general’s contempt? The general is eying the Fuhrer with such loathing.

I provide a short brief to the general, informing him of Russia’s disposition in the area and the current strength of the 2nd Army.

“And, in Danzig area you will have to accept the authority of Gauleiter Forster,” the Fuhrer adds, as an afterthought.

Ah, The Fuhrer is making General von Saucken report to a local Nazi party official, rather than a military commander. That can’t go well! No Prussian general would take orders from a party functionary.

Bormann gives me another insecure look. General von Saucken stiffens with a withering look aimed directly at the Fuhrer, who doesn’t seem to notice as he looks down at the maps on the table.

Leaning over the table, General von Saucken, who still has the monocle in his eye, slams the flat of his hand down on its solid wood surface of the table with the full force his powerful arms can deliver. The room falls silent.

Surprised by such insubordination, the Fuhrer looks up directly into General von Saucken’s eyes.

“I have no intention, Herr Hitler, of placing myself under the orders of Gauleiter!” General von Saucken declares with utter contempt for the man he sees as some mere corporal, rather than the esteemed leader of a now crumbling nation.

A small bug walking across the carpeted floor would make an echoing boom across the whole of the room in such a silence. General von Saucken just refused to take a direct order and belittled him by addressing him as “Herr Hitler” instead of “Mein Fuhrer.”

Bormann looks at me again, then looks toward General von Saucken. I look at both with an imploring visage.

Please don’t get The Fuhrer angry today! It seems Hitler is physically shrinking from the general’s words. His face looks even more waxen, his body more bowed than ever.

After a few tense moments Hitler quietly mumbles, “Alright Saucken, keep the command to yourself,” while waving the general away.

Making a half-hearted bow, without providing a Nazi salute, General von Saucken turns his back on Hitler and leaves the room.

Someone stood up to Hitler in his presence. It can be done! Finally, it has been done.

*****

General von Saucken

http://www.jmarkpowell.com/the-man-who-said-no-to-hitler-and-lived-to-tell-about-it/

On March 12, 1945, Hitler was so blatantly talked back to by one of his generals, but this time the general was not fired. The conservative Prussian aristocrat General Dietrich von Saucken did not take orders from what he referred to as the brown mob of Nazis. When Hitler ordered him to defend Danzig, he was agreeable. But, when Hitler told the general that he would take orders from the local Nazi party official, the general would not have it. Hitler relented, and the general was able to command as he saw fit, leading to a strong defense by under equipped and ill-trained men in the German 2nd Army. Hitler was feared by many, but yet he succumbed to the force of a clearly better man. Not intimidated by Hitler’s ravings nor hypnotized by his charisma, General von Saucken replied as he saw fit. How many times in Hitler’s rise to power could someone have stood up to him, preventing the horror he wrought on the world, if only they had as much nerve as this Prussian general?

General von Saucken was the last German awarded the Diamonds of The Knight’s Cross (on May 8, 1945) for his masterful defense of Danzig. He was offered a flight out to safety in the West but refused, insisting instead to surrender with his army. After surrendering, von Saucken went into Soviet captivity. He refused to sign a false letter and was subsequently sentenced to 25 years of imprisonment and sent to a Siberian work camp. Here he was tortured and spent twelve months in solitary confinement. He returned to Germany in 1955 as a marked man and settled in Munich, where he took up amateur painting. He passed away in 1980.

(Source: Beevor, Antony. Berlin the Downfall 1945 ISBN 0-670-88695-5. p.120.)

Surrounded

“HERE THEY COME AGAIN.” Strained words project from the dark ridgeline as at least two battalions of North Korean infantry storm up toward my platoon.

My voice is cracking, as are my men.

We’ve been holding a forward perimeter, just south of the main peak of Hill 931, ahead of the rest of C Company, since our Battalion’s attack stalled early this morning.

Instead of sending reinforcements, Battalion told us to stay put.

We volunteered to hold the front. Now, even with support from artillery, mortar, and heavy machine guns, we’re about to be overwhelmed.

“STAY LOW AND FIRE!” I order, hoping my guys stay out of the crossfire between the rest of our battalion and the oncoming red tide.

“LIEUTENANT, WE CAN PULL BACK,” Sanchez, my radioman, yells toward me.

God Bless!

Battalion must have realized our position is untenable. How nice of them!

“ALRIGHT, WE’RE PULLING OUT!” I yell to the men. “FIRST SQUAD, I’LL STAY WITH YOU. SPREAD OUT AND COVER THE REST OF THE COMPANY. EVERYONE ELSE, PULL BACK.”

As my hands fumble with a belt of ammunition for our light machine gun, I order Sanchez, “Leave the set, I’ll need it.”

He climbs out of the harness while moving the Motorola behind a rock.

At least most of my boys will be able to rejoin battalion.

Men start running back toward the line, leaving first squad and me out in front of the whole unit.

“KEEP FIRING, THEN MOVE!” I yell, hoping to stave off a wholesale sprint by most of my men.

“COVER FIRE! MAINTAIN COVER FIRE!” I scream as I tap the light machine gun twice to signal to Perez it’s loaded.

Before I can even take my hand off the device, it’s already heating up from projected rounds spewing forth toward the reds.

Tracer rounds streaking overhead keep me low as I move toward the Motorola.

We need more artillery support.

“THIS IS C COMPANY. WE NEED MORE FIRE SUPPORT NOW!” I yell into the device, fingers trembling on the speak button.

“There’s too many of them!” Napier yells from somewhere in front of me.

We’re going to be slaughtered out here if we wait any longer.

“FIRST SQUAD, EVERYONE BACK TO BATTALION!” I order in the loudest voice I can muster.

I can’t let these boys die out here while the rest of the unit is on the ridge.

Thomas starts heading back, followed by Richards.

Then Wallace and Zopa pop up from an outcrop.

Where’s Pililaʻau, my BAR carrier?

“PILILA’AU, GET BACK!” I call out, not knowing exactly where he is after so much movement to cover the whole position by just a few men.

“I’ll stay LIEUTENANT!” I hear from in front of a rock outcrop about 10 meters from me.

“I SAID EVERYONE!” I yell back.

“YOU’LL NEED COVER LIEUTENANT!” he replies, fire still coming from his position.

I can order him to get out of here, but he’s right, I do need cover.

Just 20 meters ahead of my positions, massive explosions burst as our artillery finally shows up. Despite this onslaught of explosive and shrapnel, I can see reds advancing through it. Limbs flying, bodies flung about; yet they continue up the hill.

“USE WHAT AMMO YOU HAVE, THEN GET OUT OF HERE!” I order.

Back on the Motorola, I scream above the din, “PUT EVERYTHING ON US, THEY’RE STILL COMING!”

The staccato firing of the Browning automatic rifle reassures me Pililaʻau is still out there as I look over the rocks toward the ever-advancing North Koreans.

Some must have seen me as rock splinters shoot out in every direction, inches from my shoulder.

I’ve gotta move.

Sliding away from my rock, I take the Motorola with me to find another safe perch from which to call in the artillery. Looking right and left, I’m lost in time for a moment. I cannot see beyond the small black-filled night, interrupted intermittently with tracer rounds, and finally, the bright burst of explosive shells as artillery is plowed over our position.

Finding a rock about fifteen feet from my original position, I hide behind it to catch my breath.

I haven’t heard Pililaʻau since the last burst of artillery.

“YOU STILL THERE?” I yell, not knowing in which direction I should be calling to him.

“YES LIEUTENANT, BUT RUNNING LOW ON AMMO FOR THE BAR,” he replies from somewhere in front of me. I can’t make it out in the darkness.

“PULL BACK NOW!” I order into the darkness.

More lightening, like bursts of artillery, with the accompanying crash of thunder, as round after round lands among the onrushing red tide. Bullets again start striking near me. Tracer rounds as long white perfectly straight lines, streak across the night, shattering rock near my head.

Shit, I must move again!

“I’M MOVING AGAIN, GET OUT!” I scream into the ether as I run back toward where I think the rest of the unit is holding the line.

During my ascent up the slope, an unstoppable crescendo of rounds striking rocks and dirt streams forth from all directions.

Both sides must be shooting at me!

Just twenty meters away from where I think our line is, the dark outline of dug-in soldiers is illuminated by the tracer rounds following me up the slope.

“THIS IS LIEUTENANT HAGAR, DON’T SHOOT!” I scream in an almost failing voice, hoping my guys can hear me above explosive artillery rounds landing nearby.

“GET HERE!” someone yells from in front of me.

Yes, they heard me!

“HAS PILILA’AU GOTTEN BACK YET?” I ask all as I jump into a dugout.

“Lieutenant, he’s not only not come back, but look,” Zopa replies, pointing back out toward where the artillery is bursting. By the light of explosive rounds, I can make out a single man throwing grenades toward the onrushing Koreans.

DAMN IT, HE DIDN’T GET OUT OF THERE!

“GIVE HIM COVER BOYS!” I order, not knowing how many men heard me.

Flashes of artillery keep his silhouette visible as we fire all around him. From just in front, behind, and to his sides, I can see Korean soldiers thronging, thrusting, and thrashing at him.

Within reach lays an unused rifle, so I pick it up.

“FIRE ALL AROUND HIM!”

Firing tirelessly to his left I see him pick up rocks to throw.

He’s out of ammo and grenades.

“KEEP FIRING!”

Pililaʻau pulls out his trench knife and lunges at a Korean soldier as a new set of explosive rounds lights up the whole face of the hill. Revealed by the explosion, a mass of Korean soldiers flows like a wave toward us, except in the area where Pilila’au’s fighting them off tooth and nail as an island in a sea.

His silhouette crumples, as if hit by a bullet in the mid-section.

He’s down!

Then the mass of Koreans continues forth over where he was fighting. Another round of bright explosive bursts reveals a Korean standing over something, bayonet in hand, stabbing at the ground.

He’s gone.

*****

Herbert Kailieha Pililaʻau

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herbert_K._Pililaau

On September 17, 1951 Company C, 1st Battalion, 23rd Infantry Regiment, 2nd United States Infantry Division was ordered to take Hill 931 near Pia-ri, Korea. After the attack stalled at the ridgeline south of Hill 931 and north of Hill 854 a platoon of Company C was ordered to hold a forward position while the rest of the Company rejoined the main body behind the ridge. At around 10:00 p.m. two battalions of the 13th Infantry Regiment, 6th Division, Korean People’s Army, began a concerted attack on the American position. The North Korean attack overwhelmed this small force, compelling them to retreat to rejoin the company. Private First Class Herbert Kailieha Pililaʻau’s squad was assigned to stay back momentarily and cover the retreat. Eventually, only Pililaʻau and his squad leader remained at the platoon’s original position.

The squad leader and forward observer Lt. Richard Hagar called in artillery fire continuously ahead of Pililaʻau, trying to cover him while he moved, also calling fire on the two hilltops, while Pililaʻau continued to fight off the attack. At one point, Hagar became afraid that the artillery was too close and that he hit Pililaʻau. Hagar called out for him, and Pililaʻau said he was ok and told Hagar to keep going. After exhausting the ammunition for his BAR, Pilila’au began throwing hand grenades until those too were gone. As some of his comrades watched from their new position further down the ridge, Pililaʻau threw rocks at the attackers before charging at them, wielding his trench knife with one hand, and punching with the other. He was soon surrounded and killed by bayonet. When his platoon retook the position the next day, they found forty dead North Korean soldiers around his body.

A Native Hawaiian who was born and raised on the island of Oʻahu, Pililaʻau was a talented singer and ukulele player and an avid reader. Drafted into the Army, he briefly considered declaring himself a conscientious objector, as his Christian faith made him unsure of killing others, but decided against this idea. He was sent to Korea in March 1951. Aged 22 at his death, Pililaʻau was buried at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Honolulu on February 26, 1952 (Section P, Grave 127). For his actions on, what would later become known as Heartbreak Ridge, he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.

Medal of Honor citation

Pfc. Pililaʻau, a member of Company C, distinguished himself by conspicuous gallantry and outstanding courage above and beyond the call of duty in action against the enemy. The enemy sent wave after wave of fanatical troops against his platoon, which held a key terrain feature on Heartbreak Ridge. Valiantly defending its position, the unit repulsed each attack until ammunition became practically exhausted and it was ordered to withdraw to a new position. Voluntarily remaining behind to cover the withdrawal, Pfc. Pililaʻau fired his automatic weapon into the ranks of the assailants, threw all his grenades and, with ammunition exhausted, closed with the foe in hand-to-hand combat, courageously fighting with his trench knife and bare fists until finally overcome and mortally wounded. When the position was subsequently retaken, more than 40 enemy dead were counted in the area he had so valiantly defended. His heroic devotion to duty, indomitable fighting spirit, and gallant self-sacrifice reflect the highest credit upon himself, the infantry, and the U.S. Army.