Christmas in Verviers, 1944

My father was a sergeant in the 327^th Fighter Control Squadron, the first American unit to bed down in Verviers after Belgium's liberation in September 1944. Christmastime would be wonderful and terrifying for him and his Belgian sweetheart.

Dad supervised two men in a radio van perched atop the hills of nearby Stembert. Fighter Control soldiers were liaisons between pilots in five-plane fighter squadrons and controllers in operations blocks on the ground. They would help guide pilots to their targets. If flyers were lost or hit, radio men would help direct them back to base.

Unlike combat soldiers, who were usually in the field, Fighter Control men lived and worked alongside civilians in urban and semi-urban war zones. Thus my father had an up-close view of Belgian life.

Verviers was a small city of 41,000 in eastern Belgium near the German border. It had cobblestone streets filled with tram tracks and three-story buildings. Apartments had tiny rooms with small, rectangular windows shrouded in black.

Bomb damage in Verviers was modest, but the economy was decimated. The retreating Germans took tons of food and furniture with them, leaving little for Belgian families. Each citizen was rationed 1,200 calories of food a day, half a normal diet. Despite recourse to the black market, it was difficult for most people to get enough to eat.

There were shortages of electricity, gasoline, and natural gas. A natural gas pipeline serving Verviers and Liege ruptured, leaving Verviers without fuel. People could only iron their clothes at certain times of day. The gasoline shortage was so bad that farmers in Stembert manufactured ethanol in their backyards.

Yet Belgians generously opened their homes to American soldiers. My father got so many dinner invitations that he had to turn some down. Belgians did his laundry, mended his clothes, and then refused payment.

In October, Dad met a beautiful, 23-year-old Belgian seamstress whom I will call Denise. When the Nazis overran Belgium in 1940, Denise's husband was sent to a forced labor camp. Two years later, she heard that he had died.

In wartime, courtships are brief because people never know when their last moment may be upon them. When Dad and Denise's eyes met, they had instant telepathic contact. My father and Denise ate and slept together whenever possible.

Dad would visit her two or three times a week. He would always take an extra helping from the GI chow line and transport the duplicate meal to a very grateful girlfriend.

It was almost as if they were married. Denise would mend Dad's clothes, and my father would help with household chores. In the evening, they would sip café au lait by the fireplace and listen to BBC broadcasts.

They attended many sporting events, dances, and shows, but there were even more buzz bombs and air raids. My father would often hear the sound of anti-aircraft guns pounding against Denise's windows in the middle of the night.

On the job, buzz bombs were his frequent companions. They rained down on Verviers by the tens per day. Years later, Dad recalled a shift with his corporal when a buzz bomb passed directly over his radio van. The growling was growing louder by the second, and the corporal tried to take a drag on a cigarette. He could not. The corporal's hands were shaking so frightfully that he was unable to put the lit match in contact with the tobacco.

On December 16, 1944, the Battle of the Bulge began. Some 250,000 Germans stormed across a 50-mile Allied front. A Christmas party that my father and his buddies had been planning for children in Verviers was abruptly scrapped.

About 56,000 American soldiers were hastily evacuated from the city, including my father's 300-man-strong outfit. Radio men were usually about 10 miles behind front lines. The Army sent the 327^th Fighter Control Squadron 13 miles west to Liege. The brass was trying to keep the radio men safe, but the move backfired.

Greater Liege was an industrial area with nearly 500,000 people. It was too big a target for the Luftwaffe to pass up. Instead of being 13 miles behind front lines, Dad was right on the front lines. He worked tough, 12-to-16 hour days. The Germans flooded Liege with 100-plus buzz bombs every twenty-four hours. For the first and only time in his life, my father took up smoking. He was very worried about Denise.

At 22, my Dad was a bit of wiseguy. He was always trying to game the system.

Under a snowy gray sky on Christmas Eve, my father and his friends hitched a ride in an open van, arriving at Verviers with forged passes. They were taking a huge risk because Verviers was now a closed city, and MPs were grilling anyone attempting entry. Fifteen hundred German parachutists dressed in American uniforms had infiltrated the area, engaging in espionage and sabotage. Had the MPs discovered my father's false documentation, he would probably have been arrested or shot.

Dad was young and reckless. And he loved Denise very much. He would have died for her--nobly or foolishly.

The next morning, my father returned to Liege. He did not see Denise again until late January 1945, after the Germans had been beaten back.

Dad always referred to this part of his life as "my fairytale." Alas, it ended sadly. Denise's husband somehow survived the camps, and Denise reunited with him shortly after my father left for Germany.

After the war, my father cherished fresh fruit and running water because in the Army, such comforts were rare. But his love for Denise was unlimited, and his bright memories of her were undimmed by time.