A Devotion from Charlotte F. Otten
The city of Nijmegen in the Netherlands lay still in the sleep of morning. The noisy burr of
motorbikes and the gentle whirr of bicycles were distinctly absent. All was still and dark on the
Saturday morning before Christmas, 1959. All was still, that is, except for four people, four
Americans awake and stirring in the Netherlands—Bob and I, and our two young sons.
This was no ordinary Saturday morning for us. Christmas vacation had begun for the boys
and we were planning a one-day trip into Germany. Nijmegen is close to the German border,
and one may see a great deal on a one-day excursion into it.
But today, the Saturday before Christmas, was to be different. We were not going into
Germany to see the Cologne Cathedral with its two graceful spires pointing to the sky. Nor were
we going to Düsseldorf, shiny and bright as a new penny. We were going to see three tiny
villages in the Ruhr Valley—three drab villages which I’m quite sure many Germans have never
heard of, let alone Americans. Who knows or cares about Puffendorf, Ederen, or Linnich when
Europe is packed full of magnificent things to see? And why visit unknown villages when you
have only 10 months to spend in Europe?
The answer was that these were Bob’s 10 months. He had come to the Netherlands as a
Fulbright Research Scholar. Naturally we would be seeing the famous sights of Europe, but
these three villages in the Ruhr Valley meant something to him, for he had lived in them in
1944—he and the big Army howitzers. Now, after 15 years, he wanted to retrace his war steps;
he wanted to see the three villages again.
Furthermore, there was another thing he wanted to see—Margraten. Margraten was the
huge American War Cemetery near Maastricht in the Netherlands where one of Bob’s friends
lay buried. Surely this was destined to be a somber sort of day, this Saturday before Christmas,
at least for us.
We finished breakfast quickly, and the four of us took off in our little “foreign” car down the
road into the dark December morning.
As we drove along, I looked up at the many stars which were still shining. How close they
seemed to be, closer than ever before. Of course we were farther north than ever before. We
were in the Netherlands, not Michigan, and these plump stars were Dutch stars in a Dutch sky.
I wished secretly that we were not going to visit war villages and a war cemetery. Why did we
have to see such reminders of tragedy? How much more appropriate would it be to go to fine
art galleries and look at the famous paintings of the birth of the Prince of Peace. War at
Christmas time? No!—Why not think of peace?
Somehow I had remained a stranger to war. True, Bob had spent over three years in the
American Army, and 18 months in Europe. But God had blessed our family. We had come out of
it all unscathed, and I preferred to forget that the Red Horse of War had ever ridden.
I had had premonitions of what we might see this day. The people in Nijmegen had seen the
Red Horse, had heard him tramping through their city night after night, day after day, and they
had often told us of the days of terror and depression. We had heard them tell of hunger and
cruelty and death; and they always spoke as though it had happened yesterday. One friend told
of the following incident. Nijmegen had been liberated by the Americans one day in 1944, and
the next day there was a celebration in the bombed-out town square. Her husband had been
on his way to the square when suddenly a remaining enemy stepped out from behind a building
and threw a large grenade. What was left of her husband was put in a cigar box. And that was
the day after Liberation! And so we had heard account after account of the riding of the Red
Horse of War.
I knew one thing: I did not want to see the Red Horse of War on the Saturday before
Christmas. He would surely destroy the joy and peace of Christmas.
Quietly we rode on toward Puffendorf, Ederen, and Linnich. Gradually the stars disappeared
and the dawn came, and by the time it was light we had reached the war area. Burned-out
tanks graced the landscape. This was farming and orchard area, but nature had not obliterated
the marks of war.
Then we saw the villages. Here stood a handful of houses, ugly and scarred. Each one had its
deep artillery wounds. The Red Horse had been here all right. Over there stood a house, or half
a house, I should say, with a family living in the front of it and damaged bricks piled high behind
it. A lonely pig could be seen scrounging for food in the debris. All around was evidence of
destruction. We thought of the age-old phrase, “They make a desolation and they call it peace.”
Peace was here, silent and joyless. But this was not the peace of Christmas, the joyful peace of
the shepherds who welcomed the Christ-Child.
We rode on. In Ederen we saw the Purple Heart Corner. This corner had been ceaselessly
shelled, and countless American boys had been wounded. Now there was no sound of artillery
to shake the countryside. No guns boomed or whistled; no soldier dashed for cover. And yet,
although 15 years had elapsed, it seemed as though the Red Horse had just ridden through. We
could see men rebuilding one of the houses and using the old wounded bricks.
On we rode in silence. Our thoughts lay too deep for tears. Later we stopped for lunch and
then continued our drive along the countryside. But never were we able to forget the three
war-scarred villages of the Ruhr—“the Villages of the Red Horse,” I called them.
Now we had one more thing to see: Margraten. We crossed the border back into the
Netherlands. Our young boys were the first to spot the sign for Margraten, and we turned in.
Until the Saturday before Christmas, 1959, Margraten had meant nothing to me. Now, as
we stepped out to look over the grounds, the place overwhelmed me. It was all so green, and
so still.
Against the rich green of the grass gleamed the tremendous white stone monument with
the names of at least 500 American men engraved upon it, and standing for at least 500
separate sorrows. Their bodies were lying here at Margraten, unidentified, and occupying
unknown graves. And around about we saw the white crosses, almost 9000 of them—9000
white crosses on a carpet of green. So intensely white were they and so thick that everything
seemed blurred to my eyes. Infantry men were here from the Battle of the Bulge who died that
Christmas in 1944, and here were pilots and artillery men. Nine thousand American boys lay in
the white and green of Margraten, and yet it all seemed bloody red with the hoofmarks of the
Red Horse.
We stood a long time, then climbed into our car and headed toward Nijmegen. Darkness
came quickly now; it comes early in December in the Netherlands. And gradually the stars
reappeared. Bright and large and seemingly very near, they shone down upon us. Suddenly the
meaning of this day, this Saturday before Christmas, came to us. We understood it anew. The
birth of the Prince of Peace had a fresh and poignantly beautiful meaning.
As suddenly and unexpectedly as the stars reminded us of the Star of Bethlehem, so
suddenly and unexpectedly the darkness, sadness, and desolation slipped out of our hearts. The
Star of Bethlehem was truly shining on us and speaking to us. And—strangest of all—the Red
Horse was leading us straight to the Prince of Peace.
We began to realize how appropriate the day had been. It was in the world of war that the
Prince of Peace was born. We knew that although the Red Horse could ride through the world
and trample it under his hoofs, he could never triumph over it. The Prince of Peace had come
and would come again, riding on a pure white horse with a Cross in his hand, and he would
vanquish the Red Horse forever.
We had seen the Red Horse. But we had also seen in a new and striking way the Prince of
Peace. That Saturday before Christmas, 1959, the mild Babe of Bethlehem was transformed
into the triumphant Prince of Peace. And we heard great voices saying: “The Kingdoms of this
world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign forever and
ever.”