Was it strange it raised our spirits on Christmas, '68?
We crowded in a corner around old Sergeant "Jack"—
A Santa Claus in chevrons with a mail-bag for his pack—
And with horse-play, yells, and laughter we greeted every flight
As he called the names and fired them their bundles left and right.
For some there came no tokens, but they kept their faces straight
And smiled at others' fortune on Christmas, '68.
"Tom Flint!" A woollen muffler from his sister back in Maine.
"James Bruce!" His father'd sent him a silver watch and chain.
"Hans Goetz!" A flute and song-book from the far-off Baltic's shore.