T‘was the night before Christmas, when all through the wood
Not a soldier was moving, and none of them should.
Huddled in foxholes, around a small fire,
Spirits were high though conditions were dire.
With the officer’s tucked up all snug in their beds,
The Sergeants made sure the men kept their heads.
Rifles were ready in case of attack,
Two men a foxhole, to cover one’s back.
When off in the distance there arose such a clutter,
“Tanks on the way.” One man muttered.
Grasping their rifles close to their chests,
Each man could only hope for the best.
With the chatter of tracks drawing ever so near,
It was the pending attack the battalion had feared.
Preparing to fire, the soldiers gave pause,
As though the woods emerged Panzer Claus!