24/12/2025
The Paratrooper Who Stole Rudolph!
This IS a true story that I hope my grandson reads this Christmas Eve. My granddaughter is too young to understand, but someday she will. [Chapter 32 in my Substack blog, if you’re following my “Dear Island” stories].
Once upon a time, in a place called Fort Bragg, lived an Army Paratrooper named Bella. Her fort was not near the North Pole, but it was very cold at Christmastime as the year 1990 drew near…
The 82nd Airborne Division is an elite military unit whose soldiers numbered around 12,000 back in the 1990’s. The male to female ratio was about 100 to 1, at best. Females were scarce and probably still are. Airborne School isn’t for everyone; jumping is the EASY part of the training.
I lived in the barracks below where I worked at the Division HQ (headquarters) building, down the sloping entrance called All American Way. We were housed across the street on Gruber Road. It was a plain, cinderblock, 3-story building. Layers of neutral paint coated the exterior and the windows were not energy efficient. When the military eventually must have replaced them, the panes probably still bore remnants of grey tape X marks from Hurricane Hugo.
The entire division had been in the field on joint exercises the fall of 1989 when the winds from a storm named Hugo neared tropical force. I hastily tore down my tent, packed up equipment and pulled down my radio antenna to load my Humvee and ferry troops back out of the pine woods. The Division Commander at the time had waited too long to call off the exercise, putting the Pentagon dog-and-pony show ahead of equipment and troop safety. We all knew it, but nobody dared say it.
The right corner of the building opened to our company’s Headquarters, the First Sergeant’s office, the armory, a meeting room, and the G-4’s office, where supply and logistics magic happens. The entrance to the barracks was around back in the gravel courtyard we shared with the block of infantry barracks behind us. They didn’t have a lawn to do sit-ups like we did. I parked my Humvee there whenever the Commander requested his driver/radio man.
My unit was co-located with PSC, or Personnel Services Company, a human resources type unit, and we lived on part of the 3rd floor of that non-descript building. Our small unit had only a few unmarried female soldiers, so our female barracks rooms had the luxury of private bathrooms.
Patty was my roommate and for a time, Georgina lived next door. Other females came and went, newbies waiting for assignment, divorces and the like. The Personnel Services Company kept their assigned females housed on the first floor and I knew a few of them from Fort Benning or other posts. Paula lived downstairs; I knew her from being AIT (advanced individual training) roommates and buddies. We came from diverse backgrounds but became close friends. Lynette returned stateside from her yearlong duty assignment in Korea after airborne school graduation and moved to the PSC unit downstairs too. Sadly, I’ve lost touch with all of them now.
For the male enlisted soldiers, the shared barracks bathroom had a wall of sinks to the right, an open shower bay behind them, and private toilet stalls along the left wall. The laundry area was in the half-walled middle of the room and females did laundry in the men’s room. The bathroom overlooked Gruber Road and our PT yard area, so we could see if we were late from the latrine.
The payphone, our lifeline to the outside world, was a few steps down the hallway, across the invisible line to the PSC unit soldiers who also lived upstairs but with whom we didn’t comingle much. Everyone who answered the pay phone just yelled out the soldier’s name a caller requested and dropped the receiver to hang and wait. The breakroom was across the hall from my barracks room, where soldiers could gather to watch TV or relax. A small desk and chair sat in the hallway for the nightly fire guard. While soldiers were sleeping, someone always had to be awake in case of emergency, even in peacetime quarters.
On this table sat the “bat phone”, red in color and absent any numbered dials. We didn’t dial anyone from that phone, they called us. When the phone rang, the fireguard answered and listened, speaking only to confirm the message was received. Sometimes questions were invited from the caller, but often not. All who heard the distinctive ring knew it was time to get off our bunks and await further instructions, drill or otherwise. The 82nd Airborne Division rotated units on recall status and regardless of deployment probabilities, all units supported the operation in one way or another.
Each weekday in the 82nd Airborne, we assembled at daybreak for PT (physical training) on the front lawn outside the office, facing the street and flag for the required Reveille salute. We often ran 5 miles or more, even in poor weather. The company gathered in unit formation there to prepare for jumps and ceremonies as well.
Officials waiting at the stoplight to enter Division HQ could look over as we did calisthenics to warm up before our long morning runs. In the evenings we jogged in boots, BDU uniforms, and red berets down the hill from our offices to our barracks; we’d have to stop and salute the lowering flag during the sound of Retreat on our way to chow hall dinner. All vehicles had to stop, and occupants were obliged to exit and pay respect, whether in uniform or not.
The colorful North Carolina fall turned into an icy winter, and my first airborne Christmas drew near. I missed the precious family times we spent with my late father playing Santa Claus, throwing rocks on the roof to simulate reindeer as he bellowed ho-ho-ho from the snowy yard near midnight for his sleepy children.
I approached the 1st Sergeant about decorating for Christmas; barracks life can be very depressing. I oversaw the office supply budget, so I got permission to use petty cash to buy some materials, and he graciously gave me his own money to supplement the mission. Our commander pitched in and some of the married guys brought in spare Christmas lights and other items I’d put on a wish list.
I recruited a few other volunteer soldiers, and our improvised squad built a Santa sleigh with two reindeer to light up our front lawn. I’d seen yard cut-out’s where slots were used to connect animal body parts, so we used a projector to display a pattern from a library book onto plywood. One handy soldier used his scroll saw to cut the design and our project slowly took shape.
We painted our raw plywood as brightly as we could, and I filled the sleigh with old plastic toys and worn-out teddy bears that could withstand the winter weather. We stapled lights all over the whole display, red ones for Rudolph’s nose. Admittedly cheesy, our yard decoration still brightened my spirits and brought the joy of Christmas to our company. Dusk came early; many cars honked their approval of our brightly lit Rudolph ensemble when they stopped to salute Evening Colors or as they passed by in the early dawn hours for division headquarters meetings. I was proud of our project.
One Sunday morning, I opened my bedroom door to greet the fire guard as usual. He was a married Sergeant, grumpy from spending his Saturday night on a chair in the barracks rather than at home with his family. He was part of the bah-humbug squad. Smugly, he announced that someone had stolen Rudolph overnight. I ran to the window to look for myself, shocked at the audacity. A few barracks soldiers were stirring about and a few laughed and scoffed at how stupid my idea was anyway. The display was in disarray on the front lawn, and I nearly cried before I composed my newly minted soldier self.
Angrily, I called the MP (military police) 911 type number and blurted out, “I’d like to report a missing person!” My tone was serious, so the officer responded accordingly, asking for a description and what had happened. My hands were shaking in anger and I continued, “He’s… he’s made… out of wood, he has 4 legs, a red nose and lots of lights! His name is Rudolph and someone took him from in front of Division Headquarters!”
I suddenly realized how silly my emergency sounded, but I paused to breathe and awaited his measured response. “Let me get this straight, you’re talking about that yard ornament at the bottom of All American Way, right?” I confirmed this was indeed the Rudolph who had been kidnapped; amazingly, the soldier still took my report while my barracks brothers laughed at me in the background.
Soon, investigators arrived to survey the crime scene. They seemed shocked and saddened too; someone had stolen Christmas. An APB (all points bulletin) went out to all 82nd Airborne units; it was a BOLO (be on the lookout) for Rudolph! By Monday morning, every First Sergeant in the division announced to his platoon that if Rudolph was found in his barracks, heads would roll. Before a search party was ordered, one infantry company near mine coughed up the perpetrators. The fire guard in that barracks building had seen two drunken soldiers carry some broken plywood and lights into their room.
Rudolph, the poor victim, had been kicked, punched, and torn, sustaining life-threatening injuries. Two inebriated soldiers thought it was a great idea to end their Saturday night festivities by beating up Santa’s team leader and then hiding his broken body in their barracks before plotting his eventual disposal. Monday morning reality struck hard.
The military teaches lessons using unconventional methods. It wasn’t funny anymore when the wrath of their First Sergeant came down. I was escorted to the offenders’ barracks by the MPs to face the accused. Seeing me, the two lowered their heads in disgrace. They were apologetic and offered to repair Rudolph. Their 1st Sergeant had more than repentance in mind.
Beginning that very night until Christmas Day over one week later, the two soldiers would spend their workday as usual, but from Retreat at 5pm until Reveille at sunrise, they would be on TDY (temporary duty assignment) to my unit. My First Sergeant had already reviewed the orders, so no paperwork was required. The mission was clear.
The pair were given their M-16 rifles and told to pack their bivouac gear. Not only would they repair Rudolph using their own money, but they would pull roving guard duty all night, every night, and sleep in their pup tent on our front lawn to make sure no one else harmed Rudolph until Christmas Day arrived. I could not believe my ears!
The convicted soldiers were not permitted to leave the lawn while on duty. Dinner and coffee from the closest chow hall were delivered by their embarrassed and annoyed Platoon Sergeant each evening. Weather was irrelevant, and snow dusted or ice coated the tent on many mornings before they packed everything up only to repeat the setup each night.
Sometimes when I heard Taps before bedtime, I’d cross the hall and peer out the windows just to make sure one of them was circling Rudolph, the other reindeer, and Santa’s sleigh with his M-16. Cars drove by at night, honking and laughing now, waving to the cold humiliated soldiers. My fellow barracks rats, as we affectionately called ourselves, often laughed and warned me that these two might want revenge after it’s all done, but nothing ever happened.
Christmas Eve came and the high temperature of 32 degrees freezing dropped to under 20 degrees. Winter winds gusted to 15 mph by sunset’s Retreat, further lowering the wind chill factor. The weary soldiers sipped their coffee on the lawn at 5pm, layering their cold-weather gear at the start of their holy nightshift.
I looked down and thought about the true meaning of Christmas. I thought about wise men on a starry night on a long road march seeking the newborn king. I called my First Sergeant and then I dialed the infantry company’s desk, absolving the men of their duty and sending them home to slumber. Thinking back, I wonder if my brothers in arms recall that cold winter at Fort Bragg and their TDY to guard Rudolph and save Christmas.
May you witness and share His mercy and grace as we celebrate the birth of Jesus.
Love,
Bella
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