A Silent Night Behind Barbed Wire: Christmas in a WWII POW Camp

On this episode of Our American Stories, in the final Christmas of World War II, American soldier Keith Ginther found himself behind enemy lines in a German POW camp. But on that quiet night in 1944, something unexpected happened. Shared through journalist Kristen Inbody, this story is a rare glimpse into how faith, music, and memory helped carry one man through one of the darkest seasons of war.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:10):
This is Lee Habib and this is our American Stories,
and you're listening to our Christmas Eve special. All show long,
we're sharing stories about what makes this time well the
most wonderful time of the year. Kristin Mboddy was a
reporter from Montana's Great Foals Tribune when she stumbled across
the story of a local rancher named Keith Ginther. Keith

(00:32):
adjoined the army in nineteen forty two, shipped out to Europe,
and was captured during the infamous Battle of the Bulge.
Here's Kristin's story, originally entitled eow Re Calls Silent Night.

Speaker 2 (00:46):
I knew Keith Ginther liked Gladiola's he grew them by
the hundreds, and he was a bachelor farmer and he
was quiet, and that's all I knew about him, although
I'd known him all my life. One year, around Christmas time,
out of nowhere, he just started telling me the story.
I wrote it up, and he carried it in his

(01:09):
walker for years. He died in twenty fourteen, and I
think he was surprised, after being quiet for so long
what came out.

Speaker 3 (01:21):
But he was proud to Snightly Night.

Speaker 2 (01:33):
In the United Methodist congregation singing silent night by candlelight
on Christmas Eve. Perhaps it will mean the most to
the former Pow among them. Though he loves the most
famous of carols, Keith Ginther ninety dreads Christmas. He joked
that it's because he has to wear dress, shirt and tie,

(01:54):
but it's really the memories that come with Christmas. In
December nineteen forty four, Kinther became one of the twenty
three thousand Americans captured or missing by the end of
the Battle of the Bulge, Germany's final and ultimately unsuccessful
offensive on the Western Front. He began one hundred and

(02:15):
fifty mile march into Germany sixty seven years ago. This month,
he remembers feeling humbled in defeat, even more so as
the POWs met German artillery, pulled by horses or one
truck pulling another on its way to the front. How

(02:36):
could these guys hold the upper hand, the Anks wondered.
We sure weren't very happy, he said. The column of
POWs passed through a countryside devastated by war and damaged
by Allied bombing. At one village, the POWs had to
clear rubble, so German artillery could pass through an American

(02:59):
bomber pilot joined the prisoner ranks. These people seemed to
be more hostile to airmen, whom they blamed for being bombed.
Ginther said, the Germans harassed the down pilot. They'd rushed
the sides of the column trying to grab him. The
villagers were starving, exhausted, and angry. When the hostility was

(03:20):
at its worst, all the prisoners had reason to be afraid,
though none so much as a captured bomber pilot. Yet
at that moment, an American in the ranks began singing
Silent Night A. Pretty soon the Germans were singing Silent
Night too, A, so it calmed things down. Ginther said

(03:49):
halfway through the first verse, you could hear the words
in German too. If not for the song, which for
one moment brought a measure of peace to a small
corner Germany, I don't really know what would have happened,
he said. The guards would have tried, I guessed, to
protect him.

Speaker 1 (04:17):
And a special thanks to Kristen Imbody for sharing that
beautiful story with us. Again about Keith Ginther. Before we
go to break though, we want to share with you
a poem concerning Christmas from another veteran, performed here by
Father Ted Burnt, a World War Two veteran and a
Purple Heart recipient who passed away in two thousand and four.

Speaker 4 (04:40):
Was the night before Christmas. He lived all alone in
a one bedroom house made of plaster stone. I had
come down the chimney with presents to give to see
just who in this dwelling did live. This house was different.

(05:00):
It was dark, it was dreary. I had found the
home of a soldier. I could see that most clearly.
The soldier lay sleeping, silent alone, curled up on the
floor in this one bedroom home. His face was so gentle,

(05:23):
the room in such disorder, not at all how I
pictured a United States soldier. Was this the hero of
whom I just read, curled up on a poncho the
floor for a bed? Then I realized the other families
that I saw this night owed their lives to soldiers

(05:46):
who were willing to fight. In the morning. Round the world,
children would play drawn ups, would celebrate a bright Christmas day,
but they all enjoy freedom each month of the year
because of soldiers like the one lying hear. I couldn't

(06:08):
help but wonder how many lay alone on a cold
Christmas Eve in lands far from home. The very thought
put a tear to my eye. I dropped to my knees.
I started to cry. The soldier awakened. I heard his
rough voice, Sata, don't cry. This life is my choice.

(06:31):
I fight for freedom. I don't ask for more. My
life is my God, my country, my core. The soldier
rolled over and drifted asleep, but I couldn't control it,
and I continued to weep. I kept watch for hours,

(06:54):
so silent and still, as both of us shivered from
the cold nights. I didn't want to leave him on
that cold, dark knight, this guardian of honor, Saul, willing
to fight. Then the soldier rolled over, with the voice
soft and pure. He whispered, carry on a Sata Christmas day,

(07:18):
all secure. Want to look at my watch. I knew
you was right. Merry Christmas, my friend, By God, bless
you this night.

Speaker 1 (07:27):
This is our American Stories. Our Christmas Eve special continues
after these messages. This is Lee Habib, host of Our
American Stories. Every day on this show we tell stories
of history, faith, business, love, loss, and your stories. Send
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(07:48):
at Ouramerican stories dot com. That's oas at Ouramerican stories
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