At the time of writing this poem, Howard Buer was a Staff Sergeant. The poem was submitted to an [unknown] magazine by Buer’s sister-in-law and subsequently “found” by Janet Rattay who commented: “The longings are the same and will continue to be the message, even for the troops today”
I don’t care, Santa, what I get,
of material things, I mean.
The things that I now treasure most
are things which can’t be seen.
Time was, I’d forward look for ties
and gloves and socks to get
Now, Uncle Sammy gives me these-
I’m well supplied as yet.
And games are out, where I’m concerned;
I don’t have much time free,
No cigarettes, ‘cause I don’t smoke,
and liquor’s not for me.
I won’t be home the twenty-fifth,
But that is quite all right;
‘Cause if a party’s what I need,
I’ll have it another night.
But still, that isn’t what I want;
My needs are very few
The things I want are for morale
and can’t be had from you.
I want assurance (that is all)
That “home” will “home “ remain;
That all my loved ones there will be
When I come back again.
This war, St. Nick, in not “for fun”-
There’s work that we must do
And when we back to this side come
We’ll find there’s work here, too.
I pray to God that our people
Will ne’er in chaos live
‘Cause that, dear Sant’, is why we fight
And why our lives we give.
I said before, I do not care
What Christmas to me brings,
If I can but come back to home
And find the saner things.
A mother’s touch, a sweetheart’s kiss,
The clasp of Dad’s firm hand,
A job for me (that’s all I ask)
From this, My Blessed Land.
Written in December 1944 by Howard Buer (Deceased)