By Chaplain Morris Kertzer
Excerpted from With an H on My Dog Tag.
In an armored division which I served, a young Jewish Sergeant filled in as substitute Jewish chaplain in my absence, conducting regular Sabbath services for the men. (He had thousands of counterparts all over the world, enlisted men and officers, who conducted as many services as did the Jewish chaplains.) A Private came to this Sergeant for counsel, explaining that every night when the shelling grew heavy, he would tremble in his foxhole, the darkness of the night aggravating his fears. The Private wished to know what he could do to calm himself. The Sergeant handed him a prayer book, saying: “When the shells start coming in fast and close, turn to page 15, and keep repeating ‘Shema Yisrael, Shema Yisrael…’” which was original if not very orthodox counsel.
Two days later the soldier returned. “Sergeant,” he declared, “your advice didn’t do me any good. Last night the shells fell mighty close and I kept saying the Shema Yisroel over and over again. Finally one shell landed right in our hole, between my buddy and me. And I’m still shaking.”
“How come you weren’t killed?” the Sergeant asked.
“The shell was a dud and didn’t go off,” the Private said.
His spiritual mentor turned on him wrathfully. “A German 88 lands right in your lap,” he shouted, “and you complain that the Shema Yisroel didn’t do you any good!”
Republished in the Shavous/Three Weeks 2024 issue of The Jewish American Warrior.
