
By George Morris
For years, Dale Carver got depressed around Christmas. It wasn’t the typical holiday blues. It was much worse than that.
In 1944, Carver was a soldier with the U.S. Army’s 106th Infantry Division in Belgium’s Ardennes Forest when German troops began their last major offensive of World War II in Europe, the Battle of the Bulge.
There, he saw what war is: the grisly death of friends and innocents, cruelty, stupidity, cowardice, strong men breaking under the strain. As much as he wished otherwise, these sights and sounds and smells would not leave him even after the battles ended. Not even when the rest of his world was celebrating.
“I never had nightmares. I never woke up screaming,” Carver said. “I used to get depressed at Christmastime.”
His method of coping was neither to lie on a psychiatrist’s couch nor bury these images in his subconscious. Instead, Carver wrote poetry.
Carver let the horror of war spill out into verse. He had long loved poetry, memorizing it for the sheer joy of basking in aptly turned phrases. Now, it served a different purpose.
“I think it was therapy,” Carver said. “I think I would have gone crazy if I hadn’t. I’m not kidding.