A great miracle attributed to Saint Michael!
This is the story, told as true, of a U.S. Marine wounded in Korea in 1950. In a letter to his mother, he told her about the amazing encounter he had in the war. Father Walter Muldy, a U.S. Navy chaplain who spoke with the young Marine and with his mother, always affirmed that the account was true.
We heard the story from someone who read the original letter and retold it in full detail, to pass on to us the effect it had when the son first told it to his mother.
Dear Mom,
I am writing to you from a hospital bed. Don’t worry, Mom, I’m fine. I was wounded, but the doctor says I’ll recover quickly.
But that’s not what I want to tell you, Mom. Something happened to me that I don’t dare tell anyone for fear they won’t believe me. But I have to tell you, because you are the only person I trust, even though you’ll find it hard to believe.
Do you remember the prayer to Saint Michael that you taught me to say when I was little: “Michael, Michael of the morning…”? Before I left home for Korea, you urged me to remember this prayer before facing the enemy. But honestly, you didn’t need to remind me, Mom. I always said it, and when I got to Korea I said it several times a day, on the march or at rest.
Well, one day we were told to move forward and scout for the Communists. It was a really cold day. As I was walking along the road, I saw a fellow walking beside me and glanced over to see who it was.
He was a big guy, a Marine about 6’4″, well built. The funny thing was that I didn’t know him, and I thought I knew everybody in my unit. I was glad of the company and of breaking the silence between us:
“Cold today, isn’t it?” And I smiled, because it didn’t seem quite right to be talking about the weather as we were advancing to meet the enemy.
He smiled too, quietly.
I went on, “I thought I knew everyone in my unit, but I’ve never seen you before.”
He agreed: “No, I just joined. My name is Michael.”
I said, “Really? That’s my name too.”
And the Marine said, “I know. Michael, Michael of the morning…” I was very surprised, Mom: he knew my prayer. But I had taught it to lots of the guys, so I figured the new fellow had picked it up from someone else. In fact, it had got to the point where some of my buddies called me “Saint Michael.”
Suddenly Michael said to me, “There’s going to be some trouble ahead.”
I wondered how he could know that. I was breathing hard from the march, and my breath made thick clouds in the cold air. But Michael seemed in great shape; I never saw his breath at all. Then it began to snow, and soon it was so thick that I couldn’t hear or see the rest of my outfit. I got a bit scared and yelled, “Michael!” Then I felt his strong grip on my shoulder and heard his voice in my ear: “It’ll clear up soon.”
And sure enough, the storm stopped all of a sudden. And then, just a short way off, like so many terrible scenes, there were seven Communists, looking kind of funny in their hats. But there was nothing funny now: their rifles were aimed straight at us.
I shouted as I looked for cover, “Get down, Michael!” Even as I hit the ground, I looked up and saw Michael still standing, as if paralysed with fear, or so I thought at the time. Bullets were flying everywhere, and there was no way those Communists could miss at that range, Mom. I jumped up to pull him down, and that’s when I was hit. The pain was like fire in my chest, and as I fell I remember thinking, “I must be dying…” Someone was laying me down; two strong arms were holding me and setting me gently in the snow. Then I opened my eyes, and it seemed as if the sun was burning my eyes. Michael was still standing there, with a majestic splendour on his face. Suddenly he seemed to grow like the sun, and the splendour around him began to spread out like an angel’s wings. As I was losing consciousness, I saw Michael holding a sword in his hand, flashing like a million lights.
When I woke up later, the rest of the men came to see me with the sergeant.
He asked me, “How did you do it, son?”
I answered with a question: “Where’s Michael?”
The sergeant looked puzzled. “Michael who?”
I said, “Michael, the big Marine who was walking with me right up to the last moment. I saw him as I fell.”
The sergeant said sadly, “Son, you’re the only Michael in my unit. I picked all the men myself, and there was only one Michael, and that’s you. And son, you weren’t walking with anyone. I was watching you because you were so far from the rest of us, and I was worried.”
He repeated his question: “Now tell me, son, how did you do it?”
It was the second time he’d asked me, and it annoyed me.
“Do what?”
“How did you kill those seven Communists? You didn’t fire a single shot from your rifle.”
“What?”
“Come on, son. They were lying all around you, and each one had been killed by a sword stroke.”
That’s the end of my story, Mom. Maybe it was the pain, or the blazing sun, or the bitter cold. I don’t know, Mom. The only thing I’m sure of is that it really happened.
With love,
your son.
Note: this story has circulated widely for decades but has not been independently verified; there is no documented record of the chaplain it names. It is presented here as a popular edifying tale.
