! REPORT
War-Torn Christmas Gift of Love
3D Render by Henry1850War-Torn Christmas Gift of Love
April 1938: John was assigned to the U-47, a Type VIIB commanded by Korvettenkapitän Günther Prien. As the U-Boat’s Electro Obermaschinist, John carried the heavy responsibility of keeping the vessel’s heart—the motors and batteries—alive beneath the sea. Yet the weight he carried most deeply was the ache of leaving behind his wife and their seven-year-old daughter, Greta. She was the light of his life, his little shadow who adored him with all the boundless love only a child can give.
The war years made Christmas a fragile thing. Traditions were bent and patched together with scraps of hope. Mothers donned Santa’s red suit, neighbors shared what little they had, and laughter was stitched into the fabric of hardship. For John, Christmas was not about feasts or gifts—it was about Greta’s smile, the way her small hand fit perfectly into his, and the sound of her giggles when he lifted her onto his shoulders to play their silly games.
In late November 1940, after precious weeks at home, Greta pressed an old shoe-box into his hands. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and love.
“Don’t open it until Christmas, Daddy. Promise!
John smiled, kissed her forehead, and gave his solemn word.
Back aboard the U-47, he tucked the box into the bottom left drawer of his desk in the battery control room. It sat there like a secret ember, waiting to warm him when the cold of war grew too sharp.
On Christmas morning, far beneath the waves, John’s heart raced as he opened Greta’s gift. Inside lay a letter, folded with care, and a small brass anchor—its surface worn but polished bright by tiny hands.
He unfolded the letter, and Greta’s words spilled out like sunlight:
Daddy,
We miss you so, so much. You will not be home for Christmas this year, and I just had to give you something I thought you might like. I found this in the dirt walking home from school. It was all green and dirty, but I worked so hard cleaning it up. For days I scraped and polished until it shone.
I gave it hundreds of kisses, Daddy, so when you hold it to your cheek maybe you’ll feel them jump out and kiss you. I love you sooooo much and miss you every day. Please come home soon. I can’t wait to sit on your shoulders again and play our silly games.
Love, Greta
John pressed the anchor to his cheek, closing his eyes. For a moment, the hum of the submarine faded, and he felt the warmth of Greta’s kisses, the softness of her laughter, the love of his family reaching across the miles and the ocean’s depths.
That anchor became his talisman, a reminder that even in the darkest waters, love could shine brighter than fear.
But the sea is merciless. On March 7th, 1941, the U-47 was lost. John’s desk, his tools, and Greta’s shoe-box sank into the deep. Yet somewhere, in the silence of the ocean floor, a brass anchor still rests—holding the echoes of a little girl’s kisses, and the eternal love between a father and his young daughter.
Created with Unreal Engine 5.7 and post work in Affinity Photo
IMPORTANT NOTICE Property of HENRY1850. Copying or using in AI Scripting or references is STRICTLY Forbidden! None of my artworks are permitted to be used as NFT's. All rights reserved. This work may NOT BE reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without written permission from HENRY1850. This work does not belong to the public domain. If you have doubts about this matter, please feel free to direct message HENRY1850.
April 1938: John was assigned to the U-47, a Type VIIB commanded by Korvettenkapitän Günther Prien. As the U-Boat’s Electro Obermaschinist, John carried the heavy responsibility of keeping the vessel’s heart—the motors and batteries—alive beneath the sea. Yet the weight he carried most deeply was the ache of leaving behind his wife and their seven-year-old daughter, Greta. She was the light of his life, his little shadow who adored him with all the boundless love only a child can give.
The war years made Christmas a fragile thing. Traditions were bent and patched together with scraps of hope. Mothers donned Santa’s red suit, neighbors shared what little they had, and laughter was stitched into the fabric of hardship. For John, Christmas was not about feasts or gifts—it was about Greta’s smile, the way her small hand fit perfectly into his, and the sound of her giggles when he lifted her onto his shoulders to play their silly games.
In late November 1940, after precious weeks at home, Greta pressed an old shoe-box into his hands. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and love.
“Don’t open it until Christmas, Daddy. Promise!
John smiled, kissed her forehead, and gave his solemn word.
Back aboard the U-47, he tucked the box into the bottom left drawer of his desk in the battery control room. It sat there like a secret ember, waiting to warm him when the cold of war grew too sharp.
On Christmas morning, far beneath the waves, John’s heart raced as he opened Greta’s gift. Inside lay a letter, folded with care, and a small brass anchor—its surface worn but polished bright by tiny hands.
He unfolded the letter, and Greta’s words spilled out like sunlight:
Daddy,
We miss you so, so much. You will not be home for Christmas this year, and I just had to give you something I thought you might like. I found this in the dirt walking home from school. It was all green and dirty, but I worked so hard cleaning it up. For days I scraped and polished until it shone.
I gave it hundreds of kisses, Daddy, so when you hold it to your cheek maybe you’ll feel them jump out and kiss you. I love you sooooo much and miss you every day. Please come home soon. I can’t wait to sit on your shoulders again and play our silly games.
Love, Greta
John pressed the anchor to his cheek, closing his eyes. For a moment, the hum of the submarine faded, and he felt the warmth of Greta’s kisses, the softness of her laughter, the love of his family reaching across the miles and the ocean’s depths.
That anchor became his talisman, a reminder that even in the darkest waters, love could shine brighter than fear.
But the sea is merciless. On March 7th, 1941, the U-47 was lost. John’s desk, his tools, and Greta’s shoe-box sank into the deep. Yet somewhere, in the silence of the ocean floor, a brass anchor still rests—holding the echoes of a little girl’s kisses, and the eternal love between a father and his young daughter.
Created with Unreal Engine 5.7 and post work in Affinity Photo
IMPORTANT NOTICE Property of HENRY1850. Copying or using in AI Scripting or references is STRICTLY Forbidden! None of my artworks are permitted to be used as NFT's. All rights reserved. This work may NOT BE reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without written permission from HENRY1850. This work does not belong to the public domain. If you have doubts about this matter, please feel free to direct message HENRY1850.
War-Torn Christmas Gift of Love
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