This is the true story of a marine wounded in Korea in 1950, writing to his mother, he told her of a fascinating encounter he experienced in the war.  Father Walter Muldy, a navy chaplain who spoke to the young marine and his mother as well, affirmed the veracity of this narrative.

A young Marine writes to his mother:   Dear Mom.

I am writing to you from a hospital bed.  Don't worry mom, I am OK.  I was wounded, but the doctor says I will be up in no time.  But that is not all I have to tell you.  Something happened to me that I don't dare tell anyone for fear of their disbelief.  But I have to tell you, the one person I can confide in, though even you might find it hard to believe.

You remember the prayer to Saint Michael that you taught me to pray when I was little: "Michael, Michael of the morning........"  Before I left home for Korea, you urged me to remember this prayer before any confrontation with the enemy.  But you really didn't have to remind me, mom. I have always prayed it, and when I got to Korea I sometimes said it a couple of times a day while marching or resting.

Well, one day, we were told to move forward to scout for Commies.  It was a real cold day.  As I was walking along, I noticed another fellow walking beside me and I looked to see who it was. He was a big fellow, a marine about 6'4" and built proportionally.  I was glad to have the company and broke the silence between us.  "Chilly today, isn't it."  Then I chuckled because suddenly it seemed absurd to talk about the weather when we were advancing to meet the enemy.  He chuckled softly too.
"I thought I knew everyone in my outfit," I continued, "but I have never seen you before."  "No," he agreed, "I have just joined.  My name is Michael."

"Really? That is mine, too."  I know," the marine said," Michael, Michael of the morning......."  Mom, I was really surprised that he knew about my prayer, but I had taught it to many of the other guys, so I supposed that the newcomer must have picked it up from someone else.  As a matter of fact, it had gotten around to the extent that some of the fellows were calling me "Saint Michael."  Then out of the blue, Michael said to me,"there's going to be trouble ahead."  I wondered how he could know that.  I was breathing hard from the march, and my breath hit the cold air like dense clouds of fog.  Michael seemed to be in top shape because I couldn't see his breath at all. Just then it started to snow heavily, and it was so dense I could no longer hear or see the rest of my outfit.  I got a little scared and yelled, "Michael." Then I felt his strong hand on my shoulder and I heard his voice in my ear, "it's going to clear up soon."

It did clear up, suddenly.  And then, just a short distance ahead of us, like so many dreadful  realities, were seven Commies, looking rather comical in their funny hats, but there was nothing funny about them now; their guns steady and pointed strait in our direction.  "Down Michael!!"  I yelled as I dove for cover.  Even as I dove for cover, I looked up and saw Michael still standing, as if paralyzed by fear, or so I thought at that time.  Bullets were spurting all over the place, and mom, there is no way those Commies could have missed at that short distance.  I jumped up to pull him down but then I was hit.  The pain was like a hot fire in my chest, and as I fell, my head swam and I remember thinking, "I must be dying."

Someone was laying me down and arms were holding me and laying me gently on the snow.  Through the daze I opened my eyes, and the sun seemed to blaze in my eyes.   Michael was standing still, and there was a terrible splendor in his face.  Suddenly he seemed to grow, like the sun, the splendor increasing intensely around him like the wings of an angel.  As I slipped into unconsciousness, I saw that Michael held a sword in his hand, and it flashed like a million lights.

Later on, when I woke up, the rest of the guys came to see me with the sergeant.  "How did you do it, son?"  He asked.  "Where is Michael?"  I asked in reply." "Michael who?"  The sergeant seemed puzzled.  "Michael, the big marine walking with me, right up to the last moment.  I saw him there as I fell."   "Son," the sergeant said gravely, "you are the only Michael in my unit. I hand-picked  all you fellows, and there is only one Michael.  You. And son, you weren't walking with anyone.  I was watching you because you were too far from us and I was worried.  Now tell me, son," he repeated, "how did you do it?"

It was the second time he had asked me that, and I found it irritating.  "How did I do what?"  "How did you kill those seven Commies?  There wasn't a single bullet fired from your rifle."  "What?"  "Come on, son.  They were strewn all around you, each one killed by a sword."

And that, mom, is the end of my story.  It may have been the pain, or the blazing sun, or the chilling cold. I don't know, mom, but there is one thing I am sure about, it did happen.

Love, your son, Michael.


Michael, Michael of the Morning Prayer

Michael, Michael of the morning
Fresh chord of Heaven adorning
Keep me safe today,
And in times of temptation
Drive the devil away.
Amen.



Source: America needs Fatima