Note — Today’s column first appeared in December 1971, and is included in the book “New View —  A Collection of Columns 1970-1984.”

Each year several of us would ride the big, olive drab buses out to the orphanage to pick them up.

The little ones.

And when they found out we had arrived, they’d come filing out of the sedate, stone building in such an orderly fashion. Faces aglow, eyes wide as silver dollars.

Yet, even in their eagerness they were so well mannered. Goodness seemed to radiate from their faces, too.

This was such a happy time. For them — perhaps one of the highlights of the year. For us, no “perhaps” to it. It was the high spot of our whole experience.

You see, each year at Christmas time, several of the units on our post would host Christmas parties for children from the nearby orphanage. There seemed to be a lot of children in orphanages and homes near our base.

After the bus had brought us all back to the post, the festivities would begin. There would be singing, an appearance by Santa Claus, a long speech by the Uber-Burgermeister, a shorter reply by the post commander, and then . . . the opening of the gifts.

Such gay and happy confusion.

And then the meal. Turkey and all the trimmings. Especially prepared by the cooks in the mess hall. Such a marvelous feast.

It was impossible to be a part of the occasion without being emotionally moved. Even the toughest sergeants, career men who prided themselves on their hardboiled approach to life, could become misty eyed. And shamelessly so.

These were such special days to many of us. Most of whom were away from home at Christmas for the first time ever.

The children were so lovely. So dear. Looking back I see that those of us who involved ourselves with these annual festivities were truly fortunate to have gained such an experience.

Those children are grown now. Probably have children of their own.

I would suspect that Christmas time is very special to them.

APROPOS — “Blessed be childhood, which brings down something of heaven into the midst of our rough earthliness.”

— Henri Frederic Amiel