From Gettysburg to Antarctica, military Bibles reveal prayers of families who sent loved ones to war

Some returned battered from war, while others read heartfelt prayers written by family members hoping their sons and husbands would come home. One type was encased in metal and carried over a soldier's heart.

The Bibles were frequently purchased by relatives for departing service members and designed to fit into a breast pocket over the heart, helping fuel stories that the metal-covered books could theoretically stop a bullet.

Viner, however, said the truth is less cinematic.

The thin metal covers were rather unlikely to stop World War II-era ammunition traveling at high speed, he said, though he would not rule out the possibility that one could have protected a service member from shrapnel or flying debris.

"Many of the tales that surround the 'Heart Shield Bibles' are likely a bit exaggerated," Viner said.

But whether the books literally stopped bullets may obscure what they represented to the families who sent loved ones to war.

"It was a source of protection. It was a source of strength. It would keep them safe," Viner said, describing the metal shield as largely symbolic.

Some of the most affecting evidence of that hope survives in heartfelt handwriting inside the covers.

"To my dear boy, may God keep you safe," one note reads.

Another simply says, "Praying for you at Christmas."

In many cases, Viner said, historians do not know who wrote the messages or who received them. He said the anonymity can make them even more powerful.

"As I read those, I think about how profound and serious and meaningful that was for the family members who sent their kids, their loved ones off to war and gave them this as they left," Viner said.

John Weissenheimer served in the 107th Ohio Volunteer Infantry, a largely German-speaking unit that endured bloody Civil War battles, including Gettysburg, according to Viner. Weissenheimer was already in his late 40s when he enlisted, older than what was typical for a soldier.

Viner said enlistment records show Weissenheimer joined before many of the unit's major engagements. Years later, an inscription in his Bible places him at Lincoln Hospital in Washington, D.C., serving with the Invalid Corps, which was composed of injured, sick or otherwise disabled soldiers who could no longer perform regular front-line duty.

The surviving evidence does not reveal exactly what happened to Weissenheimer, nor did he leave extensive notes explaining what the Bible meant to him. But the battered book establishes something perhaps even more interesting for historians in that Weissenheimer kept it.

"If not for this Bible," Viner said, Weissenheimer would be "largely a forgotten name."

"This Bible allows us to take this anonymous person from history, this person who no historical textbook is ever going to talk about, and surface them and tell their story," he said.

Whatever Weissenheimer endured, Viner said, he ultimately reached a point where he could no longer serve in a regular unit, continued serving in the Invalid Corps and had his Bible with him.

"For some reason, he found something in that Bible that meant a lot to him," Viner said.

Viner said the museum cannot definitively establish Bill's identity, though he believes one possibility is Petty Officer William Stroop, who helped lead an expedition to establish a smaller Antarctic station.

What Boal wrote to the recipient of that Bible, however, survives.

"Best of luck on your journey," Viner recounted from the inscription. "We'll be praying for you. We hope the Lord brings you back safely."

For Viner, the artifact shows the Bible serving a familiar purpose in a dramatically different setting. Instead of accompanying a serviceman through combat, it traveled with Americans venturing into an isolated and uncertain frontier.

One of the oldest Bibles in the display reaches back to the nation's founding and comes with a story Viner said is probably more legend than fact.

One popular version of the story held that British soldiers seized copies from Sauer's printing operation, tore out the pages and used them as wadding for their muskets, hence the 'Wad.' Another version turned the story around, claiming American colonists confiscated the Bibles because the Sauer family held Loyalist sympathies.

Viner said there is likely little truth to either tale, but conceded the competing stories are revealing in their own way. They suggest people understood that portraying an opponent as disrespecting the Bible could tarnish that side's reputation, reflecting the significance attached to Scripture at the time.

The books also preserve more mundane, everyday records of what American service members actually did with the Bibles they carried.

As smaller and more durable editions became increasingly available, Viner said surviving examples more commonly contain handwritten notes and other markings. Some service members used blank pages to record their movements.

One World War I soldier effectively used his Bible as his own record of deployment, documenting his journey from his hometown to a recruiting depot, then to New York, England and France before eventually recording his return home.

Centuries later, some of the people who carried the books remain identifiable and others have been reduced to only a first name or precious few words written inside a battered cover.

But the messages their families sent with them into battle remain familiar even in our modern eyes, like a prayer at Christmas, a hope for protection and a solemn plea that a loved one come back home.