Andrew A. Kistler, 88, a resident of Rocca Way, Franklin, died peacefully at Friday, March 9, 2018, in UPMC-Hamot in Erie.
In accordance with his wishes, there will be no public visitation.
Family and friends are invited to attend his Mass of Christian Burial, Thursday at 12:00 noon in St. Patrick Church, 949 Liberty Street, Franklin, with Monsignor John J. Herbein, pastor officiating.
At his request, memorial contributions, if desired, may be directed to St. Patrick School, 952 Buffalo Street, Franklin, PA, 16323.
Funeral arrangements are under the direction of the Timothy E. Hartle Funeral Home, 1328 Elk Street in Franklin.
Please visit www.hartlefuneralhome.com for further information and to leave a note of condolence.
The above is the only notice that Mr. Kistler wished to be published upon his death. However, the following was contained in a letter to be opened by his family upon his death they wish to share about their Dad. Taken from the published words of the late Chris Farlekas:
Andy Kistler was almost mortally wounded Christmas week, 1952, during the Korean War. The 21-year-old baseball player from Franklin, Pa., was flown by helicopter into the 11th Evacuation Hospital: legs blown off, a finger gone, a body purple and deep red from other injuries and a concussion that had him in a deep coma.
I was an Army medic, assigned to the so-called Shock Ward at the 11th Evac in Wonju. If you’ve seen M*A*S*H, you’ve seen the kind of meatball surgery and caring we offered.
The 11th Evac was just behind the war zone, as it had been since it was created in World War I. What made the Shock Ward so important was an experimental artificial kidney machine. There were only three in the world. now there are millions, called dialysis machines.
The machine, which drained the toxins out of the blood, saved about half of the critically wounded soldiers that would have died in all the previous wars.
The ward was crammed with casualties, and every helicopter that landed outside the tend brought even more. The doctors said Andy was too far gone, that he would die.
Something inside me said no.
I still don’t completely understand my ferocity in needing Andy to live. Maybe it was because I’d seen so much death already in the four months I’d been in the war, holding frightened, dying men as they talked about home. Andy was my test case with God. If he lived, I’d believe. If not, tough.
So for three days I sat with Andy, willing him to live.
On Christmas Eve, several of the nurses, doctors, and corpsmen went through the 11th Evac, singing Christmas carols. At exactly midnight, they came to the Shock Ward and sang “Silent Night”.
It may have sounded a little ragged, off-pitch, but to me it was absolutely beautiful, angelic.
As I listened, Andy came out of the coma, opened his eyes, grabbed my hand, and very softly sang, “All is calm, all is bright.” The doctors said it was a miracle.
Nine years ago, in “Korean War Stories,” an Emmy-winning documentary that featured Korean War vets Charles Rangel, John Glenn and Willie Nelson, Andy and I talked about that glorious moment.
He says he finds himself humming or singing “Silent Night” at “odd moments, like when I’m shaving.”
In the decades since that night, Andy went on to become a major force for veterans in the country, as head of the DAV (Disabled American Veterans).
And tonight, at midnight, when we talk, we’ll sing “Silent Night,” and I’ll know it’s a “holy night”.
