When the dreaded red phone rang inside the Continental Air Defense Command (CONAD) operations center on the last day of November in 1955, the mood at the nerve center of America’s nuclear defense turned tense. At a time when the raged and Soviet fighter jets routinely buzzed dangerously close to Alaskan airspace, U.S. Air Force Colonel Harry Shoup knew that a call on the top-secret hotline couldn’t be good news.
Anxious that the caller might be the or a four-star general warning of an atomic attack on the United States, Shoup steeled himself as he answered the hotline that was directly wired from his command post in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to the Pentagon.
As Shoup recalled decades later in an , he picked up the receiver and said, “Yes, sir, this is Colonel Shoup.” Met with only silence, he repeated, “Sir, this is Colonel Shoup.” Still nothing. “Sir, can you read me alright?” Shoup asked before he received a most unexpected reply from the soft voice of a child.
“Are you really Santa Claus?”
Shoup’s eyes immediately scanned the cavernous operations center. Who was the prankster? The deadly serious heart of America’s defense against aerial assault was hardly the venue for a practical joke, and the colonel was not amused.
Would you repeat that, please?” Shoup barked. On the other end of the line, he heard the frightened youngster sobbing and realized this was no joke. Some mix-up had compromised the top-secret hotline. Rather than admitting he wasn’t Santa Claus, the 38-year-old father of four quickly assumed the part of St. Nick and listened to the child’s Christmas wish list.
As the following day, the child had reversed two digits of a phone number to connect with Kris Kringle and instead reached one of America’s most sensitive military installations. When President Dwight D. Eisenhower formed CONAD in 1954 to provide early warning of an aerial attack from enemies such as the Soviet Union, he tasked the joint military command with scanning the skies for “reds” flying bomber planes, not a man in a red suit.
“There may be a guy called Santa Claus at the North Pole, but he’s not the one I worry about coming from that direction,” Shoup told the International News Service.
Still, the wrong number put the Colorado command post in a Yuletide mood and sparked a festive idea to soften its hard-edged public image. With an eye toward making its mission a little less scary to the American public, that appeared in newspapers around the country on Christmas Eve letting “good little boys and girls” know that it was tracking a big red sleigh approaching from the North Pole. The command said that first reports from its radar and ground observation outposts indicated that Santa Claus was traveling at 45 knots per hour at an altitude of 35,000 feet.
The release also contained a bit of propaganda that reassured children that American forces would “guard Santa and his sleigh on his trip to and from the U.S. against possible attack from those who do not believe in Christmas.” That was a clear allusion to the atheistic Soviets and their fellow Communists.
When Shoup visited his troops on Christmas Eve to distribute cookies, he looked up at the three-story-tall map of the North American continent that dominated the operations center to see that someone had sketched Santa’s sleigh descending from the North Pole alongside the unidentified objects detected in American airspace.
According to Shoup’s daughter Terri Van Keuren, the jolly illustration sparked an idea in her father’s mind. Calling for his public relations officer, the colonel arranged a phone call with a local radio station to report that CONAD had spotted an unidentified flying object that looked like a sleigh. Other radio stations then began to phone in to get the latest update on Santa’s location, and a Christmas tradition was cemented.
“The wires went nuts, and it got bigger and better every year,” Van Keuren says of the Santa tracking operation. Shoup became known as the “Santa colonel,” a nickname he embraced with pride.
“He was a very strict father, but he was a child about Christmas,” Van Keuren says. “He put the decorations up the day after Thanksgiving, and we were the first people I knew of who had bubble lights, which we brought back from Japan.”
In 1958, responsibility for the Santa Tracker was transferred from CONAD to the after the United States and Canada joined forces for the continent’s nuclear defense. Today, the Santa Tracker might be what NORAD is best-known for beyond its star turn in the 1983 film WarGames.
Now officially known as “NORAD Tracks Santa,” the operation has evolved with technology and the times. During the 1960s, NORAD mailed vinyl records to radio stations that featured pre-recorded reports on Santa’s progress and holiday music from its in-house orchestra. In the 1970s, NORAD took to the airwaves with television commercials.
In the digital age, St. Nick’s real-time progress can be monitored on social media, on smartphones and tablets through the official app, and on the , which is available in eight languages.
About 70 contributors help set up the site, apps and phone lines in 2024, while more than 500 uniformed personnel, Defense Department civilians, their families and supporters volunteer time on Christmas Eve to answer children's questions on Santa's whereabouts.
More than 500 uniformed personnel, Defense Department civilians, their families and supporters volunteer time on Christmas Eve to answer children's questions on Santa's whereabouts. “In some cases, three generations have been doing this. It’s part of their Christmas tradition,” says Royal Canadian Navy Lieutenant Marco Chouinard, a NORAD spokesperson.
With tens of thousands of calls expected, the phones are sure to be jingling at NORAD just as they were in 1955. Only this time, the hotline won’t bring any surprises.
