Yuletide in Vietnam

Yuletide in Vietnam

The perimeter was slow to stir. For a week straight, the men had been working in what they called the Deep Green, the heaviest, densest part of the jungle. The work had been extremely taxing and dangerous. The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army had used this area as a rest stop for many years and carved out broken trails alongside slippery, mud-slicked creek banks. 

It was Dec. 24. 

The date was meaningless to the unit, whose members were awakened by subtle rays of morning light that barely penetrated the canopy.

For soldiers here, home was a distant memory. Another world. For one, home might be a wheat farm in the American heartland. For another, the rolling hills of New England occupied his mind. For others, the bricks and pavement of the faraway inner city were home.

But this jungle was not it. Home and Christmas Eve were just passing thoughts or remembrances as each infantry soldier moved to renew and begin the rest of his life – whatever that might be in what was, for now, home, if only for today.

The usual drudgery unfolded. Trip wires, Claymores and flares were recovered. Cigarettes and instant C-ration coffee were drawn upon as Cheerios or Wheaties were in a previous life. Rifles were wiped down with dank oily cloths. Ponchos and liners were laid out to lose their accumulated residues, and unit leadership moved quietly along the perimeter, supervising their charges and working to keep the family together. The fact that Christmas was a date on the calendar did not require any change to the infantry’s life cycle. Here at war, in a land of Eastern religions, Christianity and Judaism were subordinate to the necessities of survival. Faith, culture and customs would wait for a more appropriate time and place.

The senior officer received a series of instructions from a distant voice. His radio operator wordlessly proffered him a lit cigarette and an empty fruit can of instant coffee, in a ritual they had practiced for more than four months. A plastic-covered map was stretched across the officer’s knees, his back resting against a large splay-rooted banyan tree. With his right hand, he pulled the black plastic radio handset to his ear, and with his left, he held both the cigarette and the coffee. He drew deeply on the cigarette, took a short sip from the can and placed it on the ground. The cigarette hung on his lower lip, glued there by thick saliva.

With a red grease pencil, he made a small dot on the map. Next to the dot, the time: 1400. This is where he would shepherd his men. And by when. He passed the receiver back, picked up the can and drank deeply. 

Christmas Eve had begun. 

The unit, acting on some silent unseen signal, quietly stood and prepared to move out. Those with the heaviest loads – radio operators and machine gunners – extended their arms to companions who would balance their own loads and help them to their feet. Within 30 seconds, this microcosm of America faced a new direction and another new task, unmindful of the day or its significance. 

Their uniformity went beyond the OG-107 fatigues that clung to their skin. Their eyes shared the same gaze: quiet endurance. And, like most soldiers on the cutting edge of existence, their expressions were drawn inward. Where the rucksack harnesses had bitten into their shoulders over the week, salty white grooves had taken shape. Humidity and sweat soon soaked their skin and darkened their fatigues. 

They moved forward, uniformly, understanding that life and death were both possibilities by day’s end. Furtive thoughts of home bounced through their heads. In the season of yuletide sharing among family at home, the most precious gift each of these soldiers privately desired was just another day.

The column progressed through the dense undergrowth, segments unseen by the whole but felt by everyone within it. No human form could be detected beyond about 30 meters. Each soldier was mindful that the enemy also benefited from this effect and remained in a state of alertness – always on edge, fighting not to succumb to ennui. By noon, the unit reached the edge of the jungle and remained hidden in the vegetation where darkness met the open sunlit fields. The soldiers stopped just short of the clearing, sank into the shade and formed in a triangle. The commander silently indicated with hand gestures to the men: eat and rest. Subordinate leaders selectively chose others to move into concealed security positions along the resting perimeter.

Troops reached into their rucksacks or pants pockets and extracted cans or packages of food and began their desultory ingestion. Some lay their heads on rucksacks and smoked cigarettes. Others drew from their canteens, wiped their faces and quietly awaited the war’s next act.

The commander, centered now in the perimeter, called in his subordinate leadership. They quietly gathered in a circle and listened. The unit would be picked up at 1400 from a zone they would establish just 100 meters away, in the adjacent paddy field. They would be flown back to base camp and move directly to a division assembly area next to the airfield.

They were to be whisked off the battlefield to sit in the audience of the annual Bob Hope Christmas Show. There would be no showers, beer, chow or fresh clothes. It was off the choppers and assemble in front of Hope. 

Merry Christmas. 

The commander explained that this was the only field unit to be brought in because it had gone the longest without rotation. The unit would also be provided seats relatively close to the stage. They would be the only troops there with full field gear, weapons and rucksacks. This was intended to be an honor and a Christmas present from the seniors, for work well done. There were several questions and queries, none of which could be adequately addressed, from the subordinate leaders. They broke up and moved to their respective elements to pass along the upcoming events.

By 1400, the troops were standing in the blazing sunlight, arranged in a serial of six groups, each with three soldiers facing three soldiers spread along a distance of about 100 meters in the dry rice fields. A yellow smoke canister popped in the middle of the formation. Smoke curled slowly upward in the still, hot air.

Precisely on time, a string of helicopters arrived overhead, and settled near each group. Their blades swirled and beat the smoke, dirt and rice husks into a brown cloud. As soon as the choppers touched earth, the troops moved toward them, placed their boots on the skids and in a single motion turned their backs to the interior, dropped their rucks on the floor and sat down on the edge, looking out, legs dangling. 

In fewer than 15 seconds, the birds pulled full power, whipping up another a brown cloud of detritus, and struggled into the blue sky. Inside, the troops closed their eyes to the debris and then opened them as the hot waves of dirt and JP-4 fumes dissipated, to be replaced by the cool forced air of the forward flight. 

For the first time in weeks, the sweat, dirt and heat ventilated from the uniforms and was replaced by a wonderful coolness. Eyes surveyed the shimmering fields, creeks, villages and vegetation below. Minds wandered into a rejuvenating idleness. An abrupt change of RPM announced the descent and imminent arrival.

The birds touched down on a partially asphalted strip. Laterite dirt and the gluey stench of JP-4 floated upward. Some men in starched fatigues and spit-shined boots motioned the incoming soldiers to an assembly area where they were to stand and await the remainder of the unit. There was no shade and no discussion, though ice water was available from Lyster bags throughout the open field.

In less than an hour, the entire unit had assembled, drunk its fill of water and awaited instructions. The commander, with no discussion, formed the unit and led the snaking column less than a mile. They passed through a large bowl-shaped enclosure marked by white engineer tape. Several more starched figures approached the commander and pointed to an area near a large stage and white tent. They went to the designated area.

The unit, fewer than 100 in all, settled in about 30 meters from the center stage, surrounded by the mass of local units and headquarters personnel. Directly in front of them were arrayed the wounded and sick, dressed in their light green hospital gowns. Those in wheelchairs were positioned at the very front, surrounded by nurses, doctors, IVs, bottles and other medical supplies. In front of the wheelchairs were two rows of senior personnel, all in tightly starched fatigues, spit-shined boots and wearing custom-tailored hats with ranks embroidered and other badges attached.

The troops dropped their rucks, shouldered the rifles with barrels pointing downward, and sat on the backs of the rucks as tightly as the NCOs could force them. Several starched fatigues walked through the group, stopping to point the machine-gun barrels to the rear, rather than at the stage.

In time, the entire area was filled. A mass of humanity had flowed in to enjoy the annual Christmas visit from Bob Hope and his troupe. Loudspeakers had been set up on poles scattered throughout the assemblage, but the quality was shaky. The crackling banter between Hope and his companions was largely inaudible toward the rear. Female dancers, in the flesh, produced loud cries from the troops.

Between acts, the soldiers talked among themselves and smoked cigarettes, in the torpor of stultifying heat.

The Hope show featured alternating talk, music, dancing and diversion. As professional as Hope was, the crowd noise and overarching static equaled or dominated the production. Individuals retreated into private worlds for moments only to be brought out by a specific word, note or action from the stage. Hope had achieved his larger aim. The troops didn’t care if they missed some nuance of a joke or song. At least for now, they were not in mortal danger, and some piece of the outside world was here, having shown up for Christmas.  

After about an hour and without announcement, but backed by the dull noise of the assembled soldiers, a solitary woman walked to the center of the unoccupied stage. She was wearing a long dress – so different from the scantily clad women who’d earlier performed. Her hair was dark auburn. It fell to her shoulders and curled at the ends. She looked like a girl from home. Unheard by most, she began to sing. 

The notes were initially lost on the crowd except for the first rows of wounded and senior officers, who watched, transfixed. Then, like ripples from a rock thrown into a pond, silence passed across the assemblage of soldiers. They stopped talking, dropped their cigarettes and focused on the tiny figure standing on the stage.

Anita Bryant had quietly walked to the center stage and began singing “Silent Night” a capella. The notes drifted from the stage to the top row of soldiers and into the high blue space above them. For a moment, the heat could be ignored, the sweat and stink of massed humanity unnoticed, and Christmas remembered. 

Thousands of olive-drab servants of our nation were transported back home. For once in their tour of duty, they experienced a quiet that allowed wonderful, melodic words to comfort them in remembrance of things past and hopeful for things yet to occur. 

This was Christmas as they knew it in a distant land. 

The song lasted no more than three minutes, but it would play in the soldiers’ memories for the rest of their lives. As she concluded, Anita Bryant placed the microphone back on its stand, blew a silent tear-eyed kiss to the troops, turned around and walked off the stage. 

Not a sound could be heard. And Hope, knowing best, just stood there, looking across the audience, holding the moment for everyone, brief as it was, during which each of these soldiers in Vietnam was able to come home, as he or she knew it, and there was peace on earth and good will among them all. 

 

Keith Nightingale is a retired U.S. Army colonel, military history writer and frequent contributor to The American Legion Magazine.