CUE: I'll Be Home for Christmas, FRANK SINATRA
As I have alluded to previously, Christmas seemed miles away and much out of place to me in December ’69. The temperatures soared well over one hundred degrees, and my new assignment with Charlie Company was occupying most of my thoughts. We were working the edge of the infamous Ho Bo Woods, and I was trying hard to become a successful combat soldier. That means, of course, one who stays alive. Despite all this concentration in the wilderness of Southeast Asia, Christmas found us.
I can't remember exactly what day it was. I think it was the twenty-third of December. At any rate, we were ordered to stand down for the day, and we moved the tracks into Cu Chi base camp. When we got in, we were ordered to secure all weapons and load up on a series of deuce-and-a-half trucks. The trucks drove us to the area of the 25th Division amphitheater. As we neared the place, we began to see line upon line of men walking in that direction. We saw jeeps and trucks parked in solid files along the roadside. As we got closer, we saw thousands of men, stretched as far as you can imagine, trying to get a sight line to the distant stage. The odd part was that no matter how many men were stacked up, hundreds of yards from the stage, we kept moving forward. In fact, we drove right up within a few yards of the stage and were ordered to get off the trucks. MPs who were standing there led us to a line of empty seats in the third row from the stage. There was a sign there that read, “C co 1/5 (M)”. As we sat down, I noticed similar signs all about us. Each sign reserved close seating for a combat-line unit. It was suddenly evident that the combat troops were being given first priority. This was something to which they were unaccustomed, but in that place it was the rule, not the exception. For the next few hours, we would be under the command of the most influential and respected man in all the US armed forces. We were there at the behest of Bob Hope.
I had grown up hearing tales of Bob Hope and his legendary efforts on behalf of the men and women who put themselves on the line for our country. My father had flown part of Hope's troupe around the South Pacific during World War II and had watched his Christmas show at a snowbound Marine Corps airfield during the Korean action. I had watched his televised Christmas shows from military bases around the world and had always found myself emotionally touched by this man's efforts to bring a little bit of home to those who were serving their country in so many far-flung places. On this day, as Hope walked onto the stage before a crowd of thousands who sat sweltering under the tropical sun of a land far from home, I felt as if I were suddenly connected to all those who had spent Christmas in war zones and away from their families over the years. This very good man had given up all those Christmases with his family to be with us and many others just like us, and at that moment he could have asked us to march barefoot to Hanoi and end the war. Believe me, we would have done it.
Hope was his usual wisecracking self, the girls were gorgeous, and the music was a touch of home that many of us had not had time to think about. It was absolutely wonderful, and was over entirely too soon. As the whole audience sang “White Christmas” along with the cast, we were reminded how far away home really was and how far these people had come to share the moment with us. It was kind of sobering, and then it was over. We had been the first in and we were the first hauled out. We went back to the company area and were soon on our way back to the Ho Bo Woods. The war was still there, right where we had left it.
The next day was fairly easy. We did some road duty, which included running north and returning with a convoy of trucks, and moving the company into a new night defensive position. We had to string all the wire, fill all the sandbags, and dig all the holes. Once set up, we had to fill the roster for night ambush patrol. I was lucky: I did not have to go out on Christmas Eve. Those who had been chosen went about their preparations with the silence that preceded any ambush. It was different in only one way: each of them seemed not to want to look into the eyes of another soldier. They seemed lost in thoughts that were probably very far away and filled with loved ones who were not a part of that hot place in Asia. As they left the wire, I watched them go. I watched and noticed that no one in the group looked back. It was unusual.
Darkness fell and the stars came out. Vietnam was a place that was often swathed in clouds. The humidity often covered the skies with wispy layers that hid the constellations from those of us who slept in the open every night. Christmas Eve, however, was clear. I sat on top of the Two Zero track, watching beyond the tangle of concertina barbed wire. I had the first watch, but very soon I wasn't alone. One by one, the other members of the squad climbed up to take their places on the track, and we began talking of home and Christmas. It was an odd conversation, but one that seemed completely appropriate on that warm December night. Each of us told Christmas stories of home and family, and somehow it seemed to draw us closer together.
At midnight, something happened that struck each of us deeply. In the distant night sky, we could see the lights atop the radio relay station at Nui Ba Den, known as the Black Virgin Mountain. The mountain was far enough away that the lights appeared as a constellation in the night sky, a tiny ring of bright stars that floated in the celestial darkness. At the stroke of midnight, flares began to appear in the sky around the peak of the mountain. Red, green, and white star clusters began to explode in the air until the mountain appeared to be a volcano spewing bright, Christmas-colored lights out into the night sky. It was an astounding sight and seemed to go on forever.
You could hear the voices of men all around us in the dark, calling their comrades to come and see this sight. We all sat mesmerized by the light show in the sky until the last flare burned itself out and left the night dark, clear, and filled with God's stars. Then we could hear a soft male voice begin to sing. I have no idea who the singer was, but the song was unmistakable. It was “Silent Night.” Almost as if they had been called to do so, other voices in the darkness began to join in, until many voices were singing the simple melody. As the last notes of the song were reached, the voices got softer and then were gone. Silence reigned for a moment, and then the loud and commanding voice of Sergeant MacAdams cut into the dark silence.
“Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut! Merry Christmas.”
In the years since that night, I have often been asked about Christmas memories. I have been asked about my favorite Christmas memories, which I tell. I have been asked about my happiest Christmas, and I tell of that. When I am asked about my most memorable Christmas, I recall Christmas Eve 1969, and usually say nothing at all. I wonder if those who were there and are still alive have the same feeling.