It's hard to believe that it's been fifty one years since my Christmas spent in the Republic of Viet Nam.  Please keep in mind that today there are members of our military away from home and who will miss spending Christmas with their families. 

I hope you enjoy this essay.  And now, looking back........

  We took to the hills on December 24, 1969 per orders from the 1st Marine Division rear in Da Nang.  So, a short respite from the war was in store and we gratefully trekked up some forgotten hill number to rest and celebrate.  No patrols, LP's (listening posts), or night ambushes for the forty United States Marines in the 3rd platoon of Echo Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marine Regiment;  no, a Christmas ceasefire was ordered.  The grunts (riflemen) of E 2/7 had been in the bush since early September and, because of the numerous encounters and ensuing fire fights with VC guerillas and NVA regulars in that time frame, we were all relived to take to the high ground for the holiday.  As dusk descended, we were situated as our hooches (two man tents) were constructed, fighting holes were prepared, and dinners (well, C-rations actually) were cooked by the plastic explosive C-4 and consumed.  Night watch schedules were  established where we'd sleep for 2 hours and be on guard for 1 hour.  An interrupted four to six hours of sleep (with one eye open and both ears on full alert was the norm in the bush.

   On Christmas morning, we all were in a pretty good mood as a chopper thudded onto our hill top and mail bags were dropped off along with WP's (cigarettes, candy, etc.) , ammunition, a Chaplain and, of all people, a barber.  We curiously looked at the barber as if he was an alien bug or something; no way was he getting to shave our Fu Manchus or cut into our Mohawks.  He stated for the record that every Marine will get their hair cut per CG (commanding general) orders but I gave the guy a lot of credit for correctly interpreting our cold steely glare to mean that hair cutting just wasn't going to happen.  Yeah, we disobeyed orders but what were they going to do, send us to Viet Nam?  The issue, wisely. was not pursued. So, we made an altar out of cases of C-rats for the Chaplain to conduct his Christmas Service.  Half of us attended the service while the other half stood guard along the CP (Command Post) perimeter and then we stood guard so our brothers could attend the second service.  The 1968 Christmas service which I attended the year before was in the warm confines of St. Helena's Catholic Church in Wilmington, Delaware.  Now, literally half way around the world in the Land That God Forgot, the Christmas message was again spoken.

   Now, despite a cease fire being in place, there was enemy movement in the tree lines and rice paddies below.  This activity was carefully watched and the grid coordinate information where enemy activity was observed was passed on to the platoon commander, a young lieutenant, who forwarded that info to FSB (fire support base) Ross and LZ (landing zone) Baldy.  The Christmas cease fire actually gave the Viet Cong an opportunity to set booby traps, regroup, and set up future ambush sights as we would eventually have to come back down into the wretched valley below and resume combat operations.  But that would be tomorrow; Christmas would be observed and enjoyed today.

   My new family on this Christmas Day consisted of men (average age 19 years old) from the farm lands, mountains, and cites of the U.S. including two guys from Chicago who seemed to have fist fights every other day, an American Indian Chief (Lakotan I think) from South Dakota, a Sergio Mendez look alike from Puerto Rico, a guy named Ed Q from Guam, a Cajun named Frenchy from the Louisiana bayous, and a host of some great colorful characters.  The only commonality here was that we were United States Marines, a brotherhood forged from the heat and pressure of  combat and made stronger by the sweat and blood we shed.  Can't explain it; just believe it.  When we say "Semper Fi", we mean it.  After worship services, we opened our mail and shared cookies, candy canes, and a rum soaked fruit cake.  Guys kind of moved away toward their fighting holes (fighting holes are for fighting, fox holes are for hiding) to read letters and cards from their mothers, girlfriends, and wives.

  I had an envelope with thirty little little Christmas cards made by Sister Marie Julia's third grade class at the St. Helena's School where I had attended.  Two of those children lived on my block in Edgemoor Gardens.  Thoughts of home, the Christmas ritual of putting up the tree, and last minute shopping now began to surface.  And we were still monitoring the enemy movement and activity in the valley below. 

   Around 1400 I borrowed a transistor radio from PFC Cruz in the second squad for a pack of Pall Malls.  Bob Hope and the USO Christmas show was being aired on AFVN radio live from one of the military bases in country.  Connie Stevens, the Gold Diggers from the Dean Martin Show, 1969 Miss World Eve Staier, Neil Armstrong (5 months removed from his historical moon walk), and Les Brown and His Band of Renown highlighted the program.  Dancers, singers and comedians spiced up the show but Bob Hope, golf club in hand, was always the star as he cracked jokes about the military that was specific to the base they were currently on and also happenings back in the states.  "Here we are in Bien Hoa, that's Vietnamese for duck!", or "...the Crickets, the Beatles, at least it answers the question where our new talent is coming from...under the kitchen sink". And for the anti-war protestors "...and how about the new draft lottery, last week 17 students burned their birth certificates".  Bob quipped "The Marines have a great history...they've landed on more beaches than Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello!" and "Everything's going up back home: prices, gas, and miniskirts, even some guys are wearing them.  Don't laugh, if you'd thought about it, you wouldn't be HERE!"  During the show, another chopper arrived from 7th Marine Regiment rear with our Christmas dinner and what a banquet it was!  Our meals in the bush were always C-rations that had the consistency of Alpo and tasted probably not much better.  But today, hot turkey, roast beef, real mashed potatoes, all the fixings, pumpkin pies, nuts, hard candy....it was the best meal I had in over four months.  On the flyer accompanying the meal was the Commanding General's Christmas Day Message that began "Today throughout the world, Christians celebrate the birth of Christ.  For all men, regardless of faith, this is a period of peace and good will toward their fellow man."  I wonder, because of destructive forces currently in America today, if that statement would be permitted.

   No Santa Clause of Snowman sweaters were seen that day, our Christmas attire was flak jacket, helmet, jungle boots, and the same utility shirt and trousers we'd worn since September when we arrived in country.  We ate our meal in shifts.  Diners chatted among themselves as plastics sporks tore into the government issued feast while the other half of the platoon stood guard and kept a vigilant eye on activity below our hill.  After the repast, I and others relieved our brothers of guard duty so they too could enjoy Christmas Dinner.  While sitting on the edge of my fighting hole, a lonely feeling began to permeate as the USO show was winding down. As always, they would sing Silent Night at the conclusion of festivities and that was when emotions surfaced.  With visions of Mary's and Joseph's tears of joy dripping on to the tenderly caressed baby Jesus, a tear or two of sadness splashed on the automatic M-16 assault rifle cradled in my arms.  The irony was inescapable.

   Shortly thereafter, explosions in the valley below brought me back to reality.  Artillery shells were exploding below and puncturing the landscape by tearing trees out of the ground.  The relentless deafening barrage was in response to the enemy activity we had relayed to the regimental rear throughout the day.  The areas where enemy movement was spotted were being prepped with howitzer rounds for our descent from the hill on the 26th and, as the bombardment continued, the PRC 25 field radio hissed and crackled the following message welcoming us back to the war:  "It is eighteen hundred hours, Christmas is secured.".

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From BJ and me, may you have a peaceful and blessed Christmas Day surrounded by those lyou love.