As Christmas drew near the Armed Forces TV network ran a few holiday specials that added to our enjoyment of the season. There was even a particular favorite of mine, Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, that I had not seen in several years. Belle’s lament over the love lost to Ebenezer’s insatiable hunger for wealth, “Winter Was Warm,” was especially touching: “Another idol has displaced me, a golden idol.”

 

We worked a short day on Christmas Eve and then settled into another of our much anticipated Adjutant General parties, this time over in the Administrative Services Division office next door where Bill Howie worked. There was barbecued chicken and baked beans, but the emphasis was on alcohol and this time the organizers had pulled out all the stops. Beer could be purchased by all soldiers, but only those holding the rank of buck sergeant (E-5) or above were allowed to buy wine or liquor at the PX. That arrangement usually worked out well because the younger troops were often too inexperienced to know their limits whereas many of the “lifers” were dedicated drinkers unlikely to be satisfied with only beer. We lower-ranking enlisted men could still purchase liquor by the drink at the service clubs. For our Christmas party some of the higher-ranking enlisted men, or perhaps officers, had wielded their ration cards to obtain a truly impressive array of intoxicants. Their ring-leader used a large punch bowl to concoct a mixture of ten bottles of pink champagne, six quarts of Old Granddad, and a splash of cranberry juice. It might just as well have been named “Get-wasted-so-that-you’ll-forget-how-bummed-out-you-are-about-not-being-home-for-Christmas punch.” 

The results were as predictable as they were hilarious as many of the guys got sloppy drunk and then began going through ragged but merry versions of every Christmas carol they could recall. I admit to enjoying the effects of the potent brew myself but I also exercised some restraint because I knew from painful experience that overindulgence in champagne leads to the world’s worst hangover and it seemed certain that the addition of bourbon would only increase the pain. Most of us stumbled back to the hooch at a sane hour to pass out in our bunks without worrying about whether Santa would ever find us in our remote plantation outpost, but we were rudely awakened around midnight by a band of jolly carolers composed of the more dedicated drunks who had managed to retain consciousness and were trying, in their way, to be free. They informed us that they had even visited the officers’ quarters without incurring any punishment more severe than a hearty cursing, so it appeared that the spirit of love and goodwill really had found its way all the way to Rocket City. 

Christmas Day was quiet by comparison, and we were given the afternoon off. I opened my gifts from home and one highlight was a box of almond bark from Fanny Farmer, one of my favorite treats. “The Gals” in my mom’s St. Michael’s card club (Mary Jane Schleeter, Lorraine O’Connor, Lee Froehle, Roseanne Grewe, Audrey Felicetta, Phyllis Gamache, Jane Erickson, and Darlene Zeug) sent a lovely card especially for service members and a note saying that a tin of candy was on the way. Bev sent me a harmonica, and I hoped my hooch-mates would be tolerant of my minimal skills on the little instrument. Christmas dinner at the mess hall was a welcome duplicate of the memorable Thanksgiving feast, complete with menus again. Cardinal Cooke, bearer of the impressive title “Military Vicar of the Armed Forces of the United States,” celebrated mass at Lai Khe at 3:00 p.m. I very rarely attended in those days, but it seemed like the thing to do on the holy day and I had never seen a cardinal before. During his homily he quoted Pope Paul on the occasion of his visit to New York the previous year: “Peace is the child of love.” It struck me as both appropriate and ironic that the observation echoed the ethos of the counterculture and could just have easily been uttered by the Beatles, Joan Baez, or Bob Dylan. 

 The joy of Christmas is invariably tempered by contemplation of the wide gulf between the tidings heralding the birth of the Prince of Peace and the reality of the tragic state of world affairs due to humanity’s failure to live in accordance with the message He was later to preach, but at no time is the poignancy of that contrast experienced more keenly than in the midst of war. The pain of separation is not the only reason that soldiers and their families shed tears on Christmas. There is often also an overwhelming sense of despair over mankind’s utter failure to put the ideals of the season of peace into practice, mitigated and rendered bearable by the yuletide message of love and the hope that just maybe we can do a bit better next year. But for the present, as I gazed around me at the hardened faces of men in combat units singing hymns and making their way slowly up the aisles to receive communion during the Christmas mass, I was grateful for the strong possibility that I would return from Vietnam with my mind and body intact, and my fondest hope was to be home with Bev and my family for Christmas, 1970.  That wish was granted one year later when I spent the second green Christmas of my life as a civilian once again with Bev and her family in Coral Gables, Florida.

Christmas in the tropics: our creche outside the chapel at First Division HQ, Lai Khe, Vietnam, 1969.

 

Note: This remembrance is an excerpt from my book In Liberating Strife: A Memoir of the Vietnam Years, available in two volumes from Amazon or by order from your local bookseller.  Thank you for your interest.