Christmas 1969

The weather isn’t so bad, my clothes still stick to me in the heavy humidity and scorching sun, but there is a slight breeze that lends comfort in the back of the “deuce and a half.” Things had been quiet; our company equipment was shining, waiting for change. We had taken the deuce from the slick section and loaded it with a couple cases of
C-rations and some of the “goody” packages sent from the homes of our guys. The mess hall even threw in a big box of frozen chicken. We have toilet paper and Tide washing soap, and double mint chewing gum.

I was asked by the Commander to ride as “shotgun”. We weaved in and out of the jungle on our way to Long Thanh on a skinny jungle trail. We were headed just north and west of Saigon. The area was known for the “bad guys”, and we were well armed, but we weren’t bothered. We also had two “shotguns” in the tarp covered bed. As the tiny village came into sight, the children, barefoot and barely clothed, ran to intercept us. We continued to the walled and gated compound of the village orphanage, where the nuns in their black and white tattered clothing, allowed us entrance.

We were just in time for lunch. There were small loaves of bread, (the crunchy part was a cooked bug), a small bowl of rice, and cloudy water for each child.

We placed an apple at each setting, with a few nuts and assorted pieces of candy, cookies, and gum. Before the meal the orphanage stood surrounding us in a large room. They began to sing a song of thanks and prayers of blessing. There were four of us, and four of the oldest children took our hands and led us separate ways. I was taken to the nursery, little babies everywhere, crying, being fanned by palm fronds from the nuns. My escort, a little girl maybe 9 yrs old pointed to an infant with one leg. “Baby hurt” she said to me. My heart dropped. We walked further into the hut where the sickest of children were. She never said a thing, she watched me look. It seemed a long time I stood there with her little hand in mine. Bandages were being changed, wounds were being cleaned, and last rights were being said. I knew that if I diverted my eyes I would have to deal with the reality. I was overwhelmed, almost fearful of the understanding running to meet me.

We all met back in the “great room” of the hut, where the children were seated for lunch. We were escorted to our chairs. As we ate with the children, the sergeant that had organized the trip was unloading the C-Rations, Chicken and washing soap. The children stared at us, giggled
and laughed, speaking rapidly in Vietnamese. And then came the dance that we had to learn before we left. Small circles of 6 or eight, singing and touching their foreheads as they bowed and moved in rhythm. As the sergeant came past me he said, “I only have three dollars, but I am leaving them two.” I knew what he meant, I reached into my fatigues and found six dollars, and as I passed through the doors and was given a warm goodbye and the deepest of thanks by Sister Superior, I palmed her three dollars, and the two other guys left her a bit. As we drove away, smiling sisters holding little children smiled at us and lowered their heads. The bow of the head is significant in their culture, it is a sign of great thanks or respect.

I had learned a very powerful lesson. To give to be giving, not for status or position in some organization of many names, and different interpretations, that’s what it is about. It is about not wanting anything back, no promises of streets of gold, not giving thought to “your cup runneth over”.

I needed to remember, to remember the frightened eyes, the vacancy of impending death, and the inability to focus through the pain. How can I possibly do, what I know I will have to do?

I am a soldier, and I will balance with compassion. I don’t “hate” the enemy. I have met him many times in different circumstances and situations. There have been times when I have shared my C-rations with a prisoner, and lit his cigarette for him, his hands tied behind his back. I was not popular with some of the soldiers. But I had rank, so most of it was never directed at me. Whenever I had the chance I talked to guys about how I felt, and the things I have seen, and wondered how it has changed me.

When you come up on a wounded enemy, he is frightened, he has grievous injuries, he feels death is near. Will you taunt him? Kick him, call him a “gook”? Can a heart be that cold? Who taught us to hate? And, why did we buy into it? I feel truly used, a blind patriot. My own people, Americans were hating me. They Called us baby killers. And today, 35 yrs passed, I deeply apologize to those who knew better, and marched the marches. And the deepest of apologies to the peoples of Viet Nam.