Christmas in Vietnam, 1969: a True Story
Copyright 1993 Jim Schueckler, 8219 Parmelee Rd, LeRoy NY 14482
Copying for non-profit use is allowed if kept intact.  (716)768-2877  dec21

      It was early Christmas Eve, but didn't feel like it. The Polecat and 
Tiger Shark helicopter crews had spent a long day taking rangers and 
infantrymen from forward sites in the jungle back to base camps for the 
Christmas cease-fire. The mess hall had been unusually quiet; a tape 
recorder played Christmas music, but nobody was talking.  Later, in the 
first platoon pilot's hootch, the mood was the same; everyone was subdued 
and drawn-in. Some pilots were re-reading letters from home, and a few were 
beginning to drown their feelings in alcohol.

      Several pilots were sitting together, and one finally piped up, "We 
have to do something happy to get out of this mood." Another offered that 
singing Christmas Carols could do it, but nobody would start the singing. I 
announced that I had to fly tomorrow; after almost a year of flying in 
Vietnam, I was not going to sit around there on Christmas day watching 
twenty long faces.

      After more silence, someone blurted out, "Let's take up a collection 
for the hospital at Dam Pao!" The thought was met with excited approval. In 
concert with my earlier statement, and because I was the most senior pilot, 
I suggested that I would ask to fly the Da Lat MACV mission tomorrow to take 
the money that we could collect tonight. Mike volunteered to fly with me.

      First stop: the crew chiefs' hootch. I asked Bascom if he would like 
to fly the Da Lat MACV mission. He quickly answered, "I would much rather 
fly than stay around here watching everybody crying." Dave, our regular door 
gunner, also requested to go.

      Next stop: operations. The operations officer and company commander 
were in the bunker finishing some paperwork. I explained our plan but my 
request was denied. "We don't have the Da Lat MACV mission, in fact we don't 
have any missions tomorrow. Tomorrow is a cease-fire." 

      I decided to beg: "Please, Sir, could you call battalion and see if 
some other company has Da Lat MACV?" 

      The CO picked up the phone, and after a few minutes, started writing 
on a mission sheet form. He handed it to me and said, "Da Lat MACV helipad, 
oh seven thirty. The new commander wants to visit every one of his outposts. 
We took the mission from the 92nd." He took out his wallet, and removed some 
bills of Vietnamese money. "Here's something for your collection." The 
operations officer followed suit.

      Next step: get more money. We reached the gunship platoon hootch just 
as one pilot was raking a pile of money from the center of a table towards 
himself, three other pilots looking on sadly; he had just won an exciting 
hand of poker. We made our sales pitch about Dam Pao. The generous gambler 
rationalized, "I would just end up losing it all back to these guys anyway." 
We now had more than 100 dollars. 

      We continued panhandling for money through the rest of the Polecat 
area. In one hootch, we were given a package of cheeses and sausage. We 
decided to make another pass through the company area, asking for cookies, 
candy, and other foods. As we left one hootch, the men inside started 
singing "Deck the Halls", and soon people in other buildings were competing. 
It wasn't clear whether the competition was for the best, worst, or just 
loudest singing, but it was easy to see that the mood of the company had 
changed for the better.

      Having the food brought another thought to our minds. What about the 
mess hall? The mess sergeant and cooks were still there, preparing for 
Christmas Day. "Do you have a truck with you?" was the sergeant's reply. "We 
have an oversupply of food right now because of all the guys who went home 
early. We also have some canned foods about to reach their expiration date." 
One pilot went to get the maintenance officer's truck while the rest of us 
checked dates on cans of vegetables and fruit, and cartons of dried eggs, 
milk, and potatoes. The mess sergeant offered several cases of frozen liver 
and an insulated chest to borrow for the day.

      An infantry unit mess hall was not far away, so we went there next. We 
accepted several cases of freeze-dried foods. On the way back, we passed the 
infantry unit's dispensary. Our driver slammed on the brakes, pointed, and 
we all ran in. The medic explained that he couldn't give us medicines or 
needles, but he did have an overstock of bandages and dressings. 

      As we drove out to the helicopter revetments, one pilot said "Now I 
know how Santa Claus feels!" That reminded me that I was carrying on a 
family tradition; my Dad had been a department store Santa since he was 18. 
We moved the boxes and cans into the Huey, and put some netting and straps 
around the pile. After leaving the truck in the maintenance area, the four 
pilots walked back to our hootch. One looked at his watch and exclaimed "Hey 
guys, it's after midnight, it's Christmas!"

      My alarm clock startled me out of a deep sleep. A check with my 
wristwatch verified the time, but something was wrong. Mornings were usually 
bustling with the sounds of aircraft, trucks, and people preparing for the 
daily business of war. Today there were no such sounds.  Is this what a 
cease-fire sounds like?

      Mike was already in the shower building when I got there. We talked 
about what our families would probably be doing today, half a world away. I 
reminded Mike that my wife promised me another Christmas celebration, 
complete with decorated tree and wrapped presents, in just two weeks, when I 
would be meeting another Mike, my four-month-old son. 

      Bascom and Dave were the only ones eating in the mess hall when we got 
there, and the cooks offered us anything we wanted. We wondered if Santa 
Claus got treated this well. The others carried the ice-chest to the 
helicopter while I called for a weather briefing. Same as the past few 
weeks, almost clear skies, light winds from the east, and a chance of 
morning ground fog in the mountains.

      When I got to the helicopter, Mike was doing the preflight inspection 
and had just climbed up to the top of the Huey. I joined him there to 
inspect the main rotor hub. It is attached to the mast with a great big nut. 
Although it has a technical name, we knew it as the Jesus nut, because if it 
came off, "only Jesus could help you." Everything was fine; we were ready to 
fly. We took off and headed for the mountains.

       It felt good to fly with this crew; we were a finely-tuned team. 
Together, we had taken that helicopter into and out of a lot of difficult 
situations. For the past seven months, I was assigned as aircraft commander 
of 68-15356, although Lee, who preferred the nickname "Bad Bascom", was 
actually the keeper of 356. As crew chief, he did all the daily maintenance 
on it and flew every mission. It was his baby; he knew every detail of that 
Huey's personality. Mike and Dave had flown with us many times since they 
had come to Vietnam in the summer. Our company radio call sign was Polecat; 
we were Polecat three five six.

      I decided to climb higher than usual as we skimmed through the smooth 
morning air. As we left the jungle plains along the coast, the green 
mountains of the Central Highlands began to rise up to meet us. There was a 
thin layer of fog on the plateau that was spilling over between the peaks, 
looking like a series of slow, misty waterfalls. The rising sun caused the 
mountain peaks to cast long shadows on the fog. The beauty and serenity of 
the scene was dazzling. No clouds of dust or smoke near the ground. No other 
aircraft in sight. 

      The mess hall had been quiet. The airfield was quiet. The radios were 
quiet. We weren't even chattering on the intercom as we usually did. Our 
minds were all with different families, somewhere back home, half a world 
away. Everything was quiet and peaceful; it felt very, very, strange.

      We approached Da Lat from the south, landed, shut down the helicopter, 
and walked into the bunker. The opening statement of a lieutenant colonel 
made it clear that he was the new commander: "What is this stuff about you 
wanting to make some little self-interest junket while you are supposed to 
be working for me?" 

      "Sir, we wanted to stop at the Project Concern hospital at Dam Pao for 
just a few minutes to drop off some food that we collected last night. It's 
right on the way to one of your outposts." 

      "Do you know that there is a war on? We can't just go flying around 
playing Santa Claus. We have schedules to meet." 

      In the partial darkness of the bunker, I let my short-timer attitude 
get the best of me. I leaned over to Mike and softly quoted Charles Dickens, 
"Are there no work houses?" 

      The colonel responded: "What did you say?" 

      "We worked hard last night, sir, collecting the food and loading the 
helicopter. This is important to the morale of our company." 

      "All right, but it will probably be late in the day, because we are 
scheduled to visit all of our outposts today, and I don't want to disappoint 
anybody." 

      This time I just replied meekly, "Yes, sir," but thought to myself 
that his troops might not be disappointed if he didn't show up. Then, as if 
he could read my mind, he added, "We're taking mail and hot food to them. We 
have to meet a truck at Phan Rang Air Base in thirty minutes, let's go." As 
he got in the Huey, the colonel looked at the pile of food, but didn't say 
anything.

      When we got closer to Phan Rang, the colonel plugged his headset into 
the Huey's intercom to use one of the radios and the whole crew listened to 
his conversation. Not only was there food and mail to pick up, but the man 
on the ground asked if we also wanted to fly some Donut Dollies around to 
visit his outposts! The helicopter was filled with young men eagerly nodding 
their heads and flight helmets "YES." 

      Donut Dollies were volunteers in the Supplemental Recreation 
Activities Overseas program of the American Red Cross, and were college 
graduates in their early twenties. Although no longer distributing donuts 
like their namesakes of World War I, they were still in the service of 
helping the morale of the troops. At larger bases, they managed recreation 
centers, but they also frequently traveled to the smaller units in the field 
for short visits to direct recreation activities and have brief 
conversations with the troops. For millions of GIs they represented the 
girlfriend, sister, or wife back home.

      The MACV truck met us at the Phan Rang helicopter fueling area. Soon 
we were heading back to the mountains in a Huey full of fuel, food, mail, 
Christmas cargo, and two American young women. We had hot sliced turkey and 
pumpkin pies for the men who had been living off Vietnamese food and canned 
Army-issue rations at the outposts. Maybe the colonel wasn't such a bad guy 
after all. He, the sergeant, and the Donut Dollies were shouting trying to 
converse in the back, pointing out various sights and objects. Why didn't he 
let one of the girls use his headset to talk to us?

      When we got near the first outpost, the colonel used the radio again 
and told the men on the ground that we were going to make it snow; he asked 
me to fly directly over the outpost at 100 feet. The Donut Dollies started 
sprinkling  laundry soap flakes out the sides of the Huey as we flew over a 
small group of Americans and a larger group of Vietnamese soldiers who must 
have thought we were crazy. Several of them were rubbing their eyes as we 
came back to land. I'll never be sure if it was emotion or if they just had 
soap in their eyes.

      The three Americans came over to the Huey as the rotor was slowing 
down. One Donut Dolly gave each of them a package from the Red Cross. The 
other Donut Dolly began to call out names to distribute the mail: "Willet, 
Johnson, Willet, Willet. . ." Sergeant Willet looked surprised as a pile of 
mail built up in his hands, as others looked on with curiosity and jealousy. 

      "They're from kids!" he said, looking at the writing on the outside. 
"This one looks like an adult's writing, but who is Sue Sikora?" He opened 
it and read out loud: "Dear Sergeant Willet, Your sister asked me if her 
class could write letters to you in Vietnam. It was voluntary, but all 28 of 
Kelly's friends wrote letters. Merry Christmas and God Bless You." He choked 
on the last few words and then turned away from us.

      After about 15 minutes of small talk between the Donut Dollies, the 
five MACV soldiers, and the crew of 356, the colonel said, "We have a lot 
more stops to make" and got back into the Huey. The Donut Dollies gave a 
quick hug to each of the soldiers we were leaving, and then got in. The 
soldiers stood there motionless, staring at us, as we started up, hovered, 
and then flew away.

      At the next outpost, the colonel split off to talk privately with the 
local officials. The crew and I didn't mind having the task of escorting the 
Donut Dollies. It was easy to see how happy the soldiers were to talk with 
them. I began to wonder how they were feeling. Their job was to cheer up 
other people on what may have been their own first Christmas away from home; 
if they were lonely or sad, they never let it show.

      Throughout the day, the same scene was repeated at a number of other 
small outposts. At one stop, after reading his mail, one soldier said, "This 
Army Digest magazine says that no matter where we are or what we are doing 
in Vietnam today, we will always remember Christmas in Vietnam." Then he 
added: "Sounds like a self-fulfilling prophesy if I ever heard one."

      Finally, when the colonel's official MACV work was done, we were above 
the hospital at Dam Pao. I landed at the small helipad a few hundred feet 
from the main building. Several American-looking men and women came out, 
carrying folding stretchers. They first showed surprise that we were not 
bringing an injured new patient, and then joy as we showed them the food, 
money, and medical supplies. One woman began to cry when she saw the price 
tag on a cheese and sausage gift pack. She explained that twenty dollars 
could provide a Montagnard family with nutritious food for more than a 
month.

      One of the doctors asked if we would like to see the hospital. He 
began talking as we carried the goods from the Huey to the single-floor, 
tin-roof hospital building. "Project Concern was founded by a missionary 
doctor from Kentucky. He came here after setting up four similar clinics in 
Hong Kong. We now have volunteer doctors, nurses, and pharmacists from 
England, Australia, New Zealand, and the USA. Some volunteer one year with 
us, others many years. We provide humanitarian aid to the civilian 
population, and train medical assistants to go back to their own villages. 
In order to stay here we have to remain neutral. Both sides respect our 
work, and leave us alone." 

      One of the women described a recent event. Two nurses and a medical 
assistant student were on their way to one of the remote clinics in the 
jungle when their jeep became mired in mud. Many miles from even the 
smallest village, they knew that they would not be able to walk to 
civilization before dark. A Viet Cong foot patrol came upon them, pulled the 
jeep out of the mud, and sent them on their way.

      There were homemade Christmas decorations everywhere; most had been 
made on the spot by patients or their families. The doctor explained that 
the whole staff was Christian, as was about one third of the population of 
Vietnam. Inside, the hospital reminded me of pictures of Civil War 
hospitals, except that it was very clean. There were only a few pieces of 
modern equipment. The staff's living quarters were very meager. 

      As we moved into one ward, a nurse gently lifted a very small baby 
from its bed, and before I could stop her, I was holding him. She explained 
that he was born that morning at just under five pounds, which was normal 
for a Montagnard. Births normally happen at home, but complications had been 
expected. Another Christmas present: the mother and baby were perfectly 
healthy! As I held the tiny infant, I couldn't help but wonder how I would 
feel in just two weeks, when I would hold my own four-month-old son for the 
first time.

      The staff invited us to stay for supper with them, and I could tell 
the invitation was sincere. But the sun was getting low, and I didn't want 
to fly us home over one hundred miles of mountainous jungle in the dark. I 
also would have felt guilty to take any of their food, no matter how 
graciously offered.

      As we started the Huey the colonel was still about fifty feet away 
talking to the doctors and nurses. He took something out of his wallet and 
pressed it into the hand of one of the doctors with a double-hand handshake, 
then quietly climbed on board.

      There was no chatter on the intercom as we flew back to Da Lat. Mike 
set the Huey down softly; the colonel and the sergeant climbed out. The 
colonel had his headset on again, and he motioned to Bascom that he wanted 
to borrow his long intercom cord. He came up to my door and pressed the 
button to talk.  "Can you hear me?" 

      "Yes, sir." was my scared reply. He opened my door and extended his 
hand towards me to shake hands. 

      "Thanks for taking us to that hospital, and Merry Christmas." 

      "Yes, sir, thank you, Merry Christmas, sir."

      The flights to Phan Rang and then back to Phan Thiet were also marked 
with silence. I thought of my family that I would be with in just twelve 
days, good friends I would soon be leaving behind, and good friends who were 
gone. I realized that the Army Digest statement was, indeed, going to be 
prophetic -- this was to be a Christmas day that I would never forget. In 
the midst of trouble and strife, I would remember that Christmas Day in 
Vietnam as a time of sharing, happiness, love, -- and peace.

      Epilog: At the 1993 dedication of the Vietnam Women's Memorial, I had 
forgotten the Donut Dollies names. Showing around a picture of them next to 
Polecat 356, I found Ann and talked with Sue by telephone a few days later. 
That Christmas Day was also special to them. Project Concern International, 
3550 Afton Road San Diego, CA 92123 is still doing similar humanitarian work 
in Asia and several US cities. 

Polecat (aka Jim Schueckler)  /  ________________________________
JRSEEE@RITVAX.ISC.RIT.EDU    X             _-----\___
192 AHC, Phan Thiet 1969    / \\-----_____|          \_
KF2CZ, Cessna N6869H(club)      Y----ARMY_________192__)