A Sad Christmas Memory - Vietnam, 1968

My saddest Christmas memory takes me back to Saigon, Vietnam in 1968. I was relaxing in the lobby of the Emergency Room, slowly sipping a cup of coffee. Trying to stay awake at 11 P.M. on Christmas Eve, I thought about past years and the family routine. I would be heading to church with my Mom and younger brother for Christmas Midnight Mass at about this time. Beautiful carols played in my mind while I was lost in reverie.

"Hey I, are you ready?" asked my buddy Tom. "Yeah," I replied somewhat dispassionately. This particular Christmas was painful, as I was stationed at an Air Base outside Saigon and was missing the requisite holiday spirit. Tom and I left for the base chapel to attend Midnight Mass. Cardinal Spellman, of New York, was visiting the troops and serving mass.

"Don't forget to keep your radio on," Bill implored. Technical Sergeant Bill Irving was our supervisor and in charge of the E.R. night shift. He allowed us to attend mass, but we were also on call for emergency responses.

The base theater was filled with soldiers and was standing room only. That was fine, as we stood in the back near the entrance. It was a good location for a quick exit if needed. The Mass began, and Cardinal Spellman's intonations in Latin filled the theater.

The choir had just begun singing "Hark, The Herald Angels Sing," when the portable radio rudely punctuated the service. I turned toward the door, responding to the call. The base Fire-Crash network advised the medics and Fire Department that there was an accident on the perimeter road with injuries.

We ran to the field ambulance, activating the flashing lights and siren. It was now after midnight, December 25th, 1968. Perimeter Road was not illuminated, as it ran around the outside edge of the base and the Viet Cong loved to take sniper shots at anything near the fence. You also had to be extremely careful not to run through any of the checkpoints, or you'd risk getting shot at by your own guys.

"Oh well, at least I got to see Cardinal Spellman in person," I thought as I rapidly but cautiously drove the ambulance toward the accident site. "There it is, up ahead," shouted Tom. Dim lights marked the scene, with shadowy figures in profile congregating around a vehicle.

I was now in a heightened, slightly nervous state of anticipation. Neither of us knew what the extent of the injuries were. Adrenaline pumping, we were both like coiled springs.

The jeep was overturned, off on the grassy side of the road. Flashlights eerily played on the victims. "We've got one here, and the other one's over there," an Army Sergeant said in somber tones. Tom ran over to the second victim, while I tended to the one nearest me.

"Hey, man! What's going on?" asked my patient. "Intoxicated" was an understatement. Slurring his every word, it was a miracle he wasn't comatose from the booze. Blood was streaming from his head; he was right out of a Grade B horror movie. "Where's my buddy?" he slurred before passing out.

With some assistance from the people on scene, I bandaged the limp patient's head and we loaded him into the ambulance and secured him for the ride back to the E.R. Tom came over to the ambulance. "What's yours?" I asked him. Tom shook his head slowly from side to side and whispered he needed a body bag.

While I checked my patient's vital signs, Tom took the heavy rubber bag over to where the other patient lay. He asked some of the bystanders to help him, and two reluctantly accommodated him. I heard the mournful sound of the zipper closing up the body bag.

"Medic Two, returning to Base Station," Tom said in a hoarse voice as he called in their status. "One D.O.A. and one with lacerations to the head, over". I looked over at Tom, and asked what had happened to the dead patient. Tom told me that his head was crushed, flat as a pancake, when the jeep overturned. The short trip to the E.R. was in total silence.

I got my patient into a treatment room, and began to assess his injuries. "I'm Bob, what's your name, soldier?" I asked him. "Hey man, good ta meetcha! I'm Jack!" was the cheery response. "Well, Jack, you've got some pretty large lacerations on your scalp and I'll need to stitch them up," I said. "No problem, man!" came the reply.

Tom had done the necessary steps to transfer the dead soldier to the Mortuary Affairs office, which adjoined the Dispensary. He then watched as I sutured Jack's lacerations. I didn't even need to inject any anesthetic, as Jack was too drunk to feel the sting of the suture needle.

"Where's my buddy," demanded Jack. I calmed him down and looked at Tom. Jack repeated his plea again. Neither of us wanted to be the bearer of horrible news. Tom whispered to me that the Base Chaplain was on his way to break it to Jack. I silently nodded, eyes watery while finishing up his suturing. The Chaplain arrived and waited until I was done.

"Oh, God! No!" Jack loudly wailed, repeating it a number of times. The Chaplain did his best to console him, but it was just a temporary palliative for a worse sorrow to come. Jack will remember that Christmas Eve for the rest of his life. So will Tom and I.

We saw other patients with various minor problems, then things settled down. I silently sipped some coffee again, wishing I could fill the cup with strong whiskey. The shift was almost over.
I thought of that dead guy, dying a totally useless death while drunkenly celebrating a holy holiday. I ran these thoughts through my head: "What do you tell his parents? His friends?" Besides, a lot of other soldiers died that night in mucky swamps, on mountain tops and in elephant grass in this Southeast Asian country.

At age 21, I felt old. Old and hollow inside. Beautiful strains of "Silent Night" teased my mind, mocked my being. As I left the dispensary, I watched the morning flatbed tractor trailer bound for the flight line with a line of stainless-steel coffins. More casualties headed home. Christmas Eve, 1968, was finally over. Amen.