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Several pilots were sitting together, and one finally piped up, "We have to do something happy! Let's sing Christmas Carols!"
But nobody would start the singing. After almost a year of flying in Vietnam, I did not want to sit around there on Christmas Day watching twenty long faces. I had to fly tomorrow!
Mike Porter blurted out, "Let's take up a collection for the Project Concern hospital!"
I remembered the first time I saw that hospital at Dam Pao; I was copilot for Ted Thoman. A medic showed us a baby in desperate need of medical care, suffering from convulsions and dehydration. At the top speed of that Huey helicopter, Ted soon had the baby girl and her parents at the hospital at Dam Pao.
Mike shook my shoulder to wake me from my reverie. "Hey Jim, let's ask to fly the Da Lat MacVee mission tomorrow to take money that we collect tonight."
Under his crewcut blonde hair, Mike's boyish face lit up and belied that he was among the older helicopter pilots. He was 22.
We stopped at the crew chiefs' hooch and asked Bascom if he would like to fly tomorrow. He and Dave quickly agreed, also to escape the prevailing melancholy.
Major Higginbotham, the company commander, was in the operations bunker. I explained our plan but he answered, "We don't have the Da Lat MacVee mission, in fact we don't have any missions tomorrow. There is a cease-fire on."
I was not above begging. "Please, Sir, could you call battalion and see if some other company has Da Lat MacVee?"
The CO picked up the phone and then started writing on a mission sheet form. He handed it to me and said, "Da Lat MacVee helipad, oh seven thirty. We took the mission from the 92nd." He took out his wallet and handed me some money. "Here. Good luck!"
When we reached the gunship platoon hooch three, pilots looked on sadly as one man raked a pile of money from the center of a table towards himself. We made our sales pitch about the hospital. The lucky gambler pointed to the pile of money and said, "Here. Take it! I would just lose it all back to these guys anyway. Merry Christmas!"
At one stop, we were given a gift package of cheese. We decided to make another pass through the company area, asking for cookies, candy, and other foods. As we left one hooch with our arms full, the men inside started singing "Deck the Halls;" and soon, those in other buildings were competing. The mood of the company had changed.
When we reached the mess hall, the cooks were still there, preparing for Christmas Day. The burly sergeant replied, "Do you have a truck with you? We have a surplus of food because so many guys went home early."
One pilot went to get the maintenance truck while the rest of us checked dates on cans and cartons of food. At an infantry unit mess hall we accepted several cases of freeze-dried foods. The medic at the dispensary gave us bandages and dressings.
We tied down the pile of booty in the Huey. After dropping off the truck, the four pilots walked back to our hooch. One looked at his watch and said, "Hey guys! It's midnight! Merry 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 men preparing for the daily business of war. Today there were no such sounds. Is this what peace sounds like?
In the shower building, Mike and I talked about what our families would be doing today, half a world away. I reminded Mike that my wife promised me another Christmas celebration, with decorated tree and wrapped presents, in just two weeks. I would also be meeting another Mike for the first time, my son, who was born a few months ago.
After breakfast, the others went to the flight line while I called for a weather briefing. When I reached the helicopter, Mike was doing the preflight inspection and had just climbed up to the top of the Huey. Together, we checked the main rotor hub and the "Jesus nut," named 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. Lee, whose nickname was "Bad Bascom", looked every bit like a rugged, muscular cowboy from his hometown in Bascom County, Wyoming. He was the crew chief of this Huey and did all the daily maintenance on it; it was his "baby." With Mike as co-pilot and Dave as door gunner, we had taken that helicopter into and out of many difficult situations. The radio call sign of the 192nd Assault Helicopter Company was Polecat; we were Polecat Three Five Six.
I decided to climb higher than usual in the smooth morning air. As we left the jungle plains along the coast, the green mountains of the Central Highlands rose up to meet us. Fog on the plateau spilled over between the peaks, looking like slow, misty, waterfalls. In the rising sunlight the mountain peaks cast long shadows on the fog. The beauty and serenity of the scene was dazzling.
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, thousands of miles away. Everything was quiet and peaceful; it felt very, very, strange.
As our main rotor slowed down after we landed at Da Lat, a gray-haired Lieutenant Colonel walked up to the Huey. "Merry Christmas! I'm Colonel Beck. We have two or three American advisors at many small compounds, and we're going to take mail, hot turkey, and pumpkin pies to all of them!"
His distinguished look turned to a big grin as he added, "Oh! Would you guys like to have some Donut Dollies with us today?"
Four heads with flight helmets were eagerly nodding "YES" as the two young ladies got out of a jeep.
Donut Dollies were American Red Cross volunteers, 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 large bases they managed recreation centers, but they also traveled to the smaller units in the field for short visits. For millions of GIs, they represented the girlfriend, sister, or wife back home. Over the Huey's intercom, we were introduced to Sue, with the short, dark, hair and Ann, a brunette, the taller one.
Soon we were heading towards the mountains with a Huey full of mail, food, Christmas cargo, and two American young women. For the soldiers who had been living off Vietnamese food and canned Army rations at the isolated outposts, these touches of home would be a welcome surprise.
When we were above the first compound Colonel Beck, by radio, told the men on the ground that we were going to make it snow. Sue and Ann sprinkled laundry soap flakes out of the Huey as we flew directly over a small group of American and 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 know if it was emotion or if they just had soap in their eyes.
The three Americans came over to the Huey as we shut it down. Ann gave each of them a package from the Red Cross, and Sue called out names to distribute the mail. After about 15 minutes of small talk, Colonel Beck said, "We have a lot more stops to make," and got back into the Huey.
The soldiers stood there motionless, staring at us, as we started up, hovered, and then disappeared into the sky.
At the next outpost, Colonel Beck left us so he could talk privately with the local officials. The crew and I didn't mind escorting the Donut Dollies. It was easy to see how happy the soldiers were to talk with them. I wondered how Sue and Ann 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 replayed at other small compounds. Some soldiers talked excitedly to the girls, while others would just stand quietly and stare, almost in shock to see American women visiting them out in the boonies.
Finally, when the official MacVee work was done, we were above the hospital at Dam Pao. Mike landed us a few hundred feet from the main building. Several men and women came out, carrying folding stretchers. They first showed surprise that we were not bringing an injured new patient, and then joy when we showed them the food and medical supplies. Mike opened the ammo can full of money and said, "Merry Christmas from the Polecats and Tigersharks of the 192nd Assault Helicopter Company."
One of the women began to cry and then hugged Mike.
One of the doctors asked if we would like to see the hospital. He talked as we carried the goods from the Huey to the single-floor, tin-roof hospital building. "Project Concern now has volunteer doctors and nurses from England, Australia, and the USA. We provide health services to civilians and train medical assistants to do the same in 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 returning from a remote clinic 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 Vietcong 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. Inside, it looked like pictures of Civil War hospitals; there were only a few pieces of modern equipment, but the hospital was very clean. 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, she placed him in my arms. He was born that morning. Although complications had been expected, the mother and baby were perfectly healthy! As I held the tiny infant, I started to tell the others that I would soon be meeting my own baby son, but the words wouldn't come out.
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 sixty miles of mountainous jungle in the dark. I also would have felt guilty to take any food, no matter how graciously offered, from these selfless people.
As we started the Huey, Colonel Beck 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. I quickly got out as I asked him to shut down. We stood there silently; I wanted to hug Sue and Ann, but I knew Donut Dollies were not allowed to. After several warm handshakes and Christmas wishes between Sue, Ann, Colonel Beck, and us, the crew of Polecat 356 and I got back in and flew away and out of the lives of our new-found friends.
The flight back to Phan Thiet was also marked with silence. I thought of my family and friends back home, good friends I would soon be leaving behind, and good friends who would never go home. I pondered the rare nature of that day. In the midst of war, trouble, and strife, I would always remember that Christmas Day in Vietnam as a time of sharing, happiness, love, -- and peace.
Epilog: I attended the 1993 dedication of the Vietnam Women's Memorial to place remembrances from the Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association. As friendly and helpful as 24 years earlier, other Donut Dollies were eager to help me find Sue and Ann, identified from a photograph I had taken at Dam Pao in 1969. One Donut Dolly finally exclaimed "That's my sister!" and led me to Ann. I collected on a long-overdue hug, and I talked with Sue by telephone a few days later. I was thrilled to learn that Christmas Day in Vietnam 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.
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