“When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise,
Than when we first begun.”
Amazing Grace
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lhc7MEYY-Ho&feature=fvwrel
“Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled,
That God the Lord of all the earth sent angel choirs instead
Before their light the stars grew dim
and wandering hunters heard the hymn
Within a lodge of broken bark, the tender babe was found.
A ragged robe of rabbit skin enwrapped his beauty round;
But as the hunter braves drew nigh,
the angel song rang loud and high
The earliest moon of wintertime is not so round and fair,
As was the ring of glory on the helpless infant there.
The chiefs from far before him knelt
with gifts of fox and beaver pelt
O, children of the forest free, the angel song is true.
The holy child of earth and heav’n is born today for you.
Come kneel before the radiant boy,
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
Jean de Brebeuf, S.J. Martyr and Author of “The Huron Carol.”
Christmas in Vietnam.
“The war went on in the central highlands. At Christmas time I decided to hold a detachment Christmas party. I mentioned this to the battalion commander of 3/525, MI Group, LTC Paul Langford during a visit by Langford to Song Be. As we discussed this, a five gallon water jug of home made “hootch” bubbled happily in a corner of my office under the beneficent warmth of an electric light. Pineapple juice, brewer’s yeast and a daily “feeding” of sugar were creating something within that obviously was alive. The application of sugar invariably produced a tempest in the bottle. The men began to think of it as a pet.
Langford ignored the bottle. “Are you going to leave someone to man each station?” he asked. “That’s all right then,” he said when assured. “Let’s not tell Group. They already think you and I are nuts.” I bought cases of Mumm’s Cordon Rouge and other goodies in Saigon, and on the appointed day mysterious personages began to arrive from all over the Border on Air America’s scheduled service. All in all, there were about twenty party goers. The province senior advisor, LTC Ray Suarez and the local CIA boss attended. There was much singing of Christmas carols, as well as a ham, a turkey and such cooked by the kitchen in the Special Forces “B” camp in town. The bald headed, middle aged light weapons man in the team was also mess sergeant. He had been a feldwebel in the Grossdeutschland and later an adjutant-chef in the 2nd REI. Like most of the men in that B Team he felt sorry for me in my exile from SF. He and several others from the B Team were at the party.
The guests sang the “Huron Carol” (in English) to humor me.
“For every boot that tramped in battle,
every cloak rolled in blood,
will be burned as fuel for flames.
For a child is born to us, a son is given…”
Isaiah, 9:1-3, 5-6
At midnight, celebration was interrupted by the sound of machine gun fire in the distance. The revelers trooped outside to see if they were going to have to fight on Christmas Eve. There were hard words concerning the ancestry of the enemy. Across the wire, across the outpost line, across the valley of no-man’s land were the crests occupied habitually by the “opposition.” From these heights there rose a stream of green, Soviet made “tracer.” The celebrants contemplated this for a minute, and then Suarez suggested a reply. An M-60 machine gun emerged from the house, and while one man fired red tracer into the air, another held the bipod above his head and another fed the gun its belted ammunition. The streams of bullets crossed in the black, star-studded sky. The VC gun fell silent, as did the American. There was a hush as warriors waited for some sign that the hope of common humanity yet lived. The VC fire resumed. Now there were three guns shooting green stars into the blackness. The MI men’s gun chattered merrily, spilling a river of shell casings into the street. Red and green filled the night. ”
Every Christmas I post this excerpt from an autobiographical sketch I wrote once. This incident is reminiscent of the legendary football game in no man’s land in 1914. The men at the party were of the Third Combat Battalion, 525th Military Intelligence Group, MACV CORDS Advisory Team 94, the CIA and the 5th Special Forces Group. The place was Song Be, Phuoc Long Province. It was 1968.
There is a statue in Charlottesville, Virginia. On the pediment is inscribed, “Love makes memory eternal.” That once was true.
The party-goers are long gone. Some never saw another Christmas. Some died a couple of months later when the men across the way nearly took the town.
They tried for what seemed an eternity but was actually less than a week. We killed six hundred of them in repelling their valiant effort. Some died around my house and in the street in front of my gate. We buried four hundred bodies found in front of and in our (US and Vietnamese) positions. The Second Brigade of the First Cavalry Division was ordered into the fight halfway through the battle. Without them the VC would have killed or captured us all. PW survivors told us how many the enemy lost. They were of the 211th, 212th and 165th VC battalions under VC Military Region 10. By that time these units were mostly North Vietnamese in their manning. They were “foemen worthy of our steel.”
God rest all these worthy gentlemen. pl
Did a walk on the beach this AM. A classic F100 pickup that I’d give my eye teeth for was out there with an old couple picking up driftwood. A snowy haired Mrs Klaus, but much thinner, behind the wheel. The old guy, with a wispy Uncle Ho beard, would jump out with his chain saw when they came up on a drift log to cut it to fireplace size. I was bone dry in waterproof tech gear. Uncle Ho looked like a wet dog. Hope he had some woolly long johns on. Hope they have a roaring fireplace now.
The old man’s beard brought back memories of Nam. A few compadres and I had been invited to a Christmas feast with the Intel Chief of Đại Lộc district. He and his family were part of the half a million Catholic North Vietnamese who had come south in 55′ fleeing the communist repression. Great meal! Roasted baby water buffalo stuffed with lemon grass; and also what I suspect was roast dog. Never told my wife about that. I didn’t dare, she loved pups and cute baby calves, she would have thrown me out or worse.
Merry Christmas. Was hoping that the trenches in Ukraine would see at least a 24 hour truce, but sadly that didn’t happen. Maybe on 7 January?
Interesting Post Read Leith..Thanks..I Used to Cut Logs Along Rivers On Camping Ttips And Haul Them on My Honda Trail 90..e Carred On Our Motor Home..Memorys ..Huh..Like Nam…Old Intel Guyd..Agency..Remember Ever Meeting A Guy Named “TREE”…
Happy ew Year..Peace..Regards Jim
Jim –
How big were those logs? Was that Honda 90 supercharged? My great uncle Clarence used to pull logs in the snow on a skid with a horse.
Happy New Year back at you, may it be healthy and prosperous.
I cut the logs with my chain saw
To fire pit size Then stacked a nice
Pile tye the 90s rack high low gears up the road And to theDNR camp Rainforest Sure miss this days
Regards Jim
leith,
“Roasted baby water buffalo stuffed with lemon grass; and also what I suspect was roast dog.”
I’d doubt it’s baby water buffalo (too valuable as subsistent farming animal ). Probably was a calf (bê). Roast dog is quite delicious, as long as it’s not your pet 🙂
In the early ’80’s I was living a few miles south of the Pentagon off of Columbia Pike. One afternoon I was stuck in traffic on the bridge over Four Mile Run. In my peripheral vision I saw a tree fall on one of the steep banks of the ravine. When I looked closer I saw a couple of Montagnards in native dress chopping down trees for a slash & burn field, The area was also having a rash of missing white dogs.
Leith….”Tree” Was An Old Nam Vet…I played Golf With Him For Years..We Were Pretty Well Matched..The Loser Would Buy Beer and Lunch in the Club House…What Interesting Storys He old…Flying Around..
Regards Jim
Jim –
Was that rainforest camp up here in my neighborhood in the northwest? Olympic Peninsula or Alaska’s panhandle?
I knew a few guys over there who were as tall as a tree. Or was your ‘Tree’ short for Trevor or Trey or some-such? I used to love to play golf but I blew out the ACL in my left knee so haven’t played in awhile. Need to learn that stiff straight-legged swing.
Leith..OP “out Post” lol I Lived on the Reservation Tattoosh Is..
.I Rode The Back Of a Big Clydsdale op area…i was About 5 or 6 yoa…The Logger was
pulling Logs out on a Sled…I Could Lay Flat On the Back of That Beauriful Hoarse
Tree Was Short Black Rimer Eyes./L .augh Lol Flew Around Odd Job
Regards Jim