| It was a rainy Sunday afternoon in
December. Passing showers that had temporarily cleansed the rancid air
now rose in a vaporous haze from the hot wet pavement. I leaned forward,
resting my forearms on the parapet that surrounded the roofed-over canteen
atop the Rex Hotel. Alone, I tried to organize my thoughts. I had been
struggling for several days to fend off those all too familiar Christmas
blues. At the same time, I was despising myself for it was against my nature
to get down in the dumps. As I pondered, a strong breeze off the Saigon
River began to rustle the treetops along the main thoroughfare. I traced
its path until I felt its coolness on my face. It was a welcome relief
to the stagnancy that prevailed.
The Rex located in central Saigon, was
initially leased by the Army to house Military Advisors at the onset of
the United States’ military commitment to the Republic of Vietnam. “The
Roof” or “Top of the Rex,” soon became a favorite watering hole for GIs.
Sunday afternoon was usually my only free time, so I would go to the Rex
when not on travel to other Corps areas. I felt somewhat at ease there,
as I did not have to watch my back and it was within walking distance of
my billet.
Unknown at that time, Saigon was enjoying
the final weeks of its relative isolationism. Except for an occasional
rocket lobbed in from the rice-paddies, infrequent sapper attacks and car
bombings, the city to date had been spared the brunt of the war. With a
half-million GIs in country, it was riding the crest of a booming military
supported prosperity. An uncanny feeling of gayety existed. This euphoria
was further bolstered by MACV’s General Westmoreland’s announcement that
Allied Forces were winning the struggle with the Viet Cong. From where
I stood on that damp dismal Sunday, the shooting war did indeed seem strangely
remote…the looming “Tet Offensive” would soon change the city and the lives
within forever.
Gazing over the wall, the stench from
garbage, waste and diesel fumes rose up to meet me. A myriad of vehicles,
primarily military, motorcycles and pedi-cabs darted in crisscrossing patterns
through the choked overtaxed intersection below. The masses of humanity
rushing about in that familiar oriental shuffle, meshed with the traffic
like some muted woven tapestry. This bustling tempo was in sharp contrast
to the ragged half-naked refugees squatting in hopeless despair in hidden
crannies and alleyways.
Watching the human drama unfold, I was
lulled into deep reflection by the rhythmic patter of rain on the hotel
roof. Watching the droplets trickle from the overhanging eaves, my thoughts
turned to family. How were they coping? Was there illness or financial
woes? The two oldest children were teenagers, a critical time for parental
guidance; it stirred my fatherly concern. Had I set the moral example and
provided the character building they needed to meet the temptations before
them? There were so many troubling questions to brood over. The family
was near relatives while I was deployed, so I did not dwell on the Christmas
issue. We had endured numerous holiday separations over the previous twenty-years…that
was Navy life. Yet no matter how hard-shelled you think you are, one still
becomes melancholy…
A sudden gust of rain quickly brought
me back to reality. Jumping back from the wall, I brushed the droplets
from my wash-khakis, took my empty glass to the bar and bought another
scotch. Subsisting on my combat pay alone I sorely needed a boost in the
finance department…so I decided to try the ten-cent slots. Sauntering over
to the machines nestled among some neglected potted shrubbery I choose
machine number nineteen. On the nineteenth I would have six months in Vietnam
and had a hunch the number would bring me luck…it didn’t.
From my position at the machines, I
could look out over tables filled with a collage of uniforms; cammies,
greens, fatigues, khakis and civvies to a small stage decorated with tinsel
and two gaudy artificial Christmas trees. A young Korean group, “The K-Tones”
sponsored by the USO took the stage. They could not speak English, yet
began playing and singing American pop songs. With jet-black ducktail hair,
flashing teeth and gyrations ala Elvis, they were real showmen. The only
problem was their enunciation of mimicked lyrics. They could not overcome
the harsh “sing-song” nasally twang common among Orientals.
As I remember, their rendition of the
Los Bravos hit “Black is black…I want my baby back.” sounded something
like, “Block ish block, aaww vant mi bobbie bock.” Now, imagine their attempt
at Christmas carols! It was absolutely hilarious! The crowd loved them;
particularly the one with Hollywood sunglasses, quivering lips and pork-chop
side burns! To this day, and I have absolutely no explanation for it, flashbacks
of that rainy Sunday will appear. I can see Saigon, the Rex, the K-Tones
and the milling throngs in vivid detail…like some broken record, “Block
ish block, aaww vant mi bobbie bock…” will turn over and over in the recesses
of my aging mind…
A couple of my cohorts, Bob Wilson and
Jim Ammons joined me and we proceeded to celebrate the season and my six
months in country. We got quite mellow. Hell, it was a health issue; one
had to build a resistance to the rampant diseases of Southeast Asia. Moreover,
I had another weeklong trip to Cam Ranh Bay, Qui Nhon and Da Nang before
Christmas. To fly in one of our old DC-3s, affectionately dubbed “Star
Ships,” required a certain amount of liquid courage. J?B was also a noted
snake/insect repellent…therefore a requirement in case BWA’s [Baling-wire
Airlines] Star Ship had to make an unscheduled landing somewhere in the
Central Highlands! A good Navy man is always prepared…
There were some sixty officers on the
Admiral’s staff. Each brought a small wrapped gift, to the Mess on Christmas
Eve for appropriately enough, a Chinese Christmas… my first! It was a system
of gift exchanges, which I have yet to figure out? If someone with a certain
number, liked your gift better than his, he could take yours and give you
his…you in turn could take someone else’s, and so on and so on… By evening’s
end, I wound up with a splitting headache, a feeling of being had, and
a pair of bent metal-shoetrees which I have to this day!
In a distant hostile land on that memorable
eve, I experienced one of the most heartwarming Christmases of my life.
Military men sharing the gamut of human emotions: laughter, tears, happiness,
sadness, but above all, sharing a bond of enduring comradeship…a magical
brotherhood that is known but to few men. In the purest sense, we were
family…kindred by chosen profession. A few of us die-hards hung on until
well past midnight ushering in the birthday of Christ. With bear hugs and
best wishes we went off to our bunks, each to deal in his own way with
the uncertainties within.
The white phosphorus star-shells that
routinely illuminated the distant nighttime sky turned the interior of
my tiny cubical a ghostly hue. Eerie shadows crept across the walls as
each luminary descended beyond the horizon. Extremely restless and unable
to sleep, I finally rose and went to the window. The gleaming light seemed
somehow symbolic of the biblical story of the Magi and the Star of Bethlehem…
As the last shell gradually faded and flickered-out, faint slivers of reddish-orange
and gold appeared in the eastern sky…dawn was breaking over the Pearl of
the Orient…it was Christmas Day 1967. |
