Christmas 1969 was probably my most memorable holiday, but it was definitely not the most enjoyable. Still, what began as a depressing experience was somehow transformed by a fairly insignificant symbol.
I was stationed at Camp Enari, near Pleiku, in the Central Highlands of Viet Nam, one of four Red Cross Donut Dollies whose mission was to provide mobile recreation within the Fourth Infantry Division. I can’t say our job was particularly easy, especially for me, because my personality has never been what one would call “bouncy.” I was more taciturn – less effervescent. So, no matter how much fun it might be in the end, I found it difficult to overcome my natural reserve and gather grown fighting men into groups, to play games.
Christmas was just another workday for us. As usual, we climbed aboard a helicopter and headed out to the forward units. The difference, that day, was that we all wore bright red dresses made for us in Hong Kong, and we hauled along a small pump organ for one of the girls to play. With her music, we hoped to urge the men to sing carols.
At the first fire support base we scuttled off the aircraft, unloaded the organ and traipsed across the compound, to an area where sandbags stacked around Howitzers provided a makeshift amphitheatre. I hadn’t been able to drum up the Christmas spirit yet and, true to my personality, was even slightly embarrassed by our appearance. Here we were, tromping around in the rubble of a war zone, looking like we were in a Holiday parade instead of a war zone.
Then, as we came to the “staging” area, there, stuck on top of one of the sandbags, was about the ugliest, scrawniest Christmas tree I’d ever seen. It sported a few boughs, to which maybe four damaged ornaments and several strands of tinsel clung. In spite of its appearance, though, that poor tree seemed to stand awfully proud – probably because of what it stood for.
Obviously someone had sent it from home and it had survived the trip, but just barely. Had we been in the States, it would have been consigned to a trash bin but, in this setting, it was stunning. Not because of how it looked, but because of where it was and what it symbolized. Physically it resembled the dismal Christmas we were trying to survive, but spiritually it proclaimed the birth of a King. It humbly suggested a hope beyond reason, a universal victory and, even less evident in Viet Nam in 1969, peace on earth, good will toward men.
For all it represented, that simple little shrub might as well have been the magnificent tree at Rockefeller Center. It reminded us that, in addition to hope for the future, we could also celebrate home and the love of families who waited and prayed for us there.
So with that poignant reminder visible out of the corner of my eye, I put aside my self-consciousness, cheered up and joined the chorus. We gathered around our miniscule tree, higher voices blending with baritones and tenors to loudly affirm the lyrics, “O-oh, tidings of comfort and joy … !”
