Christmas 1967

One quiet night, I was standing an uneventful third watch thinking of home and wondering what the scene was in Brookline. It was Christmas Eve – my first ever away from home and family. At midnight, preparing to wake my watch relief, I took a final scan out over the parapet toward the desolately black DMZ beyond.

My rifle laid before me with a full magazine, chambered round, safety in the off position. There were several hand grenades by my side -fragmentation in case they got close, illumination in case I heard a scary noise. There was also a little switch that connected to a wire that lead to a claymore mine that I had placed twenty feet in front of me. When activated, a claymore would eliminate all living things within fifteen feet of its face – plants, rats, humans. It was a nasty little weapon that provided great peace of mind to any weary Marine on a late watch.

I had a fresh canteen of water and a half smoked pack of Camels. I pulled one out and lit it - ever careful to shroud the ignition lest I expose my position. I was saving the remnants of a joint for a special treat for later.

I wasn’t certain that I had ever been up at midnight on Christmas Eve. Dad and Ruthie used to go to the midnight church service sometimes, but I never found the idea very appealing. The faster I got to bed, the faster Christmas would come. I continued to believe that long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus.

Yet, here we really were - caught it an unfathomably peculiar limbo between war and peace.

War – the previous two weeks had been cold, wet, mud, horror, death, wounded, scared, oh my god so scared.

Peace – a three day Christmas cease-fire during which there was no noise, no movement, no patrols, no incoming artillery or mortars, and no outgoing.

At midnight, as I was preparing to give my watch relief a gentle nudge, a dull distant boom broke the silence. It was a distinctive muzzle blast from far to our south. Dong Ha? Quang Tri? Then another - boom. It must be night defensive fire from the rear.

Why were we shooting?

More drumming boomed on top of the other. So much for Christmas. Then, all at once, the familiar whistling sound from far above was followed by a friendly pop.
A white illumination flare exploded across a jet black sky…then another.

Alert.

Senses spiked.

Enemy activity? Eyes sharp, Jack – adjust. Adjust. Use your peripheral vision. Look away from the lowering flare. Look for movement, any movement. Is the claymore still there? Yes. Thank god. Then again from high above

A green flare ignited a sky that was already sprayed with a million stars, followed by a red flare.

A red flare.

I get it!

It’s Christmas Eve.

The silence of the cease fire continued all through Christmas Day except for a brief early morning flyover by a spotter plan with speakers that serenaded us with Christmas Carols. It was very cool. No patrols were sent out, although the watch schedules were maintained.

We took the time to breathe easier, while playing children’s games that my sister Ruthie had sent – checkers, slinkies, yo-yos, Old Maid, and Silly Putty. There were candy canes to eat and photographs of peaceful places back home in which to lose ourselves.

The yo-yos were the biggest hit. Machine gunner Tom Morrissey instantly made one of them his own. For weeks it never left his side. During an occasional quiet moment he could be seen alone pulling it out and, through the magic of a string and a round block of wood, removing himself to some distant New Hampshire childhood place.

Days later, Tom and I were on a patrol with the second platoon. I noticed him, far ahead where the column twisted around and into the tree line. He was at the edge of a rice paddy, kneeling to fill his canteen with the tepid swamp water. As he rose, M-60 machine gun carefully balanced on his shoulder, Ray Ban aviator glasses in place, he pulled the yo-yo from his hip pocket and with one downward thrust, spun a perfect “cats cradle.”

Then, with the flick of his shoulder, in a ritual of ultimate cool that he had performed a thousand times before, his weapon fell softly into his hands. In one unbroken motion he slapped a full bandolier of NATO 7.62 caliber ammo into the top, chambered a round, flipped off the safety, and followed his fire team back into the jungle.

Forever Tom.

I’m certain that no one saw it but me.

Six months later Tom Morrissey was dead.

Copyright © 2007 Jack McLean All Rights Reserved.