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The Day it Snowed in Vietnam: a true story
(Christmas in Vietnam, 1969)
by Jim Schueckler
It had been a hot day, and even in the evening, after the withering sun had dipped below the horizon, we sat sweltering in T-shirts in the pilots' hooch. The air was somber. The usual discussions of recent close calls and superior airmanship were subdued by the subject on everyone's mind, but nobody would talk about: the recent loss of four pilots and four crewmen. We joked about the cease-fire and wondered how long it would last. One man predicted that the base would be hit with mortars just before midnight. It seemed that There was nothing to celebrate. One pilot tried to change the mood. "We have to do something happy! Let's sing Christmas Carols!" He said, almost in anguish.But no one started singing.
Mike Porter, my copilot, finally blurted out, "Let's take up a collection for the Project Concern hospital!" I thought back to 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. Flying that Huey helicopter at top speed, Ted soon had the Baby girl and her parents at the hospital at Dam Pao. That "mission" made me feel good; it was the only one, so far, that was not part of making war. The memory was vivid because only hours before we had extracted a recon team under fire. The bullet holes in the aircraft had been counted, but not yet patched.
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 I had to remind myself that he was among the older Army helicopter pilots; he was 22.
Mike's excitement was contagious--I jumped up, said "Great idea, let's go ask!" and almost ran out the door. We stopped at the crew chiefs' hooch and asked Bascom if he would like to fly tomorrow. He and Dave quickly agreed, also wishing to escape the prevailing sadness.
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, there are no missions; there's a cease-fire tomorrow . .
.remember?"
It had been Mike's idea, but the prospect of not being able to make this
mission was too much, so I pleaded the cause: "Please, Sir, could you
call battalion and see if some other company has Da Lat Macvee?" Macvee,
the Military Assistance Command Vietnam was the US Army unit of advisors to
the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. One or two US advisors were assigned to
small military compounds in almost every large village. A Macvee mission
usually meant flying the province Senior Advisor around to visit the
villages. Macvee missions were a respite from the tension and danger of
combat assaults or recon team missions, but had their own risks of weather,
wind, and being without gunship escort. Flying near the beautiful city of Da
Lat, up in the cool mountains, was an additional treat.
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 opened 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 across the table towards himself. We made our
sales pitch about the hospital. The lucky gambler pushed the money towards
us and said: "Here--take it! I'd just lose it all back to these guys
anyway, Merry Christmas!"
Similar responses began to fill our ammo can with money of all Denominations
as we roamed among hooches and tents, collecting money from guys whose
generosity began to make me a believer in the Christmas spirit again. At one
stop, a pilot gave us a gift package of cheese. Food! We could take food! We
decided to make another pass through the company area, asking for cookies,
candy, and other things. 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. Christmas Eve had arrived in this tropical land of
heat and snakes and death!
When we reached the mess hall, the cooks were still there, preparing for
Christmas Day. The mess 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. Then we drove to the infantry mess hall
where we accepted four 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 returning the truck, the four pilots walked together 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. There was no shouting, no rumble of trucks, no roar of propellers and rotors. Mornings were usually bustling with the sounds of men and machines preparing for the daily business of war, but today there were no such sounds. I thought to myself, "Is this what peace sounds like?"
In the shower building, Mike and I talked about what our families
would be doing today on the other side of the world. As all short timers do,
I reminded Mike that in just two weeks I would be going home, my year in
Vietnam over. My wife promised me another Christmas celebration, with
decorated tree and wrapped presents. I would be also be meeting another Mike
for the first time, my son, now only a few months old.
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" that
holds the rotor on the helicopter. Everything was fine; we were ready to
fly. We took off and headed for the mountains.
It always felt good to fly with this crew; we were a finely tuned team. The
rugged and muscular Lee looked every bit like a cowboy from his hometown in
Bascom County, Wyoming; hence his nickname "Bad Bascom." He was
the crew chief of this Huey and did all the daily maintenance on it; it was
his "baby." With Mike as copilot and Dave as door gunner, we had
taken that helicopter into and out of many difficult situations, from
landing supplies on a windy mountain top to extracting recon teams from
small clearings
while taking enemy fire. The radio call sign of the 192nd Assault
Helicopter Company was Polecat; we were Polecat Three Five Six and proud of
it. This day was beginning to feel even better because we were going to use
our combat skills for a mission that seemed so unrelated to war.
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. On the plateau, a thick blanket of fog lay
like cotton under a Christmas tree. It spilled over between the peaks in
slow, misty, waterfalls. In the rising sunlight the mountain tops cast long
shadows on the fog. The beauty and serenity of the scene were dazzling. Had
I noticed this before? I think I had, but today the gorgeous scenery wasn't
a backdrop for the unexpected horror of war.
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. Was this the
first day of a lasting peace, or just the eye in a hurricane of war?
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 a busy day planned, my men are spread out all over this
province, and we're going to take mail, hot turkey, and pumpkin pies to
every one of them!" He handed me a map that had our cross-stitched
route already carefully drawn on it. 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, Colonel Beck introduced Sue, with the short, dark, hair and
Ann, s 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 lonely, isolated outposts, these touches of home would be a welcome surprise.
As we approached 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 will 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 announced,
"We
have a lot more stops to make" and got back into the Huey. The soldiers
stood
there silently, 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, with the official Macvee work finished, 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.
A doctor asked if we would like to see the hospital. He talked as we carried
the goods from the Huey to the one-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. We try to
demonstrate God's love, so we 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 Viet
Cong 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 made on the spot
by patients or their families. Inside, the hospital was clean and neat, but
stark; there were few pieces of modern equipment. The staff lived in a
separate small building.
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'd been born
that morning. Although they had expected complications, 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 got stuck
in my throat. So I just stood there, marveling at the warmth and hope in
that tiny new human being nestled peacefully in my arms. Would this child
grow up in peace, or would this tiny life be snuffed out by a war that had
already claimed thousands of Vietnamese and Americans? Would the deaths of
my
friends this past year help ensure for him a life of peace and freedom, or
had they
died in vain?
The staff invited us to stay for supper with them, and I could tell the
invitation was sincere. However, the sun was getting low, and I didn't want
to fly us home over eighty miles of mountainous jungle in the dark. I also
would have felt guilty to take any food, even so graciously offered, from
the most selfless people I had ever met. As we started the Huey, the doctors
and nurses were about fifty feet away, still talking with Colonel Beck. The
Colonel took something out of his wallet and gave it to of one of the men
with a double-hand handshake. He then quietly climbed on board. There was no
chatter on the intercom as we flew back to Da Lat. Mike landed the Huey
softly. I asked him to shut down and got out quickly. Then we all stood
there silently; I wanted to hug Sue and Ann, but I knew Donut Dollies were
not allowed to hug. Instead, we all exchanged warm handshakes and Christmas
wishes. Colonel Beck thanked us for taking him to the hospital.
We,the crew of Polecat 356, got back in and flew away and out of the
lives of
our new-found friends. Silence also marked the flight back to Phan Thiet. I
thought of my family and friends back home and couldn't wait to see them. I
also thought about the good friends I would soon be leaving behind, and
other good friends who would never go home to their families.
I reflected on the rare nature of the day. I would always be able to
remember Christmas Day in Vietnam as very special. Here, in the midst of
war, trouble,and strife, was a time of sharing, happiness, love -- and
peace.
Epilog: I attended the 1993 dedication of the Vietnam Women's Memorial
to place letters of remembrance 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, and I collected on a long-overdue hug. Sue
and I talked by telephone a few days later. I felt good 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. Permission is
hereby granted to copy for non-profit use.
*** USMA1976 post by: ADAMS Paul 1976 Owner
paul.adams@millenniumautomation.com>
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