SILENT NIGHT, DISTANT GUNS AND CHRISTMAS IN VIETNAM

That Christmas in Vietnam, we were far from base, sitting in a remote landing zone that couldn’t be called a camp, much less a place for a holiday. We huddled together on a barren mountainside, eating boxed dinners of canned turkey, stale biscuits, a lump of dessert that didn’t deserve the name, and condiments that did little to soften the taste. The night air was thick with distant artillery and the occasional whir of helicopters. The only warmth came from hot, bitter coffee brewed in a battered helmet. It was a poor comfort in a place where comfort was a foreign word.

There were no Christmas carols, no twinkling lights, no family cheers. Only the UH-1 Huey, waiting on the tarmac, its blades cutting the air, ready to take us to the next job at dawn. The thought didn’t lift our spirits, but we kept quiet. The kind of calm that only comes from men who’ve been through the same thing. We knew no matter how miserable, hungry, or far from home, we could survive the worst as long as our brothers stood beside us.

There was a kind of strength in the air. A challenging, quiet thing that gave us the will to keep moving. It made us feel like we were with family in that place. And when the year would end, we held on to hope, thin as it was, that peace — or at least rest — might find us.