Over the last week, I’ve fought the typical holiday blues. I recall the previous year, my first Christmas without my late husband. I’m dreading the upcoming holidays, knowing it will be a repeat of the previous. Compound the anxiety to include our fighting of the Covid pandemic, and to be safe, we need to shelter-in-place.

It would be so easy to succumb to depression. I very well could, and some would say I would have justification. Perhaps, but when I watch the news or look on the internet, I witness thousands of families suffering this year because of losing a family member or close friend to the Covid. Even as devastating this pandemic has been throughout the world, I can find a ray of hope and optimism that we can and will get through it together. I will do my part by staying home. I will thank God the virus has affected none of my family and friends. I will also pray for those that are victims.

I also remember many previous adverse holidays I have experienced. One of those Christmas came to mind, and I will share it with this post. The following I extracted from my book, One Month, Twenty Days, and a Wake-Up. After reading it, please leave me your comments. Please tell me how you are coping with the holiday blues.

December 1968, I had only been in Vietnam for about two weeks. The Air Force temporarily assigned me to an Army Medivac team doing what we called ‘Dustoffs.’ Every day we spent doing endless trips of returning the wounded and dead American troops who fought a ruthless enemy.

On this day we had finished six hours of Dustoffs, and I was relaxing under a shower when I heard, “Sgt. Jackson, you’re needed at the flight line ASAP.” The private waited while I dressed and took me out to the flight line.

Billy, our flight commander, and pilot, had our bird’s (UH-1Huey) engines running and as soon as I got out of the vehicle, Larry, our co-pilot, yelled, “Come on, Doc. Get your gear on; we needed to be in the air a half hour ago.”

By the time I had my helmet on and plugged into the communication system, Billy had lifted off. I asked, “What’s the scoop?”

Larry said, “We got two Huey gunships down. A Sandy found the wreckage, and he said he’s not sure of survivors. There are hostiles crawling all over the area and command has scrambled a Super Sabre.”

I asked, “Are we the only rescue crew?”

Billy said, “No, Pedro 4-4 left half an hour ago. He can’t get anywhere near because of artillery fire. They’re also sending another Sandy from Dak To.”

Within 20 minutes, we were in communication with a Sandy. He escorted us over to the crash site. We were at 1,000 feet and it did not look good. The wreckage spread over a quarter mile, although one cabin appeared intact. It took another half hour of us circling off in the distance with the Sandys and two Super Sabre clearing the area. Pedro 4-4 followed in formation with us.

Finally, we got the call, “Rescue 9-5, this is Sandy 2-5.”

Larry answered, “This is Rescue 9-5, go ahead.”

The Sandy gave us the green light, and Billy made the turn. We heard Sandy 2-5 tell Pedro 4-4 to maintain his pattern. A Sandy escorted us in while firing in the area as we approached. Billy made a wide sweep and then as he lowered to less than 200 feet, Sammy yelled, “We got some hostile movement at 7 o’clock.” Billy instantly kicked our bird to full throttle and climbed back to 1,000 feet.

“Rescue 9-5, this is Rooster 9-er, 2 — 2. Maintain your altitude while I make another run.”

“10-28, Rooster 9-2-2; we copy.”

Out of nowhere, an F-100 swooped in below us and hit the area with an onboard rocket followed by his guns. The area lit up with flames and smoke. They cleared us again for an approach. This time we saw nothing. Billy brought us in, hovered at 6 feet, and I jumped. Immediately, he rose to 100 feet, making tight sweeps. Still strapped into his seat, the pilot was the only one in the cabin. The other two crew members lay outside at various distances.

I radioed, “Rescue 9-5, PJ 9-5; copy?”

Larry responded, “PJ 9-5, go ahead.”

“No survivors here. Give me some direction to the other site.”

“PJ 9-5, 3 o’clock and 200 meters.”

“10-28.”

I had to break through some thick brush, some with thorns. As the barb penetrated my flight suit, I yelled, “Damn, those things are sharp.” My left arm bled from the puncture wounds.

I saw a burned cabin, or the remains of the cabin. I also saw severely burned bodies. I only found what I could identify as two crew members.

“Rescue 9-5, PJ 9-5; Copy?”

“PJ 9-5, go ahead.”

“No survivors here. Check on the number on board this Huey.”

“Roger that.”

While I waited, I searched the area. The stench from the burned bodies was nauseating. I checked in all directions for about 50 meters.

“PJ 9-5, this is Sandy 2-5, Copy.”

“Go ahead, Sandy 2-5.”

“Command says three crew on each bird. Copy?”

“10-28, Sandy 2-5; thank you.”

Billy called me, and he instructed me to return to the first site. He said Pedro 4-4 would handle the burned site.

With the F-100 and both Sandys keeping watch over our backsides, Billy landed at the first site. He kept our bird running. Sammy, our crew chief, helped me get the pilot out and put him and the other two crew members in body bags. Once we had the crew loaded, we headed for our base.

For the last month, I had hauled body bags when we did Dustoffs; however, this seemed more dismal. I can only guess because these were flight crews and not Army grunts, it felt different. No one spoke on the return to base.

* * *

Upon our return, I caught a ride with one ambulance back to the hospital. While walking through the triage area of the hospital, I ran into Dr. Santos. I hadn’t seen him since we arrived. “Hey, Doctor Santos, how are you? Where you been hiding?”

“Hey, Sgt. Jackson. Shit, the second day here they pulled me down to Tan Son Nhut. For a while, I thought I’d be permanent down there. It is one—busy—hospital. It is chaos every day. I’m glad they finally released me. How are things with you?”

“Rescue Command has me flying Medevac missions almost every day. I’m on the bottom of the list for rescue missions. I’m not even with my assigned unit. It’s the shits.”

Dr. Santos said, “Hey, when I get off here, how about I buy you a beer?”

“Sounds great, I got to check the duty roster and then I’m heading for the mess hall. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Oh yeah, before I forget, Merry Christmas.” It took a moment before the light bulb turned on.

I’ll be damned, it’s Christmas Eve.

“Merry Christmas to you, Doc.” I checked the duty roster in the surgical area.

Shit, they got me scheduled in an hour.

All those Dustoffs during the day were now processing through surgery. Any severe cases they flew to Ton Son Nhut or Da Nang. Around noon the next day, they finally relieved me. The mess hall had a sumptuous turkey dinner, and I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.