Thanksgiving, 1968

By David Beakey

The rumor was getting stronger by the hour. We were to receive a hot turkey dinner today. All we had to do was run a typical patrol and then the choppers would meet us near the China Sea with a Thanksgiving meal. This was too good to be true!

We prepared for our patrol with a little more enthusiasm than usual, as could be expected. Our minds were on that turkey. During the briefing we only half listened. We were to leave the fire base, sweep through the leper colony looking for weapons and tunnels, and then rendezvous with the choppers at the sand dunes. We had done this before. The leper colony was considered a hostile village. We usually took sniper fire from it and the outlying rice paddies were loaded with booby traps. But we had an uneasy agreement with the lepers, so there was never a pitched battle. They cooperated with us in a minimal fashion and we never mistreated them.

Each of us knew the sentiments of the other, and we each looked for the edge, on a daily basis. Occasionally, one side or the other lost people in the vicinity of that village, but when we entered it, they acquiesced to our firepower and behaved themselves. We all knew the drill. So as the Lieutenant explained our objective, our minds were drifting, thinking about that meal.

We left at 1400 hours. We were on the outskirts of the village within half an hour. Everything was routine. A few women were working in the fields. Some children wandered towards us, keeping a safe distance, but hoping for handouts if we stopped to rest. Two old men walked along the path as we advanced. We entered the village.

As usual, all eyes were on us, but the villagers feigned nonchalance. We were getting hungry. We checked out several huts and looked for any suspicious signs, anything that might indicate hiding places or unusual activity. It was the same old leper colony. We never were too comfortable there and were always happy to leave.

Soon the lead elements of our patrol were through the village and headed toward the beach. I was near the end of the last squad. Then I saw them. Two young men, just standing there. The hair on my neck stood up. They looked out of place. For one thing, they were young men, not children, not women, not old folks. The war had drained this country of all men this age, they were either NVA, VC, ARVN or dead. Secondly, they looked healthy. I could see no signs of leprosy. Finally, they were just staring at me, showing no fear, not even mock subservience. Something was wrong.

I immediately peeled off from my squad and walked over to them. They just stood there. I suddenly felt nervous. They looked into my eyes, with no emotion. I asked them, in pidgin Vietnamese, for their identity papers. They hesitated. I raised my rifle, which I was holding in one hand, so that the barrel pointed toward their chests. Their faces changed slightly. They smiled and explained that they didn’t have their papers with them.

I shifted my feet nervously. We stared at each other. I turned and quickly looked behind me to check on the rest of my squad. A lump formed in my throat as I saw that the squad had kept walking and were now several hundred yards away, not noticing that I had stayed in the village. They were thinking about that turkey dinner. I looked back at the two men. They shrugged their shoulders as if to say, “What now?”

I tried to think, but my thoughts were jumbled. I looked again at my squad, drifting further away by the minute. I walked over and quickly checked the men for weapons. They were unarmed and were becoming increasingly polite. I left them standing there and rushed to join my squad. When I turned and looked back into the village, the men were gone.

We reached the beach 15 minutes later. We set in, with the China Sea to our backs, using the dunes as a straight perimeter. Soon the choppers landed and we received large metal containers, inside of which were our promised hot meals. Just as the container for our squad was set down on the top of the dune, automatic fire erupted, 10-12 rounds. The bullets kicked up sand in our faces and tipped our container over, scattering the contents. Turkey and stuffing lay coated with sand.

The fire had come from the direction of the village. We sent out a team to investigate, but they found nothing.

Later, as I sat eating that crunchy turkey, I thought bitterly of those two men, looking at me and smiling.

David Beakey

Echo Company

1/20/68 – 2/01/69