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The handwriting was very delicate on the envelope, addressed to my home. I recognized the place of origin from the stamp and postmark, but did not know who had sent it, until later. The card within had a cover that contained a handpainted silkscreen, 3” x 6”, showing a traditional Vietnamese fishing boat, on a calm lake, with tropical vegetation in the distance. At the base, it read, “Merry Christmas.” When I opened the cover, a smaller card was
exposed, presenting the image of a woman, veiled, hands clasped together
and eyes upward, prayerful. The background was blue, with
It was from “Mama San,” the lady who worked at the Bien Hoa base and was paid by the GI’s in my hut (“hooch”) to clean the mud from our boots every morning after we had finished night patrols, to assist with our laundry, to sweep the hut, and clean the garbage. It was a bargain for us, and the contract was a godsend to Mrs. Nhan, a widow with three children. Her husband was a “Red Cap,” Vietnamese Army Ranger, who had been killed in fighting not far from her home. Vo thi Nhan attended the Catholic Church in the village that was at the edge of the base complex. She had seen me there one Sunday, with a few other GIs, though I had not noticed her. She told me later, in her limited English, “I see you at Mass. Not many GI’s go there,” she observed. It was a connection between us, even though limited by culture and circumstance. We had church facilities on the base and attendance was higher than in the States, no doubt because the war made young men face their mortality on a daily basis. It did awaken me. The base chapel was generic and used by all denominations. When you got down to it, God can be found anywhere, even on a battlefield. We don’t need ornate cathedrals, though their splendor is inspiring. It is the faith of the people that uplifts the spirit and sanctifies any place. I knew the date when Mrs. Nhan saw me because her remarks were made after my first visit to her church. It had come following a particularly terrible night. I had patrolled an area outside the base perimeter from sundown to sunrise, alone with a German Shepherd. We were K-9 Corps. The base had come under attack that night. Some would die that night. I had prayed for God’s protection through the night. In the morning, after our squad returned to the base and our hut, and everybody began to ‘sack-out,’ I changed to a clean uniform and, though weary, began the long walk to the Vietnamese church. One of my buddies called to me, asking where I was going. I told him. He hooted, derisively. I walked a few steps, then turned and answered. “I guess I was the only one praying last night.” I continued walking and didn’t hear another word from the hut. As I neared the church, I heard footsteps behind me. Three of my hut mates were hustling to catch up. We walked together into the church and joined the service. Though it was in the Vietnamese language, we understood the universal service. That was comforting. Most of all, however, it was the simple faith of these humble people that touched my heart. Holding that Christmas card, I thought of Vo thi Nhan, her family, and the people in that church. It is a Christmas I shall never forget. I still have the card. There was no return address and no way to contact her. I never heard from her again. The American forces left in 1973, following the so-called Paris Peace Accords. Our Congress abandoned the South Vietnamese people shortly afterwards, allowing the North Vietnamese communists to sweep through the country. In April of 1975, Bien Hoa was leveled by long-range artillery as the Russian and Chinese-equipped forces of North Vietnam marched to Saigon. Bien Hoa lay defenseless before the onslaught. I never heard from Mrs. Nhan again. I pray that her family is in the care of the Son of Lay Duc me Viet Nam.
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