It was Christmas day and I was safe on a troop ship floating in the South China Sea off the coast of Vietnam. The sun was beating down as I was basking on the flight deck.

It had been a long time since I was safe. My tour of Vietnam had taken me into harm’s way, but it was over now ... almost. We had been the first unit pulled out and now had been re-deployed as part of an amphibious force floating off the coast, ready if needed.

I was thousands of miles from home, but things were good. I had Christmas Day off and was stretched out on an oversize towel, soaking up the sun and reading “War and Peace.”

As I lay there, I chuckled at an earlier affront. The officers were having turkey and dressing for Christmas dinner. We enlisted were having lobster. In the moment, it was a strong point of contention, but now, it was silly and selfish.

My mind drifted home and I began feeling sorry for myself. I resented having had lobster for Christmas dinner and since the mail was unreliable, my gift box from home had come weeks earlier. I had no loved ones, no presents to open and lobster for dinner.

My pity party was interrupted when my commanding office spoke my name. My eyes popped open behind my sunglasses and saw him standing over me.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

I jumped up and returned the greeting. The colonel’s face was serious. Something was up.

“I need a volunteer,” he said.

Every Marine knows you never volunteer. I stood silent, hiding behind my sunglasses. The colonel stared right back. The glasses didn’t work. I caved in and asked, “Yes sir?”

“It involves going into harm’s way and there is some risk.”

I waited.

“There is a little girl in the village of Cau Viet who is wounded and needs to be evacuated for surgery. It’s our Christmas gesture. You know the drill.” He explained that the village had been “pacified” by the VC, the girl’s parents killed and she left for dead. We were to be her salvation.

I did not want to go. I was still wallowing in my pity, now made more pronounced by the request to go into harm’s way. My petulance showed when I asked, “Why me?” I was mortified as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Because you operated there and know the area. I need you on this.”

The mission wasn’t going away and the Colonel wasn’t given the opportunity to volunteer, and could have ordered me.

“Yes sir,” I said.

Within an hour, the colonel, five other Marines, a Navy Corpsman and I were airborne on a helicopter bound for the coast of Vietnam on Christmas.

We landed and moved into the village. It was eerie quiet. All the villagers were hiding, fearing danger as the VC had been through the day before. There were occasional faces that you could catch a glimpse of, but after the pacification sweep, people were afraid.

A sweep amounted to the VC coming through the village, conscripting any young men for military duty and killing a few citizens accused of being US sympathizers. That is what had happened to the girl’s family and I knew where it had been done.

Our instructions were to meet up with the village “honcho,” the local leader, at the “town hall,” the only permanent structure in the village. This building had been the scene of other murders and the white sands there are packed and made dark by blood drained into them.

We arrived and were greeted by the honcho with, “You take,” gesturing toward the building, “you hurry, VC come, you go.”

I led the way inside and saw an old woman sitting in a chair rocking, staring into space. There was sadness about her as if she had done this many times. An ancient man stood by her. He directed our attention to the bundle in the woman’s arms.

I went to her side with the corpsman. The honcho was dancing around jabbering for us to get the little girl and go. I slung my rifle, bent and took her. The old woman’s expression never changed.

The little girl was so tiny; I hardly knew she was there. All I could see was a thatch of black hair sticking out of the top of a shabby blanket. The corpsman lifted the blanket to look at the damage. Most of her head was swathed in a crude, but clean bandage covering the right side of her face, the side with the damaged eye. The other eye fixed on me.

There was no fear, just resolution. I smiled to reassure her and said, “Friend.”

The girl’s hand reached and took hold of my fatigue shirt. She looked me in the eyes and said, “Cảm ơn bạn,” “thank you.”

The corpsman deferred medical attention and we got out of there. Both of us were having a hard time seeing, claiming sand in our eyes, but the misty, blurred vision was due to the spirit of that little girl.

When we were airborne, I looked to see how she was doing. She was looking up at me, saying, “Thank you, thank you.” There wasn’t a dry eye on the bird.

I held her all the way to the ship. The setting sun behind us cast a glow throughout the chopper. It was as if we were bathed in gold on that Christmas Day. Peanut butter sandwiches were shared around and were better fare than lobster or turkey and dressing. I smiled. I had grown a lot in those few hours.

Christmas is about giving and we had given that little girl a chance. The surgery was a success, but I don’t know what happened to her beyond that. There isn’t a Christmas goes by that I don’t hear that tiny voice telling me, “Thank you,” over and over. If only we could be that grateful as we are held in His arms whose birth we celebrate.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted at: www.starchasers.us.