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The Last Noel
by
Robert H. Dirr Jr.
Imagine yourself in a foxhole saturated with
water, your skin a mutation of corrugated cardboard. Even though the mercury
climbed to 106 degrees today, you shiver in the balmy 70's of evening breezes.
You are isolated, afraid and far from home. You listen to the constant eruptions
of distant artillery and the drone of overhead helicopters, briefly subdued by
the staccato fire of small arms. It is Christmas Eve.
You survey the mystic blackness
of the sky, punctuated by thousands of blinking points of light. Your eyes come
to rest on the North Star, the Guiding Star, the Christmas Star. Here, there are
no brilliantly garnished trees with gifts beneath them. No stockings hanging
from the mantel. No relatives or family friends. Just you and your M-16 assault
rifle with 300 rounds of ammunition, six grenades, and the triggering device of
a Claymore mine.
Suddenly you see a green flare
streaking through the mist that surrounds a distant fire- base. Then another.
There goes a red one. A blue. Yellow. You glance down towards the phosphorous
hands of your watch and find that it is midnight. You look up again, and the
tropical sky is saturated with kaleidoscopic illuminations, catapulted through
the air at varying angles from all directions.
Within a few moments, faint
voices reach your ears from across the valley. They are singing. What is that
song?
You strain to identify the
familiar melody, and hits you...they are singing "Silent Night."
You hear other voices join them
from outposts and firebases miles apart from one another. It sounds more
beautiful than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, as the notes reverberate over the
bald hilltops and through valleys of swaying rice. The vocal symphony picks up
volume as it nears, swelling with genuine feeling. Pretty soon, your base adds
its voices and flares. Tears produce shining streams through the mud on your
face. You reverently join them.
Merry
Christmas. Vietnam, 1967.
© 1996, All Rights Reserved
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