November marks the end of the rainy season in Vietnam. While the daily torrential downpours were finally over, the heavy cloud cover remained, making the days seem gray and overcast, not unlike the sky in Iowa at that time of the year.
But my Thanksgiving memory wasn’t of Dubuque, where I grew up, but rather in Duc Ton, a district of Sa Dec Province in the Mekong Delta of South Vietnam in 1970 in the middle of the war. As a civilian Foreign Service Officer, having replaced an Army major, I was, improbably, leading a 10-man U.S. Army advisory team, in an exposed, and highly vulnerable location. Reflecting the danger of our situation, our team had 100% casualties right before I arrived ― in other words, everyone had either been killed or wounded.
Thanksgiving dinner was the opportunity for us to invite those Americans whom we looked to for critical support during those moments of intense danger to join us.
The U.S. Army made special efforts to have the essentials of Thanksgiving, including a full turkey and a few of the hard-to-find essentials such as cranberries reach remote locations such as ours.
While the war didn’t stop, there could be a few hours in the afternoon to carve out time to recall our traditions and convey gratitude to those Americans from nearby units, who always responded to our calls when we came under attack.
And so, our military radio started crackling with reports of the arrival of Capt. Jim Williams with the 7/1st Air Cavalry. His unit was one with which we conducted “Last Light” search operations every afternoon to protect the Vinh Long Airfield from attack by the North Vietnamese Army units, all of which operated from the Y Base Area in Duc Ton.
Williams had several other key personnel with him on his chopper, including: Captain Zak, aka Swamp Fox, the forward air controller who piloted a slow-moving, single-engine plane at treetop level, while teaching me how to track the elusive Viet Cong, so we could target them during those Last Light ops. (The Swamp Fox was the name given to Francis Marion, the South Carolinian hero from the Revolutionary War, famous for tracking enemies in the coastal swamplands.)
Also on board was Capt. Jim Lucas, who commanded D Company, which had U.S. infantry troops who could be inserted into situations where reinforcements were urgently needed. The next helicopter brought several officers we had never met face to face, but to whom we felt incredible gratitude ― U.S. Navy Black Pony pilots who flew twin-engine OV-10 fixed-wing attack planes. They had played a critical role in protecting advisers from my team during an intense firefight.
As our Vietnamese cook brought in the turkey and dressing, accompanied by mashed potatoes and vegetables she purchased from the local market, the aroma of the turkey was accompanied by an incredible bond of camaraderie. We were united by the commitment that we all felt ― that no matter how dangerous the situation, we would always respond if a fellow American was in danger. That bond transcended all that might otherwise divide us. Race disappeared in the jungle under enemy fire, as I saw time and again.
I offered a special Thanksgiving toast to convey my team’s enormous gratitude that we were so privileged to be Americans and to have our fellow countrymen with us.
All too soon, the radio sounded. It was a pilot from the Last Light mission, alerting me that he would be there in 20 minutes to pick me up. The war did not take a holiday.
No time for a post-meal nap on the couch. I would have to spend the next 90 minutes flying at just 100 feet off the ground trying to locate troops massing to attack the airfield or South Vietnamese military outposts.
I had had our cook hold back part of the turkey and sides and put them in a large covered box. I had it loaded on the chopper with me. I had one other mission.
The light was beginning to fade as we were airborne. I was seated on a canvas chair next to a wide-open door. Over the military radio I called “Lima Base, Lima Base, this is Delta 6 (my radio call sign). I am five minutes out from your location. I need two of your team members to meet me.”
Lima Base was, in fact, a small mud fort in a remote part of our district. It had 30 South Vietnamese militia and five American U.S. Army advisers. It was one of the most dangerous and most miserable assignments in the Delta. The team was not allowed to be extracted even on Thanksgiving.
There was not any place to actually land, so the helicopter pilots hovered while I handed the large closed box to Capt. Pat Hart, the Lima Base team commander. He seemed puzzled, but with the loud noise made by the helicopter rotors, I couldn’t tell him what it was. We were fully airborne and I was guiding the pilot to our first search area, when Hart’s voice came over the radio. He dropped all of the usual protocol, and was stumbling for words. He said, “Sir, thank you. Thank you for a Thanksgiving meal we will never forget.”
But it is I who have never forgotten the sound of his voice nor that memory from 55 years ago in Duc Ton, Vietnam.
Ambassador Kenneth Quinn served for 5½ years in Vietnam during the war as a State Department Foreign Service Officer. He is the only civilian to receive the Army Air Medal for flying over 200 hours of helicopter combat operations. He received the State Department Award for Heroism for five life-saving rescues he carried out in the war zone.
This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Delivering Thanksgiving to a mud fort 10,000 miles from home | Opinion
Reporting by Kenneth Quinn, Guest columnist / Des Moines Register
USA TODAY Network via Reuters Connect
