Nam Thanksgiving

His name was Cortez DeLeon Stephens; we called him Steve.  Half a world away, we shared a life in three short months.  There has not been a Thanksgiving Day since 1966 that I haven’t thought of him I often wonder if he remembers me.

We met at a small outpost called Joliet between Hue and Phu Bai, Viet Nam.  I was attached out from my normal unit and Steve was just back from the hospital ship Repose where he was recovering from having his right index finger blown off during a firefight.  An easy ticket home, which he refused.

We were two young warriors – Marines.  It is hard to describe how totally different we were, yet how much we had in common.  We were both college dropouts, he because of love gone bad, me because of youthful indifference.  He was an honor student; I made a habit of just getting by.  I had graduated form a small rural high school in Mississippi, he from the inner city of Philadelphia.  Back then, Mississippi State and Temple University were a galaxy apart.  He played the French horn; I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.  We both loved Motown music and rhythm and blues.  Neither of us could dance.  He was black; I was white.

During the long nights that could seem endless (most bad things happened at over there), we talked constantly to each other.  At that point in our young lives we both seemed to have a compulsive desire to find some meaning to it all.  We not only shared our tent, we shared our lives.  We talked of politics, romance, the war, religion and even racism.  We talked of our families, our loves and our dreams.  So different – so much alike.

As young warriors do, we discussed our leaders and decided that the one staff noncommissioned officer we’d follow to hell and back was Gunnery Sergeant Willie Brown.  He reminded us of a great African warrior chief, a man of regal deportment and a voice as authoritative and calm as God’s.  Our favorite officer was Captain Dan McMahon, a leader of unlimited courage and ferocity in combat.  So much alike.

Steve taught me a great deal about the human condition.  To this very day I have never forgotten my utter shame and the humiliation I felt when I repeated a racist joke I’d heard to some other white Marines, only to discover Steve was sitting right outside our hooch.

That night he told me how much it hurt, but he would forgive me.  ‘You still have a lot to learn, White Bread’, he said.  I’ve often wondered if the roles had been reversed would I have been as gracious.  So different.

On Thanksgiving Day we got word by radio that the padre was being choppered out to give communion if we got a break in the weather.  About an hour later we heard the distinctive whop, whop music of inbound Hueys.  Seconds later the radio squawked out that ‘Dead Lock 20’ was inbound with our sky pilot and that they would return in exactly one hour to pick him up for the return to Phu Bai.  As the padre and his assistant got out of the helo, we watched with knowledgeable concern.  We both knew that any arrival of helos often precipitated the arrival of incoming mortar rounds.  This time it didn’t happen.

With what seemed like practiced efficiency the padre and his assistant selected a spot about 100 yards from our tent to set up shop.  An altar was quickly erected from empty 81mm ammo boxes.  As a crucifix and candles were set upon the holy drape, the word was passed that services were to begin shortly.  What followed was a scene so surreal and poignant that it will haunt me the rest of my life.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, they came, young warriors in battle regalia of helmets and flak jackets with their rifles in hand.  I swear, with the low ceiling and mist it was like some ‘B’ movie where the dead are awakened and rise to walk from the graveyard.  As they arrived in this small, dirty, yet holy place, the padre ordered that they should stack arms, something we never did in the field (a placing of rifles together in a circle to resemble small teepees).  As we watched, I was enthralled by the ritual of the Catholic ceremony that was alien to me.  Warriors kneeling, helmets in hand, reciting in unison the responses to the padre’s incantations.  The padre was short yet soothing, almost cryptic, with his sermon.

He then raised the call to Holy Communion and did something I had never seen before or since.  As the first communicant knelt in supplication the padre raised his arms to the small congregation of less than 15 or 20 and asked that all sing ‘America the Beautiful’ in honor of the day.  As they began to sing, individuals would go forth and received the sacraments.  Then they retrieved their rifles and waited for the others.  As they neared the end of the hymn (it was a hymn that day), we heard the muffled booms of artillery being fired from Phu Bai, followed by the unforgettable sound of artillery rounds going through the clouds overhead.  As they impacted with their familiar carumph, the voices sang louder and stronger, ‘And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea’.

As Father O’Massey invoked the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, we heard the faint sound of the Hueys returning, and it began to rain.  IT BEGAN TO RAIN! 

It was almost like the angels in heaven were crying for us all.  The vividness and power of what we were witnessing was like nothing I had experienced before,  As my emotions started to well up inside.  I turned to look at Steve and saw the tears.  Quiet, unabashed tears of fortitude.  It was forever be the Thanksgiving I most remember.  We were so much alike.

Over all these years I have wondered what happened to Cortez DeLeon Stephens.  We last saw one another in Dong Ha as I was going home.  The last place I knew he was based was in Quantico, Va., so I know he made it back.  Every Thanksgiving I remember him in a small prayer, and I hope that this nation, this America, has been as kind and generous to him as It has to me and so many others, I wonder.

Story by ROY STAFFORD

Delta/1/4, 1966 – 67

Dear Thurman,

Don’t know whether you can use this or not.  It haunted me for years and in 1992 I finally got off my duff and wrote about it.

It finally got printed in Leatherneck.  I was hoping that someone could tell me where Steve was, and low and behold a buddy of mine (aviator type) called me from Headquarters Marine Corps.  He and Steve were serving on the same Staff together.

We had a reunion at the Globe and Laurel in Quantico.  There is some justice in this world after all.  Steve had a commission and was a Lt/Col., stationed at HQMC.  Great kids, wonderful wife and has had a good life.  I love the man and always will.  He taught me a lot.

All the Best, Roy

PS

Thanks again for what you’ve done.