The Death of Santa Claus

(With apologies to Robert Service)

“Well, there’s strange things done ‘Neath the Vietnamese Sun
But the time that locked my jaws
Was the night “neath the moon when the third platoon Gunned down Santa Claus.
Well it started off right, just an ordinary night
We had to spend in the dirt.
Security was out, three sixty about,
With fifty-percent alert.
We had eighty-ones and naval guns,
The tanks were track to track.
An Ontos or so and an arty FO
With barrages back to back.
I froze where I stood, ‘cause out of the wood,
Eight horses came running along.
This may sound corny, but them mustangs were horny, “My God!” I thought, “Mounted Viet Cong!”

He was coming our way in what looked like a sleigh,
But then you never know what they’ll use.
The flares were tripped, and the SIDs had flipped,
And the TIPSY blew a fuse.
We let him get close, and then yelled, “Who goes?”
Like they do in the movie show.
And the answer we got, believe it or not,
Was a hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho.”
Now those troops of mine, they’d seen some time,
And we’d done some things back-asswards.
They may be thick, but I’ll tell you a trick,
They knew THAT wasn’t the password!
The eighty-ones soared, and the nineties roared,
The naval guns raised some hell.
A bright red flare flew threw the air,
And we fired our FPL.
I’ll give him guts, but that guy was nuts,
Or I’m a no good liar.
He dropped like a stone in the killing zone,
And I passed the word, “Cease Fire!”

I went out and took a real good look,
My memory started to race.
My mind plays games when it comes to names,
But I never forget a face.
He was dressed all in red and he looked well fed,
He was older than most I’d seen.
He looked right weird with that long white beard,
And them stumps where his legs had been.
He hadn’t quite died when I reached his side,
But the end was clearly in sight.
I knelt down low and he said real slow,
“Merry Christmas, and to all a good night!”
We should have known our “cool” was blown,
When the light in the east we seen.
But it looked like flares, and it couldn’t be theirs,
Or the damned things would have been green!
So I picked up the hook with a voice that shook,
And said “Gimme the Six and quick.”
“Colonel,” I said “Hang onto your head,
We just greased old Saint Nick.”
Now the ol’ Man’s cool, he’s nobody’s fool,
Right off he knew the word.
If this got out, there’d be no doubt,
He wouldn’t be making his “bird.”
“Just get him up here and we’ll play it by ear,
Make sure of the Med-Evac tag,
Dismantle that sleigh, drive them reindeer away,
And bury that goddamn bag.”
Now by and by the kids may cry,
‘Cause there’s nothing under the tree,
But the word just came back from FMF PAC,
That Santa had gone VC.
Well, there’s strange things done
‘Neath the Vietnamese Sun,
But the time that locked my jaws,
Was that night ‘neath the Moon when the third platoon, Gunned down Santa Claus.

- Author Unknown - (thank goodness)

By way of explanation, this is a poem that made the rounds in Vietnam over 30-years ago. The author is mercifully unknown. Being a combat Marine with a Marine's total irreverence toward sacred cows, I was amused, if not hysterical when I first read it. Having always been a fan of both Robert Service and Rudyard Kipling, this one just sorta' caught my fancy. I wrote it down once upon a time, but it was subsequently lost in the course of many duty stations. I finally found a copy in one of Gene Duncan's books, and shamelessly recopied it, tweaked it a bit and now publish it here for your amusement.

You truly have to have a sense of the combat soldier's graveyard sense of humor to appreciate such poetry, and for those who are totally grossed out, I apologize. Please write it off to the musings of an old sea soldier from a different place and time. If the incident (as poetically reported) was indeed a case of mistaken identity back in 1967, and they REALLY only accounted for one of Santa's helpers, I sincerely hope that with the new and improved electronic counter-measures, including the addition of an IFF on their Stingers (IFF = Identification, Friend or Foe), that a similar scenario isn't repeated in the hills of Afghanistan... Of course, this time it might well be "Allie Baba" on his flying carpet? Now THERE'S a challenge for the modern guys with a poetic bent. I'll be looking forward to a modern version - heh, heh, heh...