Christmas Day, 1967. I'm a patient at the Ninety-Third Medical Evacuation Hospital near Saigon, Vietnam. Today I'm semi-alert, but unable to sleep and agonizingly scared. The constant aching pain in my arms and a pounding headache make me tense. I feel helpless. My spirit feels empty, and my body feels broken. I want to be back home.

It's impossible to get in a comfortable resting position. I'm forced to try and sleep on my back. Needles, IV tubing and surgical² tape are partially³ covered by bloodstained bandages on my arms.

Two days earlier, my squad's mission was to secure the perimeter⁴ of Saigon for a Christmas Day celebration featuring Bob Hope and Hollywood's Raquel Welch. While on a search-and-destroy patrol, near the village Di An, we were ambushed⁵ on a jungle trail by a small band of Vietcong guerillas. My right thumb was ripped from my body by AK-47 assault-rifle fire and fragments from a claymore mine grazed my face and neck.

This medical ward⁶ has twenty-one sick and injured GIs, and one recently captured, young-looking Cambodian. Restrained, he lays severely⁷ wounded in the bed next to mine. I'm filled with anger and hostility⁸. As an infantry⁹ combat veteran, I've been brainwashed to despise the Communists and everything they represent.

The first hours are emotionally difficult. I don't want to be next to him. I want to have an American GI to talk with. As time passes my attitude changes; my hatred¹⁰ vanishes. We never utter a word to each other, but we glance into one another's eyes and smile. We're communicating. I feel compassion¹¹ for him, knowing both of us have lost control of our destiny. We are equals.

The survival of the twenty-two soldiers in the ward is dependent on the attentiveness¹² and medical care from our nurses. Apparently¹³, they never leave our ward or take time off. The nationality, country or cause we were fighting for never interferes¹⁴ with the loving care and nourishment¹⁵ necessary to sustain us. They are our life-keepers, our guardians¹⁶, our safety net, our hope of returning home. It's nice to just hear a woman's voice. Their presence is our motivation to get well so we can go home to our wives, children, moms, dads, brothers, sisters and friends.

Christmas is a special day, even in a hospital bed thousands of miles from home. Today the nurses are especially loving and gracious. Red Cross volunteers help us write letters to our families. All of us still need special attention plus our routine shots, IVs, blood work and I swallow twenty-two pills three times a day. Even on Christmas, life goes on in our little community, like clockwork, thanks to the dedication¹⁷ of our nurses. They never miss a beat, always friendly and caring.

There's a rumor¹⁸ that General Westmorland and Raquel Welch will visit our ward today and award Purple Hearts to the combat wounded. I'm especially hopeful it's true because I would receive the commendation. The thought of meeting Raquel Welch and General Westmoreland gives me an adrenaline boost that lasts throughout the day.

By early evening we realize they aren't coming. Everyone is very disappointed, especially me. The day's activities cease quickly after a yummy Christmas dinner and most of my ward mates slip off to sleep by seven or eight o'clock.

It's impossible to sleep. The IVs in my arms continue collapsing¹⁹ my veins²⁰ one by one. I'm pricked²² and probed by what feels like knives, not needles. My arms are black and blue after many failed attempts to locate a vein²¹ for IV fluids. I occasionally doze²³ off, only to be awakened²⁴ by the agonizing¹ pain of another collapsed²⁵ vein and infiltrating²⁶ fluids. My arms are swollen²⁷ to twice their normal size. This pain is worse than my gunshot wound.

It's 11 o'clock Christmas night. The ward is silent. My comrades and the Cambodian warrior²⁸ sleep. I'm tense and suffering.

To avoid waking anyone, I silently signal a nurse. She comes to my side and gazes into my tearing eyes. Quietly, she sits on the side of my bed, embraces my arm, removes the IV, then lightly massages²⁹ my swollen, painful arms.

Gently, she leans over and whispers in my ear, "Merry Christmas," and gives me a long, tender hug. As she withdraws, our eyes connect momentarily. She has tears running down her cheeks. She felt my pain. She turns and moves away, ever so slowly back to her workstation.

The next morning I wake slowly. I have slept throughout the night and feel rested. I see while I slept a new IV was inserted in my arm. The swelling³⁰ is gone. Suddenly, I remember the nurse coming to my side in the night and my Christmas present. I'm thankful and think of her kindness. I look towards the nurses' workstation to see if I can see my angel nurse but she's gone.

I never see her again, but I will forever honor her compassion toward me on that lonely Christmas night.