Remembering a Christmas quarantine

It was December 1970. Our Marine Corps company was quarantined. The quonset huts were nestled between the brown hills of U.S. Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton above San Clemente. The days could be hot. At night, a cool moist breeze blew in off the Pacific.

I, Tom Frew, was a 17-year-old private in advanced combat training. Most everyone in the company had orders to go "WestPac," meaning the Western Pacific, meaning Vietnam, when training was complete.

We had expected to finish training and get home for Christmas, but then someone got sick and died of spinal meningitis. The company area was roped off. Training was put on hold. We were spending Christmas right here.

The day of Christmas Eve, guys were moping around, feeling homesick. Unknown to me, my sister who lived up Interstate 5 had decided to deliver some holiday cheer. She packed up a huge box of Christmas stuff; cookies, candy and decorations.

Marianne drove down to Camp Pendleton with her babies in car seats, talked her way through the main gate, got directions and drove up to where our area was roped off. I didn't see this happen. She left the box with a sergeant who promised to get the box to me. She went home, and the box went into the company hut.

A few hours later, I heard a rumor about a "package" for me in the company hut that the sergeants were hiding. I hurried over and asked the duty sergeant for my package. It sat open behind him.

The sergeant refused, saying it wasn't fair that I should get all of that. He said they would share it with the whole company after evening chow. I argued that it was mine, appalled that he planned to just line us up and issue it piece by piece. The sergeant was adamant and kicked me out.

I returned to the squad to tell the guys. My friends were motivated to action. It was better than counting coyotes. We set up a watch on the duty hut. When the sergeant left the hut on some business, one guy hurried to the front door and called the clerk outside for a conversation, while another friend and I slipped through the back door to grab the box.

We dug through the box in our squad hut, finding thick fudge and freshly baked cookies. We couldn't eat all of it. Word went out. Guys from other squads came rushing in looking for a snack.

We laughed in amazement at finding tinsel and inexpensive tree decorations inside the box. Nearing sunset, several of us with bayonets ran up the nearest hill looking for any excuse of a tree to cut down. The best we could find was a gigantic tumbleweed that we dragged down into our quonset hut. With a roar of laughter, guys started decorating the tumbleweed, arguing about the correct way to hang tinsel.

There was instant cocoa too. After dark we fired up the pot-bellied stove. Canteen cups filled with water were heating on the stove top.

Marianne had included popcorn trays along with thread and needles for making popcorn chains to hang on the "tree." Most of our platoon had squeezed into the squad bay, sitting on foot lockers or racks, many others were hanging outside, leaning in the door talking and laughing.

Most of the company drifted by to see our Christmas tree. The smell of corn popping, brought in eager hands stuffing fistfuls into hungry mouths. Very little popcorn made it to the tree. Red licorice, bubble gum and rock candy were in a pile for anyone who wanted some. One Marine brought a guitar. He knew a lot of pop tunes. Guys were throwing requests at him and singing in the doorway. A coyote howled.

Of course, the duty sergeant had found the party early on. He just nodded at me. The sergeants were not much older than us, semi-crazed short timers recently back from Vietnam. They cheerfully wandered about.

Just before lights out, a gunnery sergeant came by with a smile and ordered us to get that tumbleweed out of the quonset hut. It was a fire hazard. The glowing eyes of coyotes watched us drag it out to the hillside.