Murdock's Christmas Dozen
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
10. Care Package
DaNang, 25 December 1969
He absently stared through the rain-streaked glass at the airfield and sighed. On either side of him the blast walls of the revetment rose to give the illusion of being in a tunnel. The chopper was safe from enemy fire.
'N' I'm safe from anyone lookin' t' wish me a Merry Christmas.
Sitting in the cockpit of the Huey where he had taken refuge from the semi-festive merriment on the base, he scrubbed his face with his hands. If need be, he was prepared to sleep out there. He would not even need a blanket to cover him. And he would have Billy there to keep him company when he got out of the foul mood he was in.
If I do.
December was a milder month with temperatures that were only fifteen to twenty degrees warmer than back home.
The uncomfortably high temperatures and humidity of August when he was still at the Cam Ranh Bay Convalescent Center were just an unpleasant memory. He had gained back all but fifteen pounds of his pre-POW weight and the cast encasing his right arm from hand to elbow was gone. His broken ribs given to him by the hateful Marine O'Keene had mostly healed. The scars from repeated whippings delivered by ruthless NVA soldiers were pink but not gone. He figured he'd never be rid of them.
'N' th' mem'ries. Am I ever gonna get rid o' th' mem'ries?
He peeked at the box in the seat his peter pilot usually occupied and reached over, only to pull his hands back again. He closed his eyes and tried to think of other things but his mind kept coming back to the package.
B. A. found him earlier that morning lying on his bunk. He hadn't gone to breakfast, hadn't moved at all except to go to the latrine, then return to his bunk. The black Sergeant had a large white-paper-wrapped box in his arms and a rare huge smile on his face. It disappeared as soon as he saw what mood the pilot was in.
"Better get yer scrawny ass over ta Company HQ. They got a table out front with our Christmas mail. Think one of the packages is for you." B. A. sat on his bunk and tore the paper from his box, then glanced over at the pilot who had covered his eyes with his left arm. "Well? Get goin'. Don't think for a minute I'm gonna let ya have any o' the good stuff my Momma put in here when you got yer own care package waitin' for ya."
Murdock snorted but didn't move. "Ain' 'xpectin' nothin' outta yer box, Big Guy. You jus' enjoy 'n' never mind li'l ol' me."
"Ain'tcha gonna go get your package?"
The Captain grimaced when he remembered his expletive-laced answer. B. A. was a difficult man to shock. His bewildered scowl was the last Murdock saw of him before he stalked out to find some privacy.
Moments later he reluctantly stood behind the line of men assembled to receive their gifts from home. Curiosity brought him there.
Someone put a two-foot tall artificial Christmas tree behind the boxes. Where they got it, he wasn't sure. Couldn't have been Face. He would at least have gotten something a little bigger and more realistic. It had a few ball-shaped colored ornaments on it but no tree topper. No star or angel like he remembered Christmas trees having at home.
Maybe stars 'n' angels don' b'long here.
What must have been the world's ugliest Santa Claus statue stood atop the pile. It looked more like a troll dressed in red than jolly Saint Nick. With an unhappy frown, Murdock glared at the gleeful frozen expression on the bearded face.
Ho, ho, ho, yerself.
"Captain H. M. Murdock? Here ya go." The Pfc. handing out the boxes pushed a shoebox-sized package into his hands. "Merry Christmas, sir." The Private eyed him with a small degree of awe for a moment before returning to what he was doing. It was the reaction Murdock had seen from so many new or nearly new arrivals at the base since his return to DaNang.
He had been a POW. He had survived. He had helped his fellow prisoners to escape . . .
. . . 'n' th' story's gone 'round how I slit Ferret's throat t' do it. They think I'm some kind o' hero.
Many of the men were opening their packages on the spot, sharing the cheer with the others who were waiting.
Not me.
He made a hasty retreat to the chopper and tossed the box in the copilot's seat before settling into his own seat.
With his Gramma in the nursing home and his Grampa working to keep the farm running, he knew the package wasn't from them. Cyndy had most likely mailed it.
He glanced over at the scuffed white paper to see the postal marks and name.
Yup. It's from my Buttercup.
It wasn't that he was angry at her. He loved her. But love wouldn't heal his memories either.
If only his memories were as sweet as those of the last Christmas Eve he spent with her before leaving Texas . . . how long ago was that now? It seemed a lifetime.
Christmas Eve . . . when he asked her to marry him even though his Pa had beaten him severely and stolen the ring he was going to give her.
Christmas Eve . . . when her eyes filled with tears of pure happiness and she said 'yes.'
Christmas Eve . . . when she stayed at his hospital bedside all night, her head resting on his chest, their hands intertwined, while they talked about their future.
Had he really promised Cyndy he would come back to marry her? That Christmas Eve conversation in the hospital late at night came back to haunt him this Christmas Day.
So much had happened since that evening to now. He was a different man. A whole lot of history had changed him. It was history not to his liking, and not of his choice, but it was his history. He couldn't return to Sour Lake, Texas, and pretend none of it had ever happened.
When he signed up to be a pilot in this war, he figured he would never have to take a life. That was for the guys like Hannibal, Face and B. A. who were dropped off to do that very thing to the enemy. He was certain he could not marry Cyndy, now that blood was on his hands.
War changes ya forever.
His stomach grumbled from skipping breakfast that morning. Maybe Cyndy mailed him some homemade treats. He scrutinized the box, afraid of opening it.
If it was filled with memories of her, it would rip him to pieces.
He took it in his hands and gently shook it. Something rattled around inside.
Maybe Christmas cookies 'n' hard candy?
He hesitated again, then began to slowly unwrap the box.
One of the first things he found in the top of the box was a plastic bag with pecan snowball cookies in it. Popping one in his mouth, he searched through the rest of the contents. He set the paper lunch bag of bubble gum to one side. The three comic books brought a smile to his face. Shaking his head, he realized how well Cyndy knew him.
A pair of fine-textured dark blue hand-knit socks made him frown and search for a note. It was then he found the photos. The picture of a large church with a bell tower was on top. He thought he recognized the building but he couldn't be sure.
It wasn't Pine Ridge Baptist Church where his Gramma attended. He knew that church too well from when he was a little boy playing under the pews with toy soldiers and model airplanes. As a teen he attended the church mainly to see Cyndy as much as he could. He wondered if Gramma got an opportunity to go to church at midnight on Christmas Eve as was her tradition.
Bein' in th' nursin' home, I bet she didn', 'less Grampa 'r Cyndy made sure she got there.
He wasn't sure he could go through the photos Cyndy sent without the pain of a Christmas away from home stabbing him in the heart.
If I was home, there'd be no question o' Gramma goin' t' Christmas Eve midnight service. 'N' me 'n' Cyndy'd be married, maybe even have a kid o' our own.
He shook his head furiously to clear it of the thoughts that were tormenting him. Clutching the pictures in one hand and the note in the other, he began to read.
My darling H. M.,
I hope this package gets to you in time for Christmas Day. I tried to figure out what you would like and need over there where you are.
The snowball cookies are your Gramma's recipe. I remember how you used to beg her to make them around Christmastime. I figured they must be your favorite. I hope I was right and that you like them.
He took another of the cookies and bit into it, then read on. Cyndy hadn't done a bad job on them, he decided as he finished that one and fished another out of the bag.
You said in one of your letters how gum helps stabilize the pressure in your ears when you're flying so I included enough for at least a couple of weeks.
He peeked over at the bag of bubble gum. A couple of weeks? That bag would last for a month at least.
As far as the comic books, I tried to get the latest copies of The Fantastic Four, Superman and Spiderman for you.
The socks were the last things your Gramma was knitting when she had her stroke.
His eyes misted over when he read that. Gramma was always keeping her hands busy, knitting one thing or another. She was knitting while he was in the hospital during Christmas. He swallowed hard and almost choked on cookie crumbs remembering that.
She was making them for you so I finished them the way she wanted them to be done, with the thin red stripe near the top.
He remembered his Gramma teaching Cyndy how to knit one winter when both of them were young teens. Cyndy and he would take the horses on the trail and when they came back, they had mugs of hot cocoa. While the two females worked on a knitting project, he kept them both laughing with his silly impressions of people on the radio.
That was so long ago.
He touched the socks, feeling the thin yarn. Gramma would have bought the best yarn she could find to make them. Maybe sometime when he got a pass to go into DaNang, he would wear them.
'R save 'em for my weddin' day.
He didn't know where that thought came from but he pushed it away just as quickly as it came to his mind. The crash and the POW camp experience taught him there might not be a tomorrow for that to happen. Before his thoughts consumed him, he returned to the letter.
I sent along some photos of home and of all of us for you to look at sometimes. Being over there and seeing as many things as you must be seeing, it might help when you start feeling down or lonely.
He set aside the photo of the unfamiliar church building with the bell tower for the moment and paged through the other pictures. There was Gramma and Grampa at the nursing home. His heart lurched when he saw the slight sag to the left side of his Gramma's face, evidence of what the stroke had done to her. Gramma was seated and Grampa bent over her from behind, his arms loosely hugging her from behind. They were both grinning as broadly as they could for the camera. The smiles weren't artificial either. They looked happy and that brought him some relief.
The next photo was of Cyndy, her hands on the necks of the two horses they rode together. Flyboy and Paloma were beginning to show their age. He wondered if they would still be alive when he got back to the States. Cyndy cocked her head at the person taking the picture, her hazel eyes squinting a little in the sunlight.
There were photos of the farmhouse, the barn, the old high school, the Baptist church . . . and the mystery church with the bell tower in the top photo.
Puzzled, he read further.
Pastor Fletcher has asked me to prepare a solo for the Christmas Eve service. Looking through the Christmas carols, I found one that reminds me of our last Christmas together before you left Sour Lake. Do you remember when we woke up Christmas morning in your hospital room? Do you remember what woke us up? I took a picture of St. Anne's to remind you of the bells that were calling people to Mass that morning. I remember you saying that was a sound you would carry with you wherever Christmas Day found you.
It had been before his Gramma and Grampa came to visit with the presents that were under the farmhouse tree. St. Anne's was only about a block away from the hospital. He ignored the pain from his bruises and surgery and sat up straighter in bed to hold Cyndy close and listen as the bells broadcast the call to worship. With the last echo of the last bell, they kissed.
He hadn't thought of the bells for a couple of Christmases now. In a way, he felt a little guilty for forgetting about them. Her letter continued.
I'm going to sing 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' to honor you and all of our brave soldiers stationed in Vietnam. But especially you. Pastor Fletcher has said that he will light a candle and say a special prayer for you afterwards. I think of this war and the longing to have you home with us when I think of the words. I hope I can make it through the song without crying.
I miss you. Please don't take unnecessary risks. Come home to us safely.
All of my love,
Cyndy
She had typed out a copy of the lyrics and attached them to her letter. As he read the third and fourth stanzas, the words blurred until he had to put them down and close his eyes.
And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."
At the bottom she wrote, "Don't lose hope. Someday the war will end, there will be peace and you'll come back home."
"Maybe someday, Buttercup. Maybe someday," he murmured.