Uninvited Guests: Part 4: Feliz Navidad

I woke up.

It was Christmas Day, another unspectacular one of memory. They had at some point lost their luster. But dead guys, bombed-out buildings, the ever-present threat of attack or sniper, and the decaying, dead horse in the courtyard couldn't quell the spirit.

The hand shaking me was a little too frantic, a little too Davidson-wake-the-fuck-up-and-do-it-now for this to be just another day at Puente Del Rey. Cpl. Mike Stone shook me. He leaned close to my face sarcastically and whispered, "merry fucking Christmas, Davidson."

It was 4 am; we had been rotating guard duty- two awake, one sleeping. Propaganda had suggested an attack was coming Christmas Eve or day, and it hadn't come during the night. I had refused to wake, and Stone wasn't dealing well with that.

I sat up, mumbled something about a cigarette and tightened my helmet straps.

A breeze off the gulf wrestled in tree branches; critters crawled through the grass beneath them. In the distance, someone was whispering. What little nightfall had done to relieve us from the Panamanian heat, tension had undone.

Darkness consumed everything. Even after sleeping, I couldn't see my hands. A drink of water, a splash on the face, I spun to stare blankly at the horizon. No sign of light. This was our fifth morning, fourth in Panamá City's suburbs.

We kept hearing and seeing things. Stone wore the night vision goggles, scanning 360 degrees. Pvt. Stewart and I kept unfocused eyes on the perimeter, looking for any sign of movement.

Later, Stone and I stood guard at the barrier on Via Cinquentario while Christmas services were held. They sent us back at noon. Stone went and crossed himself –or whatever it is they do in rural, southern Indiana –then we ate our MRE Christmas dinner.

While we ate, somebody took a run at the barrier. When he refused to stop, the gate guards opened fire. A rooftop .50 caliber followed suit, and soon the roadside roared a symphony of armament, the buzz of automatic rifle, the symbol crash of shattered glass and twisted metal and the percussive rhythm of the machine gun accented with the pop, pop, pop of imploding tires.

The translator found a rocket launcher in the trunk; apparently, the driver had been coming to turn it in. He must've gotten nervous that we might shoot him. One of the platoon sergeants stole his watch.

When the smell of cordite finally abated, they took Stone and I, attached us to third platoon, and sent us out kicking in doors. We inched up and down Panama Viejo's streets, stopping periodically, eyes constantly sweeping for any sign of aggression.

I turned away from the roadside long enough to make wise-ass comments to Stone when it happened; a man burst out of a building, running toward the guy in front of me. I spun around and dropped to my knees. Even in the screaming, it was possible to hear 35 rifles click their safeties off.

No one fired though. He wore shorts, sandals and a T-shirt depicting Noriega as a pineapple. He was screaming, "Kill him. Kill him," and pointing to the face on his shirt. Pointing toward his own chest. Most of us laughed. But not one lowered a rifle.

After we stood down that night, Stone and I were sent to deliver our status to the command post. The honor was mine. I stepped into the makeshift clerks office to fill the lines on the proper form for food and ammunition for the next couple of days, then left.

In the hallway, Stone was mimicking a game of hot-potato with one of his canteens. An urgent look on his face told me we should be leaving. Behind cover, he lead me to the side of the building and to a boulder jutting out over the gulf.

In the distance, maybe even in Colombia, lights twinkled. The breeze blew stronger here, and soothing waves rolled gently from surf to shore. Stone asked for my canteen cup. He had taken hot water from the command post.

We mixed a thick, sweet hot chocolate using twice the recommended amounts of cocoa, coffee, sugar, creamer, and for good measure, some caramel candies. When it was finished, he commented on how a cigar would taste with it, and took a sip.

"Oh, yeah," he said, reaching into one pocket and then the other. He handed me cookies stolen while I had filled out the requisitions. I had one already stuffed into my mouth when he finished rummaging.

He held up his hand. "I found these too," he whispered, pouring two nips of Jack Daniels into the cocoa. "I had hoped for something from Kentucky, but all they had was this shit."

We sat a while in silence, enjoying the night best we could, staring at stars or wandering in thoughts each his own.

It had been a testament to the mettle of men, not me, being able to find joy in a Christmas Day separated by 5000 miles, and just as many guns, from their families.

The cocoa gone, we stood to leave. Stone slapped my back and shook me like he had that morning, knowing I was not a fan of the holiday. Leaning close to my face, sarcastically, he whispered in a tone that would have better fit an insult, "merry fucking Christmas."