It was hotter than I had ever experienced, and the convoy of trucks made dust so thick it seemed we were traveling in a cloud. The 45-mile trip to our Vietnam base camp seemed to take forever. I had my M-16 loaded and in my lap; I was scared, but so glad to be on dry ground again I wanted to kiss it. Twenty-one days on a troop ship, and twenty-one days of seasickness for two of the 1600 soldiers; I was one of the two.
Nobody really wanted to be here. Attitudes were rotten, tempers were short, and everyone yearned for loved ones back in the States. We all wondered what the next twelve months had in store. I soon discovered that the Viet Cong weren’t our only enemy.
After we arrived at base camp and began to set up tents, I could sense that the tension within the camp was almost as great as it was outside the perimeter of the berm and bunkers. Racial conflict was raging, and as we arrived, it seemed that most of the men took sides, even though our company wasn’t yet involved. Lines were drawn, and the side you took was automatic according to the color of your skin. Within days, one of the fellows had lost an eye as a glass was first broken over a table, then slashed across his face. Coming from Colorado, I had no roots in racial conflict, and, having become a Christian a year earlier, I knew that sin, not skin, dictated racial bias and attitudes.
My rank was one step below that of sergeant, but hard work and providence had me in a sergeant’s slot, with a tent of twelve men under my command. My squad was actually six men including myself, and we shared a tent with another squad. Depression, loneliness, no shower water, one-hundred-twenty degree heat, food rationing, and sixteen-hour workdays seven days a week left me with only one thing for which I was thankful: somehow our tent had a measure of peace. The racial tensions had escaped us.
Within weeks, our company had lost several men for various reasons. Our platoon had the enormous job of putting communications in the camp, and we were short-handed. Very few worked willingly; most had to be pushed and intimidated to get them motivated, and that was my job.
Six weeks passed, and we were still hurting; my squad had lost two men, and we desperately needed help. That afternoon at a platoon meeting, the sergeant announced that three new men had been assigned to us. As he spoke, he glanced up and said, “Oh, here they come now.” I looked down the pathway between the tents, and saw three black men coming our way, two of whom resembled Paul Bunyan reincarnated. Impulsively my heart cried out, “Oh, Lord, not in my tent!” A closer look revealed a mustache on one of them that covered his upper lip and came down a half inch on each side of his mouth, making an already intimidating-looking giant look as if he were mad enough to kill. This one was assigned not just to my tent but to my squad.
My attitude had been hardened by the conflicts involved in keeping peace. After the platoon meeting ended, I snapped at the new arrival with as much mean macho as I could possibly fake, “Get your stuff, soldier, and follow me!” not even offering to help him with his heavy load. Much to my surprise and pleasure, he quickly responded, “Yes, Sir!” When we arrived at our tent, I got in his face like our basic drill sergeant and roared, “That’s your cot, trooper. You need to know that we haven’t had any trouble in this tent, and we’re not going to have any, understand?” “Yes, Sir!” came another stunningly quick reply.
The other squad in our tent was scheduled to leave on a convoy the next day, and they were scared. They were stretching the tent rules with a bottle of whiskey that someone had smuggled in and thought they had better drink while they still could. They were keeping the noise to a minimum, and I was looking the other way because I understood that a man without Christ needs a bottle for the battle.
Our new tent-mate had received nothing from me this first evening except a put-on tough-guy sergeant attitude. I hadn’t even so much as looked him in the eye. I was having my own battle with God. “How could You do this to me? How could You take away the one thing I had to be thankful for? You’ve left me alone, with no Christian fellowship, and now You’ve given me trouble on top of the troubles I already have. Lord, I just don’t understand . . .”
My cot was set up at the end of the tent, and I had just lifted the mosquito netting to climb in when a deafening hush fell over the five or six whiskey drinkers in the middle of the tent. As I turned, I saw a look of reverence and awe on their silent faces. I looked where they were looking, and saw the giant on his knees beside his cot. He began to pray, not silently, but out loud, just as he had done every day since he had been drafted. His stature and demeanor commanded respect; no one dared laugh, hoot, or make a sound. I listened as he prayed something like this: “Heavenly Father, thank You for the Lord Jesus Christ who died on the cross and rose up from the dead so that all men might be free. I want to pray for these here men in my tent, that they too might know Jesus; that they might understand that all men are sinners and need a Saviour . . .” Suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore; God had sent another believer, and now I was one of two!
As I stood there in awe and silence for what seemed like hours, I realized that I had a decision to make, but the victory in my heart that night was so great that I hardly remember the struggle I had in making it. I walked over to the giant’s cot and knelt down beside him. When he finished praying, I prayed. When I finished, we met — this time eye to eye and tear to tear. I never dreamed that I would meet a man with strength and conviction enough to kneel in such a setting and pray, let alone pray aloud. In turn, he had never conceived of the idea that someone would kneel beside him either.
It’s hard to sum up all that took place that night. The man I met was Henry Robinson from Little Rock, Arkansas. But the spiritual truths I came face to face with that night are like our Lord, infinite in provision and instruction. We all experience times of aloneness that seem to be largely caused by our impression of God’s lack of presence or care. “Nevertheless, the foundation of God standeth sure, having this seal: The Lord knoweth them that are His . . .” No matter how great the battle, within or without, no matter how alone we seem to be, we are always one of two with the Lord. For each of us the battle rages, but “what shall we say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us?”