If I Die in a Combat Zone (7 page)

“Is that an analogy?” I asked. “Is Vietnam another Christian crusade?”

Edwards was angry. “You think I’m a fascist? You must think something like that. These days all soldiers and ministers are fascists, anti-intellectuals.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his red forehead like a gas station attendant doing a windshield. “Of course Vietnam is no crusade for Christ. Maybe the hippies are right, maybe no war is really fought for God. But there’s still faith, and you’ve got to have it. You’ve got to have faith in somebody. Sometime, O’Brien, you’ll realize there’s something above, far above your puny intellect. Even if you’re another Einstein or Galileo.”

“This war was conceived in man’s intellect,” I said. “Someone decided to fight. Lyndon Johnson or Bundy or Rostow or Rusk or McNamara or Taylor—one of those guys
decided.
”

“What about McKinley? McKinley prayed. The Spanish-American War wasn’t some cold-blooded human decision. President McKinley waited and waited. He prayed to the Lord, asking for guidance, and the Lord finally told him to go to war.”

“We read different books.”

“Different books hell! That’s history.”

“That is McKinley’s history.”

Captain Edwards shouted. “All right, Private O’Brien, goddamn it, who do you read? Who the hell tells you the war is wrong?”

Calling me “Private O’Brien” was a cue. “Sir, I read the newspapers. There’s a presidential campaign on. Vietnam is the big issue, almost the only issue, and I listen to the speeches. I supported McCarthy for the presidency, so I heard him talk about the war. I’ve read books by Bernard Fall—”

“Bernard Fall,” Edwards shouted. “I’ve read Bernard Fall. He’s a
professor
. A lousy
teacher
. Look, what do you know about communism, O’Brien? Do you think they’re a bunch of friendly, harmless politicians, all ready to be friends and buddies? I’ve been in Russia. I’ve seen how people live there, so I know a little about this thing. You think Ho Chi Minh is gonna bring
heaven
to South Vietnam?”

“Well, sir, there’s little evidence that South Vietnam under the communists will be a worse place than a South Vietnam ruled by a Diem or a Khanh. I mean, there’s no persuasive evidence, at least not persuasive to me, that all the lives being lost, the children napalmed and everything—there’s no good evidence that all this horror is worth preventing a change from Thieu to Ho Chi Minh. You see? I look for the bulk of evidence. I see evil in the history of Ho’s rule of the north. I see evil in the history of the string of rulers we’ve helped in the South. Evil on both sides. But the third evil, the death and pain, must also be counted in.”

“O’Brien, I’m surprised to hear this, really. You seem like a nice fellow. But, listen, you’re betraying your country when you say these things. I’ve met people who don’t like Vietnam, sure, but you’re icy about it. Where the hell do you fit guts and bravery into your scheme? Where does God and the unknown fit in? Listen, I’ve
been
in Vietnam. I can tell you, this is a fine, heroic moment for American soldiers.”

“Sir, if we could just forget the details. All I want is some advice. I don’t think we can convince each other of anything, not about politics. But assuming, sir—just assuming—that I truly believe the war is wrong. Is it then also wrong to go off and kill people? If I do that, what happens to my soul? And if I don’t fight, if I refuse, then I’ve betrayed my country, right?”

Captain Edwards glared at me. He slammed his fist on the desk. He picked up his telephone, still glaring. With cold civility he called battalion headquarters and made an appointment for me with the big man.

A staff car from headquarters came to get me. It pulled up in front of the chapel. A buck sergeant opened the back door and stood respectfully while the chaplain walked me down the steps, apologizing for getting angry. “Things are tough just now,” he said. “There aren’t enough chaplains to go around anymore. Really, we need a chaplain for every platoon. I guess the men are taking war more seriously than they used to—the young kids, the recruits. They need people, people with a little authority to get things done. Leaves and passes and things. But there’s so damn many kids who want help, I get tired.” He shook my hand, I saluted. “Listen, O’Brien, I like your style. I’m sincere about that, you’ve got a good story. You’ve got my respect, and you can expect me to follow you for the next few months. Stop in when you get back from Vietnam, we can talk some more then.”

“You know, the Korean war and the Vietnam war aren’t much different. One country divided by an artificial line. People of the same race killing each other. Communist aid, American aid. Communist troops, American troops. In both places the Reds got greedy. Oh sure, Vietnam is a whole new brand of fighting, guerrilla warfare, but we’re learning it, we’re getting good at it. I’ve served Uncle Sam in Korea and I’ve served him in Vietnam, three times. Let me tell you, Private, the wars are the same. The Chinese are behind these Asian wars. Private, you have dandruff on your uniform, brush it off. It’s good we’re stopping the Chinese when we have the chance. If it’s not in South Vietnam, well, like the Aussie officers tell me, it’ll be on the streets of Sydney.”

The battalion commander chuckled. He wore dark green sunglasses, and his eyes may have been closed. “The Chinese don’t know much about street fighting, though. Hell, we’d kill them. We learned all that in Europe. Shit, you should have seen St. Vith, that was street fighting. Here, let me get that dandruff, it’s all over your collar … there, now you’re a strack trooper, just button up your pocket.”

On the wall behind him a long train of photographs peered out, the chain of command. It started with Lyndon Johnson. Earl Wheeler, Stanley Reser, the Sixth Army commander, the fort commander, and finally the razor-lipped, hint-of-a-smile face of the battalion commander.

“But you’re hearing this from an old soldier,” he said. “I suppose you’ve got to
read
it to believe it, that’s the new way. Maybe I’ll write a book. I remember when the Chinks swarmed across the river down into Korea. That would make a book. Trouble is, they want philosophy in with the real action. I’d like to write it straight, just how it happened, but I can see the rejection slips already. That’s the problem, you gotta knock the military to get a book published. God, I could write a book.”

“Sir, the reason I’m here—I’m disturbed about the Vietnam war. I think it’s, you know, wrong. I’m worried about having to—”

“I know how it is, trooper, we all get scared. Once you’re in the thick of it, though, don’t worry, you stop being scared. Christ, it’s exhilarating sometimes. Man against man, only one wins. And if you lose, you lose big. But there’s not a soldier, unless he’s a liar, who doesn’t admit he gets scared sometimes. Mostly it’s before the battles and after them. That’s how it was with me. Christ, all us officers would sit around and drink and joke about getting our asses creamed, but we were scared, even the officers. See, we’re human.”

He leaned forward and smiled for the first time. He’d made his big point.

I smiled and nodded.

The interview had climaxed.

“Well, does that help, trooper? I should talk with you men more often, but you know how it is. A lot of problems and misunderstandings could be avoided. If any other things that crop up—bad food, lousy mail—just let me know. I like to think my men can see me whenever there are problems. You’re dismissed.”

During advanced infantry training we were granted some after-hours freedom. There were three places on the fort to pass this time. One was the movie house.
Barbarella
ran for three weeks straight. One was the doughnut shop. The doughnuts were cheap and hot, and I spent money and time in one of the booths. The best place was the library. It was small, almost always empty, and the place had some good books.

I kept my escape plans folded up in my wallet. With spot inspections, they weren’t safe in the wall lockers. I found a secluded table in the library and spent one or two hours a day working on the plan. Back issues of the major news magazines helped fill in details about Swedish immigration laws. I took notes on Swedish history culture, and politics. I started to learn the language, words for food, drink, army, and deserter. The encyclopedia helped, and I learned the names of the major Swedish cities, names of rivers and lakes and ports.

On Sundays I didn’t take the usual bus ride into Seattle or Tacoma. Instead, I wrote letters to my family, a teacher, and some friends, trying to explain my position. The letters to hometown America were tough to write. Worse to read, of course. I explained the grounds for my desertion in the letters, and I talked about the problems of conscience in participating in the war. Mostly, though, I tried to say how difficult it is to embarrass people you love. I hid the letters and decided to mail them from Canada, my first stop.

A week or two before Christmas I had enough money, the right documents, and a final plan. I was sick with bronchitis, but the little spurts of nausea and coughing pushed me on. It was a symptom of another disease, and there was absolutely no doubt about the cure. I was given a weekend pass.

The bus ride into Seattle was a jolt. It was a Friday evening, cold as ever, and a little snow had replaced the rain. The inside of the Greyhound was unlighted, except for cigarette glows. Everyone was in uniform, even the bus driver, and green berets jutted up here and there over the high-backed seats. The officers wore their Nazi-styled billed caps and dress greens and medals.

I was scared. I was also a little sick. My throat was filled with phlegm. Nausea flirted up and down my belly.

A lieutenant sat beside me, and he asked if I were heading home for Christmas. I said, “No sir, just a pass.”

“Gonna hit Seattle, huh? Not a bad place. Better than Nam, that’s for sure.”

“Ah, you’ve been to Nam?”

“Nope, I’m just going. Day after tomorrow. The bastards wouldn’t hold it till after the holiday.”

“Too bad.”

“What’s your MOS?” the lieutenant asked.

“Infantry.”

“Drafted, I’ll bet. Me too. I signed up for OCS. Didn’t really want to be an officer, but at least it delayed Nam for a while. Hell, I almost thought they forgot about me. In another month—this February—I could have been in Germany. My whole unit’s going there.”

“You got screwed, sir.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I guess that’s what I’ve been training for. Actually, I sort of want to try out all the stuff I’ve learned. I think I’m better than those dinks.”

The Greyhound turned out of the fort. There is a long highway, three and four lanes, and it takes you through the black forests straight into Seattle. My head hurt, and I leaned back and sort of fell asleep, not a deep sleep, but enough to hallucinate. I dreamed that my old basic drill sergeant, Blyton, was sitting there beside me, grinning and telling me I was doomed. “I’ll have you in the stockade, in chains, with bread and water. My man never gets away.”

In Seattle, the depot was jammed full of MPs and cops. I went into the men’s room and stripped. I stuffed my greens into the black AWOL bag and changed into slacks and a shirt. No one said a word.

I found a cheap hotel where I could hole up and think the whole thing through for one final night. An old lady at the desk handed me a key without a glance. The
Seattle Times
sports page was spread out in front of her. Like a gentleman, I said good evening. She muttered good evening. I dropped the bag onto my bed, then wandered out of the hotel and toward the docks. I found a sailor and asked for a good place to eat. “Over yonder,” he said. “Good fish, and cheap. You ain’t got a dime?” I had clam chowder, which helped my headache; then I went to a telephone booth and called a taxi and took it to the University of Washington.

I walked into a sorority house and rang a button. A girl came down in jeans. Black hair, and blue-rimmed glasses. I told her I was from Minnesota, that one of my fraternity friends there had said I might find a date if I just rang for a girl in this house. She asked for my friend’s name, and I manufactured one. She asked about the fraternity, and, not knowing any of the names, I said Phi Gamma Omega. She said she’d never heard of Phi Gamma Omega, but she crossed her arms and hooked one ankle around the other and seemed willing to talk.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m not a sex maniac. I’m just visiting Seattle, and I didn’t want to waste the night. Maybe a movie or something?”

“Jeez,” the girl said. “You look like a pretty nice guy. But you know how it is, I have to study. Big exam tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday. You have classes on Saturday?”

“No, not really. The test’s Monday. It just slipped out, I guess.”

“Well,” I said, “the truth is, I didn’t think you’d want to go. But maybe you know somebody.”

“Sorry. But it’s just before Christmas break. We’re having finals, you know, and all my friends are at the books.” She smiled. “Besides, this is no way to conduct human relations.”

So I left, embarrassed, and went to downtown Seattle. I walked around in the simmering red and gold neon light, past a theater showing
Finian’s Rainbow
—“… if I’m not near the girl that I love, I love the girl I’m near!”—and past another theater showing
The Graduate
, which made me think about my college sweetheart. I walked along, whistling “Old Devil Moon” until my headache started again.

Farther up the street, toward the harbor, the lights faded. A prostitute hooked me with her umbrella and asked if I needed a date.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I feel kind of sick tonight.”

“Well, then, can you spare a buck or two?” she asked.

“Sorry. I really need the money. You don’t know how much I need it.”

I vomited in my hotel room. I fell asleep, awakened, slept again, awakened to hear it raining. I looked down at the street, and the snow was gone and it was all gray slush. I sat at the desk. The AWOL bag was ready to go, but I wasn’t. I slept some more, dreaming, and when I awakened I vomited and saw it was getting light. I burned the letters to my family. I read the others and burned them, too. It was over. I simply couldn’t bring myself to flee. Family, the home town, friends, history, tradition, fear, confusion, exile: I could not run. I went into the hallway and bought a Coke. When I finished it I felt better, clearer-headed, and burned the plans. I was a coward. I was sick.