What it is Like to Go to War
Read What it is Like to Go to War Online
Authors: Karl Marlantes
WHAT IT IS LIKE TO GO TO WAR
A
LSO BY
K
ARL
M
ARLANTES
Matterhorn
KARL MARLANTES
Copyright © 2011 by Karl Marlantes
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Excerpt from
Seven Pillars of Wisdom
by T. E. Lawrence, copyright © 1926, 1935 by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. Used by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
Excerpt from
The Collected Works of W.B. Yeats, Volume I: The Poems, Revised
by W. B. Yeats, edited by Richard J. Finneran. Copyright © 1940 by Georgie Yeats, renewed 1968 by Bertha Georgie Yeats, Michael Yeats, and Anne Yeats. All rights reserved. Reprinted with the permission of Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Excerpt from
Egil’s Saga
reprinted by permission of Everyman’s Library, London.
Excerpt from
The Mahabharata
reprinted by permission of Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan.
Almost all call signs, names, nicknames, and their origins have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals and their families.
Printed in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9514-2
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
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The nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools
.
—Spartan king, quoted by Thucydides
Any fool can learn from his mistakes. The wise man learns from the mistakes of others
.
—Otto von Bismarck
This book is dedicated to the Marines I served with in Vietnam, those who came home and those who didn’t, and to all combat veterans who fought and are fighting now with noble hearts—all
.
I wrote this book primarily to come to terms with my own experience of combat. So far—reading, writing, thinking—that has taken more than forty years. I could have kept my thoughts in a personal journal, but I took on trying to get these reflections published so that I could share them with other combat veterans. Perhaps, in some way, I can help them with their own quest for meaning and their efforts to integrate their combat experiences into their current lives. I also want to share my thoughts and experiences with young people who are contemplating joining the military or who are about to enter combat themselves, sort of like providing them with a psychological and spiritual combat prophylactic, for indeed combat is like unsafe sex in that it’s a major thrill with possible horrible consequences. Finally, this nation is now engaged in three wars simultaneously, two with both air and ground forces and one from the air only. I am quite certain these are not the last. All conscientious citizens and especially those with the power to make policy will be better prepared to make decisions about committing young people to combat if they know what they are about to ask of them.
The violence of combat assaults psyches, confuses ethics, and tests souls. This is not only a result of the violence suffered. It is also a result of the violence inflicted. Warriors suffer from wounds to their bodies, to be sure, but because they are involved in killing people they also suffer from their compromises with, or outright violations of, the moral norms of society and religion.
These compromises and violations are not generally discussed and their impact on a warrior’s mental health and soul is minimized or even ignored entirely, not only by current military training but by society at large.
The book is not intended to fix or improve military training. I was a U.S. Marine in the Vietnam War and believe that the Marine Corps prepared me then, and still does prepare our young Marines, to fight our country’s battles exceedingly well, as do all the other branches of the United States military. In fact, today’s young warriors are far better prepared than we were in the Vietnam era, at least technically and tactically. This book, rather, focuses on those aspects of combat that can’t adequately be prepared for by institutional training programs, no matter how lengthy or thorough. The preparation for these aspects of combat must be done by the individual, in the quiet places, alone, in communion with his or her own heart and soul. It would probably be better if such soul-searching were done before an individual volunteers for military service, but I am well aware that eighteen-year-olds are not known for introspection. This is one of many reasons why young people, particularly young men, make the best warriors. However, imminent maiming and death do help motivate young warriors to contemplate these more serious aspects of their profession. So if by reading this book before entering combat a young warrior can be helped to better handle the many psychological, moral, and spiritual stresses of combat, then the book will have been worth writing. In addition, if the ideas discussed here help citizens and policy makers attain a clearer understanding of what they are asking of their warriors and of their own role in sending them into the moral quagmire and sacrificial fire called war, then the book will have succeeded, if not beyond my hopes, perhaps beyond my expectations.
TEMPLE OF MARS
Warriors deal with death. They take life away from others. This is normally the role of God. Asking young warriors to take on that role without adequate psychological and spiritual preparation can lead to damaging consequences. It can also lead to killing and the infliction of pain in excess of what is required to accomplish the mission. If warriors are returned home having had better psychological and spiritual preparation, they will integrate into civilian life faster and they and their families will suffer less. But the more blurred the boundary is between the world where they are acting in the role of God and the world where they are acting in an ordinary societal role, the more problematical the reintegration becomes
.
The sun had struggled all day behind monsoon clouds before finally being extinguished by the turning earth and the dark wet ridges of the Annamese Cordillera. It was February 1969, in Quang Tri province, Vietnam. Zoomer lay above my hole in monsoon-night blackness on the slick clay of Mutter’s Ridge, the dark jungle-covered ridge paralleling Vietnam’s demilitarized zone where the Third Marine Division and the North Vietnamese Army had struggled together for two years. A bullet had gone through Zoomer’s chest, tearing a large hole out of his back. We kept him on his side, curled against the cold drizzle, so the one good lung wouldn’t fill up with blood. We were surrounded and
there was no hope of evacuation, even in daylight. The choppers couldn’t find us in the fog-shrouded mountains.
I heard Zoomer all night, panting as if he were running the 400, one lung doing for two and a body in shock. In and out. In, the fog, the sighing sound of monsoon wind through the jungle. Out, the hot painful breath. Zoomer had to go all night. If he slept, he’d die. So no morphine. Pain was the key to life.
To help him stay awake, and to calm my own fear, I’d crawl over to him to whisper stories.
I grew up in Oregon, where as a teenager I worked with my grandfather Axel on his fishing boat at the mouth of the Columbia River. One night in June 1959 a dull thunk startled us into alertness as a heavy body slammed into the four-football-fields-long gill net. The body’s weight made the cork line, which floated on the surface and from which the net hung like a curtain, sink beneath the cold salt water. We approached the large gap in the cork line quietly, me steering the thirty-foot fishing boat in the dark, Grandpa Axel in the bow with the rifle, worried that it was a sea lion. A sea lion could destroy the net, which next to the boat itself was Grandpa’s most valuable investment. My spine prickled when I saw the plated body of a seven-foot green sturgeon slowly undulating, eerie and ghostlike, beneath the dark water.
It took everything both of us had to haul the sturgeon into the boat, several hundred pounds at nine cents a pound and not much tearing of the net. Grandpa Axel was pleased. He and I heaved the sturgeon into the built-in fish box that temporarily held the salmon until we could put back in to Scandinavian Station. That was where we unloaded and weighed our catch, bobbing on the swell beneath the crane that hoisted the fish boxes
up to the waiting ice, Grandpa impatient to get back to fishing, me happy to be idle.