by Tim O'Brien
The soldier who finds himself in AIT is a marked man, and he knows it and thinks about it. War, a real war. The drill sergeant said it when we formed up for our first inspection: Every swinging dick in the company was now a foot soldier, a grunt in the United States Army, the infantry, Queen of Battle. Not a cook in the lot, not a clerk or mechanic among us. And in eight weeks, he said, we were all getting on a plane bound for Nam.
“I don’t want you to mope around thinkin’ about Germany or London,” he told us. “Don’t even think about it, ’cause there just ain’t no way. You’re leg men now, and we don’t need no infantry in Piccadilly or Southampton. Besides, Vietnam ain’t all that bad. I been over there twice now, and I’m alive and still screwin’ everything in sight. You troops pay attention to the trainin’ you get here, and you’ll come back in one piece, believe me. Just pay attention, try to learn something. The Nam, it ain’t so bad, not if you got your shit together.”
One of the trainees asked him about rumors that we’d be shipped to Frankfort.
“Christ, you’ll hear that crap till it makes you puke. Forget it. You dudes are Nam-bound. Warsville, understand? Death City. Every last fat swingin’ dick.”
Someone raised a hand and asked when we’d get our first pass.
“Get your gear into the barracks, sweep the place down, and you’ll be out of here in an hour.”
I went to the library in Tacoma. I found the Reader’s Guide and looked up the section on the United States Army. Under the heading “AWOL and Desertion” I found the stuff I was looking for.
The librarian fetched out old copies of Newsweek and Time, and I went into a corner and made notes.
Most of the articles were nothing more than interviews with deserters, stories of their lives in Stockholm, where they lived openly, or in Paris, where they hid and used assumed names and grew beards. That was interesting reading—I was concerned with their psychology and with what compelled them to pack up and leave—but I needed something more concrete. I was after details, how-to-do-it stuff. I wanted to know the laws of the various nations, which countries would take deserters, and under what conditions. In one of the Time pieces I found a list of certain organizations in Sweden and Denmark and Holland that had been set up to give aid to American deserters. I wrote down the names and addresses.
Another article outlined the best routes into Canada, places where deserting GIs crossed. None of the NATO nations would accept U.S. military deserters; some sort of a mutual extradition pact was in force. I knew Canada harbored draft dodgers, but I couldn’t find anything on their policy toward deserters, and I doubted our northern neighbors went that far. Sweden, despite all the problems of adjustment and employment, seemed the best bet.
I smiled at the librarian when I returned the magazines; then I went into the library’s lobby and called the bus depot. To be sure, I disguised my voice—perhaps they had some sort of tape-recording system—and asked about rates and time schedules for Vancouver. From Seattle, Vancouver was only a two-hour drive, the fellow said, and the rates were low and buses ran frequently, even during the night.
Then I called the Seattle airport and checked on fares to Dublin, Ireland. Playing it carefully, professionally, I inquired first with one of the large American firms, telling them I was a student and wanted to do research overseas. Then I called Air Canada, gave them the same story, and mentioned that I might want to leave from Vancouver. Soon I had a list of airfares to more than a half-dozen European cities.
Having done all this, I went back to my corner in the library and, for the first time, persuaded myself that it was truly possible. No one would stop me at the Canadian border, not in a bus. A flight to Ireland would raise no suspicions. From Ireland it was only a day or two by boat to Sweden. There was no doubt it could be done.
I wrote a letter to my parents, and in the middle of it I asked them to send my passport and immunization card. I’d been to Europe in the summer of 1967, back when travel was fun and not flight. I told them I needed the passport for R & R when I got to Vietnam. I said the shot card was necessary for my army health records.
I itemized the expenses. Five hundred dollars would pull it off. I was two hundred dollars short, but I could find a job in Vancouver and have the balance in two weeks. Or, if I didn’t want to waste the time, there were college people and old friends to borrow from.
It was dark when I left the Tacoma library.
Fort Lewis in the winter is sloppy and dirty. It’s wet and very cold, and those things together make your gloves freeze on the firing ranges. On bivouac your sleeping bag stiffens. It’s no fun to smoke—too much trouble to get the pack out. Better to stand and wiggle your fingers. You ride around the base in open cattle trucks, everyone bunched together like the animals that are supposed to ride there, and you don’t say anything, just watch the trees, big lush pines in the snow. You start muttering to yourself. You wish you had a friend. You feel alone and sad and scared and desperate. You want to run.
The days are the same. You wear a uniform, you march, you shoot a rifle, but you aren’t a soldier. Not really. You don’t belong here. Some ghastly mistake.
Just before Thanksgiving I received the passport and immunization card from my parents, and on the same day I asked to see the battalion commander.
The first sergeant arranged it, grudgingly—because some regulation said he had no choice. But he ordered me to see the chaplain first.
“The chaplain weeds out the pussies from men with real problems,” he said. “Seems this last year we been using too much shit on the crop. It’s all coming up pussies, and the poor chaplain over there in his little church is busy as hell, just trying to weed out all you pussies. Good Lord ought to take pity on the chaplain, ought to stop manufacturing so damn many pussies up there.”
The chaplain was named Edwards. He had thick red hair, a firm handshake, a disciplined but friendly mouth and a plump belly. Edwards was a man designed to soothe trainees, custom-made.
“What’s the problem, mess hall not dishing out the bennies?” Edwards was trying to soften me up, trying to make me like him, trying to turn the problem into something not really worth pressing, trying to make all problems buckle under the weight of a friendly, God-fearing, red-headed officer. How often does an officer joke with you, man-to-man?
Smiling and saying no sir, my real problem is one of conscience and philosophy and intellect and emotion and fear and physical hurt and a desire to live chastened by a desire to be good, and also, underneath, a desire to prove myself a hero, I explained, in the broadest terms, what troubled me. Edwards listened and nodded. He took notes, and smiled whenever I smiled, and with his encouragement I gained steam and made my case. Which was: Chaplain, I believe human life is very valuable. I believe, and this has no final truth to it, that human life is valuable because, unlike the other species, we know good from bad; because men are aware they should pursue the good and not the bad; and because, often, people do in fact try to pursue the good, even if the pursuit brings painful personal consequences. I believe, therefore, that a man is most a man when he tries to recognize and understand what is good—when he tries to ask in a reasonable way about things: Is it good? And I believe, finally, that a man cannot be fully a man until he acts in the pursuit of goodness.
Chaplain, I think the war is wrong. I should not fight in it.
Now, we can debate the reasons for my beliefs, of course, and I’ll be willing to do that, but, remember, sir, time is short, very short now. I go to Nam in two months.
Anyway, I’d prefer not to talk about these beliefs, because, I’m sorry to say this, I don’t think you’ll change my mind. I mean, maybe you will, of course. And I can’t turn down a discussion of the war, not if you want it, not if you think that’s the only thing you can do. But I fear we’ll find ourselves arguing. And I can’t argue with an officer, even a chaplain, so I’d rather just avoid talking about the rationale itself.
Instead, consider what advice you can offer
about action, good-doing. Specifically? Specifically, I’m here to ask you if you see any flaw in a philosophy which says: The way to Emerald City, the way to God, the way to kill the wicked witch is to obey our reasoned judgments. Is there an alternative?
“Faith,” he said. He nodded gravely, and, standing up, he said it again: “Faith, that does it.”
“Faith? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Well,” he said, “I’m a chaplain, but, like you say, I’m also an officer. A captain in the U.S. Army. And I think you’re not only wrong but, frankly, I think you’re very disturbed, very disturbed. Not mental, you understand—I don’t mean that. See … you’ve read too many books, the wrong ones, I think there’s no doubt, the wrong ones. But goddamn it—pardon me—but goddamn it, you’re a soldier now, and you’ll sure as hell act like one! Some faith, some discipline. You know, this country is a good country. It’s built on armies, just like the Romans and the Greeks and every other country. They’re all built on armies. Or navies. They do what the country says. That’s where faith comes in, you see? If you accept, as I do, that America is one helluva great country, well, then, you follow what she tells you. She says fight, then you go out and do your damnedest. You try to win.” Edwards smiled with each of the mild expletives, toning them down, showing that he wasn’t too distant, that he was in contact with the real world, and no prissy preacher. “Do you follow? It’s a simple principle. Faith. When you get down to it, faith is an ancient Christian principle. I think it originated with Christ himself. Anyway, it was certainly faith that moved the crusaders way back when. Faith kept them going, God knows. Anyone who’s read Norah Lofts and Thomas Costain knows that. Or history. You’ve been to college. Don’t they read about Peter the Hermit anymore? Well, Peter the Hermit raised an army, led the men himself, and they marched a thousand miles to win back the holy city. Hell, do you think he sat in his monastery and thought it all out? He believed.”
“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 wi
th 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.
