by Michael Herr
Michael Herr’s
Dispatches
“The best book to have been written about the Vietnam War.”
–The New York Times Book Review
“Having read Dispatches, it is difficult to convey the impact of total experience as all the facades of patriotism, heroism and the whole colossal fraud of American intervention fall away to the bare bones of fear, war and death.”
–William S. Burroughs
“Tough, profane, relentless … elegant.”
–Newsweek
“A classic!”
–David Halberstam
“Herr … hurls one into his experience, insists an uninitiated reader be comforted with no politics, no certain morality, no clear outline of history.”
–The New York Review of Books
“Stunning.”
–The New York Times
“Some stories must be told—not because they will delight and instruct but because they happened.”
–Time
“Splendid … He brings alive the terror of combat in a way that rivals All Quiet on the Western Front.”
–Tom Wolfe
Michael Herr’s
Dispatches
Michael Herr is the author of Dispatches, The Big Room, and Walter Winchell, and coauthor of the screenplays for Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket.
Also by Michael Herr
The Big Room
(with Guy Peellaert)
Walter Winchell
First Vintage International Edition, August 1991
Copyright © 1968, 1969, 1970, 1977 by Michael Herr
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1977.
Portions of this book were originally published in New American Review #7, Esquire and Rolling Stone.
This page–this page constitute an extension of the copyright page.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Herr, Michael.
Dispatches / Michael Herr.
p. cm.
Reprint. Originally published: New York : Knopf, 1977.
eISBN: 978-0-307-81416-6
1. Vietnamese Conflict, 1961–1975–Personal narratives, American.
2. Herr, Michael. I. Title.
[DS559.5.H47 1991]
959.704′38–dc20 90-50771
Author photograph © Don McCullin
v3.1_r2
For my mother and father
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published song lyrics:
ABKCO Music, Inc.: Specified eleven words from the song “2000 Light Years From Home” by Mick Jagger and Keith Richard (this page). Copyright © 1967 by ABKCO Music, Inc. Also, specified seven words form the song “Citadel” by Mick Jagger and Keith Richard (this page). Copyright © 1967 by ABKCO Music, Inc. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Reprinted by permission.
Acuff-Rose Music, Inc.: Specified twenty words from the song “Lil’ Red Riding Hood” by Ronald Blackwell (this page). Copyright © 1966 by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc., 65 Music Square West, Nashville, Tennessee 37013. All Rights Reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission of the publisher.
American Broadcasting Music, Inc.: Specified two lines of lyrics from the song “San Francisco (Be Sure And Wear Some Flowers In Your Hair)” by John Phillips (this page). Copyright © 1967 by American Broadcasting Music, Inc., and Honest John Music. Used by permission only. All Rights Reserved.
Arc Music Corp.: Specified ten words from the song “Good Morning, Little Schoolgirl” by Sonny Boy Williamson (this page). Copyright © 1964 by Arc Music Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Cotillion Music, Inc.: Specified seven words from the song “The Tighten Up” by Archie Bell & The Drells (this page). Copyright © 1968 by Cotillion Music, Inc., and Orellia Publishing Co. Also, specified seven lines from the song “For What It’s Worth” by Stephen Stills (this page). Copyright © 1966 by Cotillion Music, Inc., Springalo Toones and Ten-East Music. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Don Williams Music Group: Specified line of lyrics from the song “Foxy Lady” by Jimi Hendrix (this page). Copyright © 1967 by Bella Godiva Music, Worldwide Administration Don Williams Music Group. Used by permission.
Dwarf Music: Specified two lines of lyrics from the song “Visions of Johanna” by Bob Dylan (this page). Copyright © 1966 by Dwarf Music. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
EMI April Music, Inc.: Specified twenty words from the song “Magical Mystery Tour” by John Lennon and Raul McCartney (this page). Copyright © 1967 by Northern Songs Limited. Rights for the U.S.A., Canada, and Mexico, controlled by EMI April Music, Inc. under license from ATV Music (Comet). All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Frank Zappa Music, Inc.: Specified six lines of lyrics from the song “Trouble Comin’ Every Day” by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention (this page). Copyright © 1965 by Frank Zappa Music, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Jobete Music Co., Inc.: Specified eight words from the song “Galveston” by Jimmy Webb (this page). Copyright © 1968 by Jobete Music Co., Inc. Also, specified ten words from the song “Shotgun” by Autry Dewalt (this page). Copyright © 1965 by Jobete Music Co., Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Painted Desert Music Corporation: Specified two lines of lyrics from the song “Ring of Fire” by June Carter and Merle Kilgore (this page). Copyright © 1962, 1963 by Painted Desert Music Corporation. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Robert Mellin Music Publishing Corp. : Specified eight words from the song “Black Is Black” by Los Bravos (this page). Copyright © 1965 by Robert Mellin Music Publishing Corp.
Screen Gems–EMI Music, Inc.: Specified fifteen words from the song “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place,” words and music by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil (this page). Copyright © 1965 by Screen Gems-EMI Music, Inc. Also, specified ten words from the song “Hungry,” words and music by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil (this page). Copyright © 1966 by Screen Gems-EMI Music, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Breathing In
Hell Sucks
Khe Sanh
Illumination Rounds
Colleagues
Breathing Out
Breathing In
There was a map of Vietnam on the wall of my apartment in Saigon and some nights, coming back late to the city, I’d lie out on my bed and look at it, too tired to do anything more than just get my boots off. That map was a marvel, especially now that it wasn’t real anymore. For one thing, it was very old. It had been left there years before by another tenant, probably a Frenchman, since the map had been made in Paris. The paper had buckled in its frame after years in the wet Saigon heat, laying a kind of veil over the countries it depicted. Vietnam was divided into its older territories of Tonkin, Annam and Cochin China, and to the west past Laos and Cambodge sat Siam, a kingdom. That’s old, I’d tell visitors, that’s a really old map.
If dead ground could come back and haunt you the way dead people do, they’d have been able to mark my map CURRENT and burn the ones they
’d been using since ’64, but count on it, nothing like that was going to happen. It was late ’67 now, even the most detailed maps didn’t reveal much anymore; reading them was like trying to read the faces of the Vietnamese, and that was like trying to read the wind. We knew that the uses of most information were flexible, different pieces of ground told different stories to different people. We also knew that for years now there had been no country here but the war.
The Mission was always telling us about VC units being engaged and wiped out and then reappearing a month later in full strength, there was nothing very spooky about that, but when we went up against his terrain we usually took it definitively, and even if we didn’t keep it you could always see that we’d at least been there. At the end of my first week in-country I met an information officer in the headquarters of the 25th Division at Cu Chi who showed me on his map and then from his chopper what they’d done to the Ho Bo Woods, the vanished Ho Bo Woods, taken off by giant Rome plows and chemicals and long, slow fire, wasting hundreds of acres of cultivated plantation and wild forest alike, “denying the enemy valuable resources and cover.”
It had been part of his job for nearly a year now to tell people about that operation; correspondents, touring congressmen, movie stars, corporation presidents, staff officers from half the armies in the world, and he still couldn’t get over it. It seemed to be keeping him young, his enthusiasm made you feel that even the letters he wrote home to his wife were full of it, it really showed what you could do if you had the know-how and the hardware. And if in the months following that operation incidences of enemy activity in the larger area of War Zone C had increased “significantly,” and American losses had doubled and then doubled again, none of it was happening in any damn Ho Bo Woods, you’d better believe it.…
I
Going out at night the medics gave you pills, Dexedrine breath like dead snakes kept too long in a jar. I never saw the need for them myself, a little contact or anything that even sounded like contact would give me more speed than I could bear. Whenever I heard something outside of our clenched little circle I’d practically flip, hoping to God that I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it. A couple of rounds fired off in the dark a kilometer away and the Elephant would be there kneeling on my chest, sending me down into my boots for a breath. Once I thought I saw a light moving in the jungle and I caught myself just under a whisper saying, “I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready for this.” That’s when I decided to drop it and do something else with my nights. And I wasn’t going out like the night ambushers did, or the Lurps, long-range recon patrollers who did it night after night for weeks and months, creeping up on VC base camps or around moving columns of North Vietnamese. I was living too close to my bones as it was, all I had to do was accept it. Anyway, I’d save the pills for later, for Saigon and the awful depressions I always had there.
I knew one 4th Division Lurp who took his pills by the fistful, downs from the left pocket of his tiger suit and ups from the right, one to cut the trail for him and the other to send him down it. He told me that they cooled things out just right for him, that he could see that old jungle at night like he was looking at it through a starlight scope. “They sure give you the range,” he said.
This was his third tour. In 1965 he’d been the only survivor in a platoon of the Cav wiped out going into the la Drang Valley. In ’66 he’d come back with the Special Forces and one morning after an ambush he’d hidden under the bodies of his team while the VC walked all around them with knives, making sure. They stripped the bodies of their gear, the berets too, and finally went away, laughing. After that, there was nothing left for him in the war except the Lurps.
“I just can’t hack it back in the World,” he said. He told me that after he’d come back home the last time he would sit in his room all day, and sometimes he’d stick a hunting rifle out the window, leading people and cars as they passed his house until the only feeling he was aware of was all up in the tip of that one finger. “It used to put my folks real uptight,” he said. But he put people uptight here too, even here.
“No man, I’m sorry, he’s just too crazy for me,” one of the men in his team said. “All’s you got to do is look in his eyes, that’s the whole fucking story right there.”
“Yeah, but you better do it quick,” someone else said. “I mean, you don’t want to let him catch you at it.”
But he always seemed to be watching for it, I think he slept with his eyes open, and I was afraid of him anyway. All I ever managed was one quick look in, and that was like looking at the floor of an ocean. He wore a gold earring and a headband torn from a piece of camouflage parachute material, and since nobody was about to tell him to get his hair cut it fell below his shoulders, covering a thick purple scar. Even at division he never went anywhere without at least a .45 and a knife, and he thought I was a freak because I wouldn’t carry a weapon.
“Didn’t you ever meet a reporter before?” I asked him.
“Tits on a bull,” he said. “Nothing personal.”
But what a story he told me, as one-pointed and resonant as any war story I ever heard, it took me a year to understand it:
“Patrol went up the mountain. One man came back. He died before he could tell us what happened.”
I waited for the rest, but it seemed not to be that kind of story; when I asked him what had happened he just looked like he felt sorry for me, fucked if he’d waste time telling stories to anyone dumb as I was.
His face was all painted up for night walking now like a bad hallucination, not like the painted faces I’d seen in San Francisco only a few weeks before, the other extreme of the same theater. In the coming hours he’d stand as faceless and quiet in the jungle as a fallen tree, and God help his opposite numbers unless they had at least half a squad along, he was a good killer, one of our best. The rest of his team were gathered outside the tent, set a little apart from the other division units, with its own Lurp-designated latrine and its own exclusive freeze-dry rations, three-star war food, the same chop they sold at Abercrombie & Fitch. The regular division troops would almost shy off the path when they passed the area on their way to and from the mess tent. No matter how toughened up they became in the war, they still looked innocent compared to the Lurps. When the team had grouped they walked in a file down the hill to the lz across the strip to the perimeter and into the treeline.
I never spoke to him again, but I saw him. When they came back in the next morning he had a prisoner with him, blindfolded and with his elbows bound sharply behind him. The Lurp area would definitely be off limits during the interrogation, and anyway, I was already down at the strip waiting for a helicopter to come and take me out of there.
“Hey what’re you guys, with the USO? Aw, we thought you was with the USO ’cause your hair’s so long.” Page took the kid’s picture, I got the words down and Flynn laughed and told him we were the Rolling Stones. The three of us traveled around together for about a month that summer. At one lz the brigade chopper came in with a real foxtail hanging off the aerial, when the commander walked by us he almost took an infarction.
“Don’t you men salute officers?”
“We’re not men,” Page said. “We’re correspondents.”
When the commander heard that, he wanted to throw a spontaneous operation for us, crank up his whole brigade and get some people killed. We had to get out on the next chopper to keep him from going ahead with it, amazing what some of them would do for a little ink. Page liked to augment his field gear with freak paraphernalia, scarves and beads, plus he was English, guys would stare at him like he’d just come down off a wall on Mars. Sean Flynn could look more incredibly beautiful than even his father, Errol, had thirty years before as Captain Blood, but sometimes he looked more like Artaud coming out of some heavy heart-of-darkness trip, overloaded on the information, the input! The input! He’d give off a bad sweat and sit for hours, combing his mustache through with the saw bl
ade of his Swiss Army knife. We packed grass and tape: Have You Seen Your Mother Baby Standing in the Shadows, Best of the Animals, Strange Days, Purple Haze, Archie Bell and the Drells, “C’mon now everybody, do the Tighten Up.…” Once in a while we’d catch a chopper straight into one of the lower hells, but it was a quiet time in the war, mostly it was lz’s and camps, grunts hanging around, faces, stories.
“Best way’s to just keep moving,” one of them told us. “Just keep moving, stay in motion, you know what I’m saying?”
We knew. He was a moving-target-survivor subscriber, a true child of the war, because except for the rare times when you were pinned or stranded the system was geared to keep you mobile, if that was what you thought you wanted. As a technique for staying alive it seemed to make as much sense as anything, given naturally that you were there to begin with and wanted to see it close; it started out sound and straight but it formed a cone as it progressed, because the more you moved the more you saw, the more you saw the more besides death and mutilation you risked, and the more you risked of that the more you would have to let go of one day as a “survivor.” Some of us moved around the war like crazy people until we couldn’t see which way the run was even taking us anymore, only the war all over its surface with occasional, unexpected penetration. As long as we could have choppers like taxis it took real exhaustion or depression near shock or a dozen pipes of opium to keep us even apparently quiet, we’d still be running around inside our skins like something was after us, ha ha, La Vida Loca.
In the months after I got back the hundreds of helicopters I’d flown in began to draw together until they’d formed a collective meta-chopper, and in my mind it was the sexiest thing going; saver-destroyer, provider-waster, right hand-left hand, nimble, fluent, canny and human; hot steel, grease, jungle-saturated canvas webbing, sweat cooling and warming up again, cassette rock and roll in one ear and door-gun fire in the other, fuel, heat, vitality and death, death itself, hardly an intruder. Men on the crews would say that once you’d carried a dead person he would always be there, riding with you. Like all combat people they were incredibly superstitious and invariably self-dramatic, but it was (I knew) unbearably true that close exposure to the dead sensitized you to the force of their presence and made for long reverberations; long. Some people were so delicate that one look was enough to wipe them away, but even bone-dumb grunts seemed to feel that something weird and extra was happening to them.
