Read Online If I Die in a Combat Zone by Tim O’Brien - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim O’Brien
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
