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608 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 1989
Nearly every great captain, the cadets were told, had been tested in combat early in his career. Lee and Grant in Mexico, Pershing and Marshall in the Philippines, Patton and MacArthur in World War I. The clear implication, of course, was that the men of ’66 should be grateful for the chance to be annealed in combat and prove themselves as young warriors. But those had been textbook wars and textbook heroes. A cadet could not smell JP4 and burning feces in the classroom. This was real. After years of preparing for this moment, George felt ready. More than ready, in fact: he felt invincible.
The lieutenants were hardly more benighted than the most senior echelons of the United States government and the American Army. What Lieutenant George Crocker did not know on arriving at Bien Hoa he could not have been expected to know; what the president, the secretary of defense, the Joint Chiefs, and the Army’s top generals did not know would cost 58,000 American lives and lose the war.
Matt moved slowly among the dead as Charlie Company began zipping them into body bags. Never had he imagined having to witness such carnage. The battlefield bespoke something primordial, something as timeless as warfare; the stench, the droning flies, the grotesque attitude of corpses already ripening in the jungle heat. The mutilated bodies lying singly or in small groups, were reminiscent of Custer’s last stand. But the tableau also suggested a heartbreaking naïveté, like the Kindermort, the Massacre of the Innocents in 1914, when untrained German schoolboys had been slaughtered at Ypres.
Hallow-eyed with fatigue, a medic stumbled over and tugged the poncho from the wounded soldier. In the moonlight, Lindseth was horrified to see that there was nothing below the soldier’s waist; both legs had been severed at the hip. The sight seared itself into Lindseth’s memory, as the medic injected another syringe of morphine. A few hours later, the soldier died.
As so often happened now in Vietnam, Americans had fought and died valiantly for a meaningless terrain feature that was seized only to be immediately relinquished. The battle was a Pyrrhic victory once defined by Churchill as “bought so dear as to be almost indistinguishable from defeat.”
When Fran awoke, she knew it was true. Buck was gone forever. … The family did not know – and would not know for twenty years – that Buck had been killed by an American bomb.
The scene was sobering, but Tom was not inclined to ask himself any hard questions about the cost of the war. The doctors told him it would take two months to recuperate, yet already he was eager to get back with the Screaming Eagles. He was a West Pointer; a West Pointers place was at the front, even in a conflict where there was no front.
Never having had any second thoughts about the war, Tom wasn’t about to entertain them now. He was apolitical. Wasn’t that the way professional soldiers were supposed to be? Isn’t that what West Point taught, a rigorous neutrality? Humphrey, Nixon, LBJ – Tom could not see a nickel’s worth of difference between any of them. He wasn’t even registered to vote. Issues of war and peace were properly decided by the democratically elected government; for a lieutenant to second-guess that government showed arrogant bad faith.
People at home had no idea what the war was like, and most simply didn’t care to know.
One of Jan Scrugg’s favorite lines was from F. Scott Fitzgerald: “Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.” Here were written the names of more than 58.000 heroes, which made for a tragedy of epic magnitude. Somehow, though, the memorial moved beyond death and grief to a celebration of the mysteries of life. It’s supposed to heal, Bill thought, and it does.
The United States Army, its self-esteem battered in Southeast Asia, needed to win a war, any war.