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N,IODrJT
LEXTS FOR WRITERS
Tim O'Brien
whire and bl:rck, Protestant and Caclrolic, Ger-rtile and Jew and
Mtrslirn, rich and poor - even if we are not brothers-in-law.
T i mO ' B r i e n
w a sb o r ni n 1 9 4 6 i n A u s t i n M
, i n n e s o t tao, a n i n s u r a n c e
salesmaa
n n d a n e l e m e n t a rsyc h o o tl e a c h e rB
. o t ho f h i s p a r e n t s
w e r ev e t e r ? f l Sh:i s f a t h e rh a d b e e ni n t h e N a v yi n l w o J i m a a n d
Okinawa
d u r i n gW o r l dW a r l l , a n d h i s m o t h e rh a d s e r v e dw i t h t h e
W A V E S(W om enAccept edf or Volunt eerEm er gency
Ser vice)As
. a
c h i l d ,O ' B r i e n
s p e n t i m er e a d i n g
i n t h e c o u n t yl r b r a r yl e, a r n i ntgo
p e r f o r mm a g i ct r i c k s a
, n d p l a y i n gb a s e b a (l lh i sf i r s tp i e c eo f f i c t i o n
w a sc a l l e d" T i m m yo f t h e L i t t l eL e a g u e " ) .
O ' B r i e na t t e n d e dM a c a l e s t eCro l l e g ei n S a i n tP a u l ,M i n n e s o t a ,
m a j o r i n ign p o l i t i c asl c i e n c eW
. h e nh eg r a d u a t eidn 1 9 6 8 ,h e h o p e d
t o j o i nt h e S t a t eD e p a r t m e a
n st a d i p l o m a t - b u t i n s t e a dj u, s tw e e k s
ne
, w a sd r a f t e di n t ot h eA r m y O
a f t e rg r a d u a t i o h
. ' B r i e n e a r l fyl e dt o
C a n a d ad: u r i n gh i s t r a i n i n gi n F o r tL e w i sW
, a s h i n g t o hn e, p l a n n e d
to desert,but he went only as f ar as Seat t lebef or et ur ningback.
I n 1 9 6 9 , a t t h e a g eo f 2 2 , h e w e n tt o Q u a n gN g a i ,V i e t n a mf,i r s t
asa rifleman
a n d l a t e ra s a r a d i ot e l e p h o noep e r a t oarn d c l e r k .H e
c o m p l e t e ad 1 3 - m o n t ht o u r o f d u t y ,e a r n i n ga P u r p l eH e a r ta n d a
B ronzeS tar.
A f t e rh i sr e t u r nt o t h e U n i t e dS t a t e si n 1 9 7 0 ,O ' B r i e n
e n r o l l e idn
H a r v a r d 'dso c t o r apl r o g r a mi n g o v e r n m e natn d s p e n th i s s u m m e r s
w orki ngas an int er nf or t he Washr ngt on
Post .He becam ea f ullt i m e n a t i o n aal f f a i r sr e p o r t ecr ,o v e r i nS
g e n a t eh e a n n gasn d p o l i t i c a l
year slat er ,O 'Br ienlef t bot h his gr aduat e
events.S ever al
wor kand
hi sj ob at the Posft o pur suea car eeras a wr it er .ln a m em oirseven
,
n o v e l sa, n d m a n ys h o r ts t o r i e sO
, ' B r i e nh a se x p l o r e tdh e q u e s t i o n
o f m o r a rl e s p o n s i b i l iW
t yh
: oi s r e s p o n s i bfloer t h e 5 8 , 0 0 0A m e r i c a n
s o l d i e ras n d m o r et h a na m i l l i o nV i e t n a m e spee o p l ek i l l e di n b a t t l e
betw een1965 and 1975?
" O n t h e R a i n yR i v e r "d e s c r i b easy o u n gm a nw h oh a st o c h o o s e
goi ngt o Viet namandf leeingt o Canadat o evadet he dr af t .
betw een
H e b l a m e st h e w a r o n e v e r y o n e - t h ep r e s i d e n t ,h e j o i n t c h i e f s
o f s t a f f ,t h e k n e e - j e r p
k a t r i o t si n h i s h o m e t o w n - b u tu l t i m a t e l v
17I
172
t a k e sh i s p l a c ea m o n gt h e m , c h o o s i n tgo g o t o w a r . H i s d e c i s i o n
precipitates
the eventsof the book,The ThingsTheyCarried,just as
O'Brien'o
s w n c o n fl i c te d e c i s i o nto g o to w arset the courseof hi s
l i f e ,f i r s ta s a s o l d i ear n dt h e na s a w r i t e r .
TheThingsTheyCarried(1990)wasa finalistfor boththe Pulitzer
P r i z ea n d t h e N a t i o n aB
l o o kC r i t i c sC i r c l eA w a r d .O ' B r i e n ' o
sther
significantbooksincludelf I Die in a CombatZone,Box Me Up and
Ship Me Home (1973), Goingafter Cacciato(I978), The Nuclear
(1994).Ti mO' B ri enl i ves
A ge( I9 8 5 ), a n d l n th e L a k eo f th e Woods
in T exa sw i th h i s w i fe a n d s o n .H e te a chescreati vew ri ti ngat Texas
S t at eU n i v e rs i tv .
I73
1 , 7 4 M o D E LT E X T sF o R w R r r E R S
O'Bricn
I75
.,-l
f76
M o D E LT E X T SF o R w R r r E R S
I could almost hear his voice,and my morhers. Run, Id think. Then Id
think, Impossible.Then a secondlater Id think, Run.
It was a kind of schizophrenia.A moral split. I couldn't make up
my mind. Ifeared the war, yes,but I also fearedexile.I was afraid of
walking away from my own Iife, my friends and my family, my whole
history, everythingchat matceredto me. I fearedlosing the respecrof
my parents.I fearedthe law. I fearedridicule and censure.My hometown was a conservativelittle spot on the prairie, aplacewhere tradition
counted,and it was easyto imaginepeoplesitting around a rabledown
at the old Gobbler Caft on Main Streer,coffeecups poised,the conversation slowly zerorngin on the young O'Brien kid, how rhe damned
sissy had taken off for Canada. At night, when I couldn't sleep,Id
sometimes carryon 6erceargumentswith those people.I d be screaming at them, telling them how much I detestedtheir blind, thoughtless,
automatic acquiescence
to it aIl,their simple minded patriotism, their
prideful ignorance,their love-it-or-Ieave-itpladrudes,how they were
sendingme offto 6ght awar they didn't undersrandand didn't wanr ro
understand.I held them responsible.By God, yes,I did. AIlof rhem - I
held them personally and individually responsible- the polyestered
Kiwanis boys, the merchantsand farmers,the pious churchgoers,the
chatty housewives,the PTA and the Lions club and the Veteransof
Foreign Wars and the 6ne upstanding gentry our ar rhe country club.
Th.y didnt know Bao Dai from the man in the moon. Th"y didn't
know history. Th"y didn't know the 6rst thing about Diem's tyranny,
or the nature of Vietnamesenationalism,or the long colonialisrnof the
French- this was all too damned compli car.ed,
it required some readirg - but no matter, it was a war to stop the Communisrs, plain and
simple,which was how rhey liked things, and you were a rreasonous
pussy if you had secondthoughts abour killing or dying for plain and
simple reasons.
I was bitter, sure.But it was so much more than thar. The emotions
went from outrage to terror to bewilderment to guilt to sorrow and
then back againto outrage.I felt a sicknessinside me. Real disease.
Most of rhis I've rold before,or ar least hint ed ar,bur what I have
nevertold is the full rrurh. How I cracked.How at work one morning, standing on the pig line, I felr somerhingbreak open in my chest.
I don't know what it was. I'll neVerknow. Bur it was real, I know rhar
much, it was a physicalruprure - a cracking-leaking-popping
feeling.I
177
15
-d
I7B
20
exhausted,and scaredsick,and around noon I pulled inro an old fishing resort calledthe Tip Top Lodge.Actually it was nor a lodge ar all,
just eight or nine tir-ryyellow cabinsch-rsrered
on a peninsulathar-jutted
northward into the Rainy River. The placewas in sorry shape.There
was a dangerouswooden dock, an old minnow rank, a flimsy tar paper
boarhousealong the shore.The main building, wl-richsrood in a cluster of pir-reson high ground, seemedro lean l'teavilyro one side,like a
cripple,rhe roof saggingroward Canada.Briefly,I rhoughr abour rurning around,jusr givingup, buc rhen I gor our oi rhe car and walked up
to the fronr porch.
The man who openedthe door rhar day is chehero of my life. How
do I say rhis withour sounding sappyi Blurr ir our - rhe man saved,
me. He ollered exactlywhat I needed,wirhour questions,withour any
words at all. He took me in. He was there ar rhe crirical cime- a silent,
watchful Presence.
Six dayslarer,when ir ended,I was r-rnable
ro find a
proper way ro rhank hirn, and I neverhave,and so, if norhing else,tfiis
story representsa small gesrureof gracicudetwenty yearsoverdue.
Even after two decadesI can closemy eyesand return ro that porch
at cheTip Top Lodge.I can seecheold guy sraringar me. Elroy Berdahl:
eighry-oneyearsold, skinny and shrunken and rnosrlybald. He wore a
Ilannelshirt and brown work pants.In one hand,I remernber,
he carried,
a greenapple,a small paring knife in the other. His eyeshad the bluish
graycolor of a razor blade,the sarnepolishedshine,and ashe peeredup
at me I felt a strangesharpness,almost painful, a curting sensarion,as
if his gazeweresomehowslicingme open.In parr,no doubr,ir was my
own senseof guilt, but evenso I'm absolutelycertainrhar rhe old man
took one look and went right to the hearr of rhings- a kid in rrouble.
When I askedfor a room, Elroy made a little clicking sound wich his
rongue.He nodded, led me our ro one of the cabins,and dropped a
key in my hand. I rernembersmiling ar him. I also rememberwishing I
hadn't.The old man shook his head as if to tell rne ir wasn'rworrh rhe
bother.
"Dinner ar five-thirryi'he said."you
earfishi"
'Anything,"
I said.
Elroy grur-rredand said,"Illbet!'
we spenr six days rogerherar rlre Tip Top Lodge.
Jusr rhe rwo of us.
Tourist seasonwas over,and there were no boarson the river,and the
O'Brien
779
t80
the night Id, lie there watching weird pictr-rresspin rhrough nry l-read.
Getting chasedby the Border Patrol- hclicoptersand searchlighcs
and barkingdogs- IA be crashingthrough rhe woods,I d be down on
rny hands and knees- peopleshoutins our my name- rhe law closing in on all sides- my hornetown draft board and the FBI and the
Royal Canadian Mounted Police.it all seemedt^zy and irnpossible.
Twenty-oneyearsold, an ordinarykid with all the ordinarydreamsand
ambitions,an.1all I wanted was to live the life I was borr-rro - a mainstreamlfe- I lovedbaseballand harnburgcrsand cherryCokes- and
now I was offon the marginsof exile,leaving
my counrry forever,andit
seemedso impossibleand terrible and sad.
Iin not sure how I rnadeit rhrough those six days.Mosr of ir I can'c
remember,On two or three afternoons,to passsome time, I helped
Elroy get the place ready for winter, sweepingdown the cabins and
hauling in rhe boats,lirrle choresrhar kepr my body moving. The days
were cool and bright. The nights were very dark, One morning rhe old
man showed rne how to splicand stack firewoocl,and for severalhours
wejust worked in silenceor,rrbehind his house.Ar one poinc,I remcrnber, Elroy put down his maul and looked at rne for a long rime, his lips
drawn as if framing a difficult question,br-rtrhen he shook his head
and wenc back to work. Thc rnans sel{-controlwas antazing.He never
pried. He neverput me in a position that requiredlies or denials.To
an extent,I suppose,his rericencewas rypical of thar part of Minnesoca,where privacysdll held value,and even if I cl been walking around
- l'11 s111s
with some horrible defbrmity - four arms and three heac{s
the old man would'vetalked about everythingexceptthoseexrraarms
and heads.Simple politenesswas parr c-rfit. Bur even rrrorerhan that, I
think, the man understoodthat words wefe insufficient.The problem
had gone beyond discussion.Dtrring that long sun-unerI d been over
and over the variousargumenrs,all rhe pros and cons,and ir was no
longer a questionthat could be decidedby an act of pure reason.Intellect had come up againstemotion.My conscience
told rne ro run, bur
some irrational and powerful force was resistine like a weighr pr-rshing
me toward the war. What it came down to, srupidly,was a senseof
sharne.Hot, scupiclsharne.I did nor wanr peoplero rhink badly of me.
Not rny parents,not my brother and sister,not even rhe folks .lown ar
the Gobbler Cafe.I was ashamedto be rhere at ttre Tip Top Lodge. I
was asharnedof my conscience,
as[amed ro be doing the righr thing.
O'Brien
181
35
40
I82
O'Brien
183
184
65
O'Brien
dignity.
A11I could do was cry.Quietly, not bawling,just the chest-chokes.
At the rear of tl-reboar Elroy Berdahl pretended not to notice. He
held a fishing rod in his hands,his head bowed to hide his eyes.He
kept l-rumminga soft, monotonous little tune. Everywhere,it seemed,
in the treesand water and sky,a greatworldwide sadnesscame pressing
down on me, a crushingsorrow,sorrow like I had neverknown it before.
And what was so sad,I reahzed,was that Canada had becomea pidful
fantasy. Silly and hopeless.It was no longer a possibiliry.Right then,
with the shoreso close,I understoodthat I would not do what I should
do.I would not swim awayfrorn rny hometown and my country and my
life. I would not be brave.That old imageof rnyself as a hero, as a man
of conscienceand courage,all that was just a threadbarepipe dream'
Bobbing there on the Rainy River,looking back at the Minnesota shore,
comeovcr mc, a drowning sensation,
I felt a suddenswellof helplessness
as if I had toppled overboardand was being swePt away by the silver
waves.Chunks of my own history {lashedby. I saw a seven-year-oldboy
in a white cowboy hat and a Lone Rangermask and a pair of holstered
six-shooters;I saw a twelve'year'oldLittle League shortstop pivoting
to turn a double play; I saw a six[een-year-oldkid decked out for his
first prom, looking.pifry in a white tux and a black bow tie, his hair cut
shorr and flat, his shoesfreshlypolished.My whole life seemedto spill
out into the river, swirling away fr0in me, everything I had ever been
185
I
or ever wanted to be. I couldn't ger my breath; I couldnt stay afloat;
was
couldnt tell which way to swim. A hallucination,I suppose,but it
1xe
to
calling
my
I
saw
feel.
ever
Parents
as real as anyrhing i would
townsfolk'
the
all
sister,
from rhe faruhorii.,". I saw rny brother and
the rnayorand the entire Chamber of Commerceanclall n-ryold teachgirlfriends and high schoolbuddies.Like some weird sPorting
.r,
".,i
loud
evenr:.ri.rybody ,.r"arrrir-rgfrotn the sidelines,rooting me on a
heat'
stadiurn
smells,
stadium roar. Hotdogs and PoPcorn stadium
A squad of cheerle"d"r, did carrwheelsalong the banks of the Rainy
R.iver;they had megaphonesand pompoms and smooth brown thighs.
righr. A marching band playedfight songs.
The crowd swayedl"i,
"trd
All my aunrs and uncleswere there,and Abraharn Lincoln, and Saint
brain
George,and a nine,year-oldgirl namedLinda who had cliedof a
,tl-o-l. back in fifth grade,and severalmembers pf the United States
and
Senate,and a blind plet scribblingnores,and LBJ, and Huck Finn,
the
and
the
grave,
from
Abbie Hoffman, ar",J rhe dead soldiersback
"il
burns'
many rhousandswho were later to die villagerswith terrible
little kids withour arms or legs- Yes,and tl-reJointChiefs of Staffwere
there,ancla coupleof popes,and a 6rst lieutenantnanledJimrny Cross,
Fonda
and rhe last survivi,',gu.t"r"n of the Ame rican Civil War, andJane
and
dressedup as Barbarella,and an old man sprawledbesidea pigpen,
rny grandfather,and Gary Cooper, and a kind-faced woman cxrying
and a rnillion ferociousciti.r*br"lla and a copy of Plato'sRepublic,
".,
shapesand colors peoplein hard hats,people
zenswaving flagsof
"ll
me
in headbands- they were all wl-roopingand chanting end urging
and
toward one shore or the otl-rer.I saw facesfrom rny c-listantpast
me,
af
waved
daughter
unborn
My
distanr future. My wife was rhere.
named
sergeant
drill
and my rwo sons hopped up and down, and a
a
Blyton sneeredand shot up a frngerand shook his l-read.There was
There
choir in brighr purple robes.There was a cabbiefrom the Bronx.
a
along
hand
grenade
a
with
kill
day
was a slim young man I would one
red claytrail outsidethe villageof My Khe'
The litrle aluminum boat rocked softly beneathme. There was the
wind and the sky.
I tried to will mYselfoverboard.
I gripped rhe edge of rhe boat and leaned forward and thought,
Now.
I did try. It just wasn'tPossible.
t*
r*r
186
70
75
'
O'Brien
* O n r h e R : r i r . r yR i v e r
two hundred dollars on the kitchen counter,got into the car,and drove
south toward home.
The day was cloudy.I passedthrough towns with familiar names,
tlrrough the pine forestsand down to the Pralrre,and rhen to Vietnam'
wlrere I was a soldier,and then home again,I survived,but it's not a
hrppy ending.I was a coward.I went to the war'
lB7
80