Almost A Proverb

From the first words of this book the reader is yanked out of their lethargic postmodern complacency and forced to confront the hard-core reality of the world (s) he inhabits. As a gripping and honest chronicle of war and warriors, Almost a Proverb takes its place in the long Western tradition of epic war narrative that began with Homer's Iliad. It is, however, a very different sort of war story. Of war, much has already been written; indeed, it seems to be the central myth of our culture. Perhaps it is the case, as Chris Hedges asserts, that "war is a force that gives us meaning" (one wondersand perhaps not idlyhow different our culture might now be if a matriarchal peace ethos was instead the core value of our society). There has been more written about the American War in Vietnam than any other war to datehistories, soldier's memoirs, fiction, poetry, dissections of strategy and politics, propagandist tracts, biographies, analyses of battles and catalogues of equipmenta vast sea of writings that span a continuum from the most erudite scholarship to the most lurid war porn imaginable. Sometimesmore often than we would like to thinkthe former becomes indistinguishable from the latter, and we forget that when one speaks of war, (s)he speaks of real human beings suffering in the most extreme and horrific circumstances. The war narrative sings of blood, death, fire, steel, trauma, degradation, privation, grief, berserk rage, killing of innocents, shattered lives. It speaks as well of the profound, enduring love that grows between comrades, the finding of identity and selfand its preservationunder the most adverse conditions. Why yet another Vietnam book, almost thirty years after war's end? Exactly because we as a species remain collectively poised on the brink of our own violent destruction, and because we still (apparently) have not learned the lessons of Vietnam, even as American forces sink into new quagmires in the Middle East. Besides those of us old enough to have lived through the war years and their aftermath, there are new generations who know little to nothing of this war or any other, save the often propagandistic distortions of war and history produced by Hollywood. Yet the war's ghosts move among us still, and the tale must be told anew, over and over. America as a nation has yet to come to terms with this brutal conflict. What we require are war narratives that do not flinch from conveying the absolute horror of modern war and our often perverse attraction to it. We need narratives that chronicle honestly the sufferings of war's participants and victims, and allow us to identify with them, narratives that expose the corruption and folly of those who orchestrate and instigate war, stories and vivid re-memberings that compel us to recall with dignity and honor those who have served and fallen, without seeking to glorify war-making. The true war narrative leaves us shattered, stammering, floundering in our attempts to make some sort of sense out of the purest madness. Vietnam veteran Tim O'Brien writes in The Things We Carried that "A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue if at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie," the ancient lie told to "children ardent for some desperate glory," the wretched dulce et decorum est pro patria mori that Wilfred Owen's war poetry deplores. O'Brien continues, "There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil." Hence, almost a proverb. There is no grand truth to be salvaged from the hell of Vietnam, no redeeming meta-narrative, no cheap justification for the suffering; there is only an honest accounting to be made from multiple perspectives, and

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