UPDATE: Thanks also to Michael Lotus and the Chief for sending the story also—we always appreciate reader tips and stories.

ORIGINAL POST: Thanks to Eddie for the heads up: right after Hitchen weighed in from the previous post, Kaplan has a piece in the Atlantic Online, weighing in with half a dozen books written by Vietnam soldiers, and the similarities and differences between that war and Iraq. The entire article approaches 10,000 words; I’ve included a (very) abridged version below.

Rereading Vietnam

In 1943, at the age of 18, George Everette “Bud” Day of Sioux City, Iowa, enlisted in the Marines. He served in the Pacific during World War II, and later became a fighter pilot. He flew the F-84F Thunderstreak during the Korean War and the F-100F Super Sabre in Vietnam. Bud Day, a legendary “full-blooded jet-jock” as one recent account dubbed him, would see service in all three wars as a sanctified whole: For him the concept of the “long war” was something he had built his life around in the middle decades of the 20th century. As an Air Force major, he was the first commander of the squadron of fast FACs (forward air controllers), who loitered daily for hours over North Vietnamese airspace, seeking out targets for other fighter bombers. With the most dangerous air mission in the Vietnam War, Day and the other fast FACs were known as “Misty warriors.” Misty was the radio call sign that Day himself had chosen for the squadron, inspired by his favorite Johnny Mathis song. The Mistys were “an aggressive bunch of bastards who pressed the fight; they got down in the weeds” and “trolled for trouble,” writes Robert Coram in a recently published book about Bud Day, American Patriot. On August 26, 1967, Bud Day’s luck ran out. He was shot down over North Vietnam.

The Military Code of Conduct “required that escape take priority over personal fears and concerns,” Day writes in his own memoir, Duty Honor Country, published in 1989 by American Hero Press, Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Not ranked on Amazon, it is among the most amazing personal stories of any war. His eardrums ruptured, his face crusted with blood from beatings, one arm broken and both knees badly injured from the ejection, Bud Day was hung by the feet “like a side of butchered beef for many hours” by his captors after he refused to answer their questions. A week into his captivity he escaped. He then hiked 12 days alone in the jungle back to South Vietnam, eating frogs, nauseous from pain, only to be recaptured.

With all of his limbs now broken or shot up, he spent the next six years in captivity, undergoing mock executions, hung again repeatedly by his feet, often not permitted to urinate, beaten senseless in scenes “out of the Mongol Hordes” with whips that made his testicles like charred meat. When prison guards burst in on him and other POWs during a clandestine Christian service, Day stared into their muzzles and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

A recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor, Day took the greatest pride in never revealing information to his captors about the Misty program. “If I were to divulge our secrets and tactics, it was highly likely that many of my fine, young, loyal pilots would die as a result…”

I met Bud Day in September 2005 at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station where Navy flyers had lined up to buy his book, for which he had to take payments in cash. I thought it demeaning that he had to sell his book this way. It says something about the blind spots of a Manhattan-based publishing industry that Day had to go to what is essentially a vanity press. The publication of Coram’s book is, therefore, a welcome event.

The relative obscurity of Day’s autobiography and other books like it about Vietnam constitutes a lesser-known aspect of our civilian-military divide. The books to which I refer should be part of our recollection of Vietnam, but they generally aren’t. They aren’t so much stories that soldiers tell civilians as those that soldiers tell each other. Of course, there are exceptions: most famously James Webb’s Fields of Fire (1978), a book that overlaps with this category and which, in fact, did become a bestseller. But there is a range of books of lesser literary merit, yet of equal historical worth, that either have small readerships or readerships consisting overwhelmingly of military personnel, active duty and retired. The authors of these lesser-known books include marines and Green Berets (Army Special Forces) who were involved in counterinsurgency operations. Their writing reveals a second divide—that between professional warriors and conventional, citizen soldiers—which is but another facet of the warrior’s alienation from the civilian world. To explore this second divide, I must also bring into the discussion a French writer and a British soldier, whose legacies include not only Indochina, but Algeria and pre-World War II Palestine—scenes, too, of messy, irregular warfare. Thus, my notion of another Vietnam library goes beyond the subject at hand…

...The term “professional warrior” is explicitly used by Navy Vice Admiral James Bond Stockdale of Abingdon, Illinois, to describe himself, in A Vietnam Experience: Ten Years of Reflection (Hoover Institution Press, 1984). I learned in depth about Vice Admiral Stockdale’s writings in this and a second book, Thoughts of a Philosophical Fighter Pilot (Hoover, 1995) from midshipmen at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, where I teach. One “mid” told me that the moral lessons Stockdale provides helped inspire him to go to the academy.

Stockdale himself is a symbol of a civilian-military divide. The very way you recall him upon hearing his name shows on what side of the divide you fall. Most civilians remember Stockdale as H. Ross Perot’s seemingly dazed vice presidential candidate, who, in the 1992 debate with Al Gore and Dan Quayle asked aloud, “Who am I? Why am I here?” and later requested that a question be repeated, since he had not turned on his hearing aid. In fact, Stockdale, a life-long student of philosophy, had meant his questions to be rhetorical, a restatement of the most ancient and essential of questions. Because of television’s ability to ruin people’s lives by catching them in an embarrassing moment in time, too few are aware that Stockdale’s vice presidential bid was insignificant compared with almost everything else he did.

Those on the other side of the divide remember him as among the most selfless and self-reflecting heroes the armed services have ever produced. In September 1965, then-Navy Commander Stockdale (the equivalent of a lieutenant colonel) was forced to eject from his A-4 Skyraider over North Vietnam. He spent the next seven years in prison, undergoing the usual barbaric treatment that the North Vietnamese communists meted out to Americans who did not provide information. Told that he was going to be shown to foreign journalists, Stockdale, a Medal of Honor winner, slashed his scalp with a razor and beat himself in the face with a wooden stool, to prevent being used for propaganda purposes. “When George McGovern said he would go to Hanoi on his knees, we prisoners … were humiliated,” Stockdale writes. “We did not go anywhere on our knees, least of all home … Most of us would be there now rather than knuckle under,” he writes in 1984.

Stockdale explains—drawing on Napoleon, Clausewitz, and other military strategists—that “the word moral” bears an “unmistakably manly, heroic connotation.” (Virtue or virtu in Machiavelli’s Italian derives ultimately from vir, Latin for “man.”) He says that while we think of immorality in terms of categories like sexual abandon and fiscal irresponsibility, such vices, as serious as they may seem to civilians, are not in the same category as failure of nerve (his italics) in war. For a professional warrior, “doing your duty” is not to be confused with “following orders.” The latter implies routine and mechanistic repetition; the former an act of potentially painful and devastating consequences, in which serving a larger good may mean something worse than death even…

...You cannot approach Vietnam and Iraq, or the subject of counterinsurgency in general, without reference to Jean Larteguy, a French novelist and war correspondent, who, in a very different way than Stockdale, is an example in his own person of the civilian-military divide. Larteguy inhabits the very soul of the modern Western warrior, alienating some civilian readers in the process. Stockdale quotes him. Sorley told me that several editions of Laretguy’s The Centurions (1960) have passed through his hands in the course of a professional lifetime dominated by Vietnam. Alistair Horne, the renowned historian of the Algerian War, uses Larteguy for epigrams in A Savage War of Peace (1977). Some months back, Gen. David Petreaus—now commander of U.S. ground forces in Iraq – pulled The Centurions off a shelf at his home in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and gave me a disquisition about the small unit leadership principles exemplified by one of the characters. For half a decade now, Green Berets have been recommending Larteguy’s The Centurions and The Praetorians (1961) to me: books about French paratroopers in Vietnam and Algeria in the 1950s.

Almost half-a-century ago, this Frenchman was obsessed about a home-front that had no context for a hot, irregular war; about a professional warrior class alienated from its civilians compatriots as much as from its own conventional infantry battalions; about the need to engage in both combat and civil affairs in a new form of warfare to follow an age of what he called victory parades and “cinema-heroics”; about an enemy with complete freedom of action, allowed “to do what we didn’t dare;” and about the danger of creating a “sect” of singularly brave iron men, whose ideals were so exalted that beyond the battlefield they had a tendency to become woolly-headed. Larteguy dedicates his book to the memory of centurions who died so that Rome might survive, but he notes in his conclusion that it was these same centurions who destroyed Rome.

Born in 1920, Jean Larteguy—a pseudonym; his real name was Jean Osty—fought with the Free French and afterwards became a journalist. Because of his military experience and resistance ties, he had nearly unrivaled access to French paratroopers who fought at Diem Bien Phu and in the Battle of Algiers. His empathy for these men, some of whom were torturers, made him especially loathed by the Parisian Left, even though he broke with the paratroopers themselves, out of opposition to their political goals which he labeled “neofascism.”

Larteguy eventually found his military ideal in Israel, where he became revered by paratroopers who translated The Centurions into Hebrew to read at their training centers. He called these Jewish soldiers “the most remarkable of all of war’s servants, superior even to the Viet, who at the same time detests war the most … ” By the mid-1970s, though, he became disillusioned with the Israel Defense Forces. He said it had ceased to be “a manageable grouping of commandos” and was becoming a “cumbersome machine” too dependent on American-style technology—as if foreseeing some of the problems with the 2006 Lebanon campaign…

...The conventional officer would reply that the warrior’s field of sight is so narrow that he can’t see anything beyond the mission. “They’re dangerous,” one of Larteguy’s protagonists says of the paratroopers, “because they go to any lengths … beyond the conventional notion of good and evil.” For if the warrior’s actions contradict his faith, his doubts are easily overcome by belief in the larger cause. Larteguy writes of one soldier: “He had placed the whole of his life under the sign of Christ who had preached peace, charity, brotherhood … and at the same time he had arranged for the delayed-action bombs at the Cat-Bi airfield … ‘What of it? There’s a war on and we can’t allow Hanoi to be captured.’”

Vietnam, like Iraq, represented a war of frustrating half-measures, fought against an enemy that respected no limits. Bud Day, half-starved and broken-limbed, writes of seeing a long convoy of trucks heading out of Hanoi, safe because of our own self-imposed bombing restrictions. “I found it mind-boggling that the United States, the strongest nation in the world, would permit this flea on the buttocks of humanity to conduct a war this way.” More than almost any writer I know, Larteguy communicates the intensity of such frustrations, which, in turn, create the psychological gulf that separate warriors like Bud Day from both a conscript army and a civilian home-front.

Dirty, badly conceived wars in Vietnam and Algeria had begotten a radicalized French warrior class of non-commissioned officers, able to kill in the morning and build schools in the afternoon, which had a higher regard for its Moslem guerrilla adversaries than for regular officers in its own ranks. Such men would gladly advance toward a machine gun nest without looking back, and yet were “booed by the crowds” upon returning home: so that they saw the civilian society they were defending as “vile, corrupt, and degraded.”

The estrangement of soldiers from their own citizenry is somewhat particular to counter-insurgencies, where there are no neat battle lines and thus no easy narrative for the people back home to follow. The frustrations in these wars are great precisely because they are not easily communicated. Larteguy writes: Imagine an environment where a whole garrison of 2,000 troops are “held in check” by a small “band of thugs and murderers.” The enemy is able to “know everything: every movement of our troops, the departure times of our convoys … Meanwhile we’re rushing about the bare mountains, exhausting our men; we shall never be able to find anything.”

Because the enemy is not limited by western notions of war, the temptation arises among a stymied soldiery to bend its own rules. Following an atrocity carried out by French paratroopers that calms a rural area of Algeria, one soldier rationalizes to another: “’Fear has changed sides, tongues have been loosened … We obtained more in a day than in six months fighting, and more with twenty-seven dead than with several hundreds.’” The soldiers comfort themselves further with a quotation from a 14th century Catholic bishop: “When her existence is threatened, the Church is absolved of all moral commandments.” It is the purest of them, according to Larteguy, who is most likely to commit torture.

Here we enter territory that is utterly unrelated to the individual Americans I’ve been writing about. It is important to make such distinctions. When Larteguy writes about bravery and alienation, he understands American warriors; when he writes about political insurrections and torture, some exceptions aside, he is talking about a particular caste of French paratroopers. Yet his discussion is relevant to America’s past in Vietnam and present in Iraq. I don’t mean My Lai and Abu Ghraib, both of which aided the enemy rather than ourselves, but the moral gray area that we increasingly inhabit concerning collateral civilian deaths.

A frustrated warrior class, always kept in check by liberal-minded officers, is the sign of a healthy democracy.

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