As editor Thomas E. Barden writes in his Preface (pg. vii), it is a surprise to learn that John Steinbeck, an author more readily associated with the Dust Bowl novels of the 1930s and, at the very latest, with 1952's East of Eden, was a war correspondent in Vietnam in 1966-67. Only a year before his death, he submitted these perceptive dispatches from the frontline, and their publication in Newsday meant they have the honour of constituting his final published work in his lifetime.
Steinbeck seems to belong to a different era – and it is that, rather than any of his specific observations, which makes Steinbeck in Vietnam interesting. The venerable Steinbeck, literary champion of the downtrodden, appears to have been motivated to travel to Vietnam to remedy the seemingly false impression that the war was wrong and America the region's predator. In this, he seems to be trying to recreate his remarkable dispatches from World War Two (compiled into the volume Once There Was a War), focusing on the region's people, the experiences of the ordinary soldier, and on pen-portraits and the minutiae of life in a warzone. However – and crucially – the success of such an approach relies on the luxury of having the question of the rightness of the war already settled. That was the case in World War Two, but on Vietnam Steinbeck appears to have underestimated how much he would have to fight for his ground.
For whatever reason, the dispatches do not have the quality or literary merit of those World War Two pieces. Whereas Once There Was a War is highly recommended for your reading pleasure, Steinbeck in Vietnam remains something of a curiosity. Steinbeck still writes well and is as perceptive as ever on a human level, but I think there's just something about the Vietnam War which unseats an American mind. They never could get a handle on it, and the general sense of discomfort and confusion is ever-present. This means that Steinbeck's writing here is restless, ever seeking but rarely finding.
Steinbeck recognises that this is not a conventional war with battle lines and "pins in the map" (pg. 65), but he is still unable to translate his prose into a perspective that appreciates the full implications of that. It's an older generation unable, by its very nature, to fully understand the values of the next. Vietnam was a murky war, the first major war the American Republic fought that it could not convincingly portray as a moral crusade. So when Steinbeck focuses on the lot of the ordinary soldier, or the support given to Vietnamese villagers, it rings somewhat hollow. It may be true, and sincere, but the war was never that. The most Steinbeckian passage in the book, that the war will be decided "not in Washington, or Moscow or Peking, but in the rice paddy, the hill village, the fishing boat…" (pg. 122) may be true to some extent, but the very nature of America's presence in that country robs it of any moral force. The American determination to view geopolitics through a moral lens meant that defeat in Vietnam was always inevitable. Even if it had conquered every inch of ground, and routed every Viet Cong from the tunnels, and took Hanoi, none of it could ever have met America's own criteria for victory.
Every American commentary on the war draws its card against this stacked deck, which perhaps explains why the cynical, peacenik, counter-culture view on the war won out, both then and now. That perspective was just as flawed in its own way, but it was able to feed on such moral ambiguity, whereas the honest, good-old-boy, throwback America Steinbeck's side represented was starved and parched with thirst. It's interesting to see Steinbeck initially approach the war as he had the European theatre of World War Two, and then to pour (often justified) scorn on the hypocrisy of many of the war protestors at home, only to himself gradually become more circumspect. He doesn't come around to their view, but he does seem to gain more humility in his own, and his support of the war becomes increasingly anchored on solidarity with the men on the ground than any patriotic or geopolitical stance. One wonders how Steinbeck would have manifested such a dilemma in his writing going forward, had he not died so soon after. The America he came from and wrote about had already gone, the shining city on the hill brought down to everyone else's level by, among other things, its increasingly compromised interaction with a globalised world. Steinbeck in Vietnam might lack the merit of Once There Was a War, but it does allow for a rare reading sensation: that of seeing a great writer defeated not by doing poorly, but by doing well.