The chief difficulty with reviewing this book is what it has in common with conspiracist thinking, to wit that any criticism is folded right into what it's criticizing. Challenge a conspiracy theorist and you're part of the conspiracy. Challenge this memoir's take on military life, or on civilians, and that's because you're one of the annoying Civilians Who Just Don't Understand. Nevertheless, here goes: the experience of reading The After made me wonder whether this was what my therapist feels like when I vomit unprocessed emotions all over her without letting her get a word in edgewise. This book isn't so much a memoir as a reliving -- or, to put that another way, it's emotion recollected in no tranquility whatsoever.
Some of the points Ramos insists on beggar belief, which is to say that it's hard not to smell denial in the air. He expresses so much grief for his dead fellows, yet he claims to feel no fear for his son, who has just enlisted with the Marines. In the foreword, he writes: "if you’re a civilian reader and think I’m angry with you, ask yourself if you’re doing the things I call out, like assuming I’m a hero or a victim, or wanting my story to meet your expectations, for example. If these things don’t apply to you, then don’t worry about it." I'm uneasy about credentialing myself, but here goes anyway: my beloved father was a WWII Polish soldier who for obvious reasons became a POW in Germany more or less instantly, and I've read enough military history and accounts of soldiers' lives that I don't think I walked into The After with a lot of presuppositions about What Soldiers Are Like. Yet I sure did feel as if I was being raged at for being a civilian at all. Make of that what you will.
And consider a passage like this, in which Ramos describes a conversation with another soldier when they're both posted on Okinawa: "Sixty years ago. Men our age. In our same companies fought, sometimes to the last man, here. I stopped talking. Yeah, it’s heavy, he said after a long pause. A huge legacy to live up to, he said. He looked across the ground into the distance with those blue eyes of his. A lot of tradition, he said." Ah. Well, WWII, like all wars, was replete with atrocity, but a "tradition" of US forces in the Pacific during that war was to not take Japanese prisoners, and, fine, I'm a civilian so my opinion doesn't count, but there's something morally obtuse in getting misty-eyed here. Or at least in honoring the courage without acknowledging what often accompanied it.
There's a lot of value in The After, for example the passages that articulate grief and guilt over the deaths of Ramos's fellow soldiers, and in Ramos's descriptions of the daily experience of soldiering in Iraq: "We hadn’t eaten anything in days because you couldn’t open your canteens to fill the MRE heater because the water would turn to mud from the grit and the sand would fill an open MRE pouch in seconds and no one wanted to eat spoonfuls of sand. We were sick of MREs anyway."
All that having been said, even a civilian is capable of knowing what unprocessed trauma looks like, and The After is one long outpouring of unprocessed trauma, whether it would piss Michael Ramos off to hear me say so or not. The more I read, the more I thought about John Keegan's book The Face of Battle, Denis Winter's Death's Men, and Jonathan Shay's Achilles in Vietnam -- and the many other documentary accounts of soldiers' wars -- and the more skeptical I became.
I'll close with something Jonathan Shay says in his Odysseus in America: "Modern battle is a condition of captivity (even when it has been entered voluntarily), a fact that has escaped notice because the captives move about in the open carrying powerful weapons, and because the role of captor is cooperatively shared by the two enemy military organizations — which are presumed to cooperate in nothing. 'Primitive' warfare, of which Iliadic warfare is an example, is and was voluntary — Achilles really could say, 'I quit.' Modern combat is a condition of enslavement and torture."
[ETA: I had a look at reviews by readers who identify themselves as vets, and their responses incline me toward a somewhat different take: The After made them feel seen, I'd say exactly by articulating the unprocessed trauma that, for me, makes the book less effective as a memoir. That's something of great value and I don't mean to minimize it. But I can only read as me.]
Thanks to the University of North Carolina Press and NetGalley for the ARC.