Ordinarily I don’t review non-fiction books, but this memoir of a Special Operations Group-Vietnam unit by a guy who was there is such a rollicking good story you could easily read it as a novel. But it ain’t. It’s real. Which makes it all the more entertaining.
“O makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep,” as Kipling put it, pretty much sums the entire Vietnam War and the people who fought it. While we ‘Muricans have a long and proud tradition of disdaining our soldiers, Vietnam was the first war where we literally spat on them, collectively treating them as a bunch of brain-shocked cripples just one tantrum away from going full postal on a peace-loving and kind America. Ya know, man, tin soldiers and Nixon coming, Westmoreland turned all our innocent farmer boys into baby killers, man. They’re all traumatized from the butchery that the Republicans made them inflict on the peace-loving and wonderful innocent peasants of Vietnam. Doesn’t matter that Vietnam was a Johnson-and-the-Democrats war; somehow, the Republicans are at fault. That attitude has carried forward and if you don’t hear five or six Public Service announcements a day implying that every vet is a PTSD laden time bomb unable to cope, then you’re not listening.
‘Course this is baby boomer hogwash because the baby boomer wars- Vietnam and Grenada and the first Gulf War- were fought under the boomers’ wholesale rejection of the Greatest Generation’s lessons of self-reliance and independence and, yes, going to war against oppression. Peace and love and rock and roll, man, and if the freedom-loving people of Vietnam wanted to form a socialist collective, the running dog lackeys of the capitalist imperialist class had no right to interfere. Mythology and bumper stickers took the place of rational thought, and we tried to fight a war in a manner pleasing to high school sophomores. And lost.
But not without a fight. And a good one, as this book describes with high hilarity and hair-raising detail. My God, how anybody walked into and away from some of the nameless battles and firefights that pepper this book is a testament to the special kind of bravery- or recklessness, pick your characteristic- that Special Forces troops have. Reading like an around-the-campfire trading of war stories, Brokhausen brings you right there, bullets whizzing past your head and grenades exploding. No doubt some of this is campfire embellishment made more harrowing by the passing of time and memory, but you know that, while a detail here and there may be exaggerated, you are hearing true tales of combat by America’s warrior elites against a fanatical enemy.
And our special forces are a warrior elite, true Vikings, men apart and thank God for them. They fight at a level of savagery and competence we mortals simply cannot grasp. And they party at the same level. The stories of their pranks and off duty pursuits through the streets of Saigon and other places is no more for the faint of heart than are the combat operations they executed. Sometimes you can’t tell the difference between a prank and a firefight, and there is a sniffy kind of fussy REMF who would simply be appalled by such goings on. But that is the nature of the warrior class. Thank God for it.
This book will make you uncomfortable with its casual cruelty, both on and off the battlefield, and the tender little muffins that are now taking over the operations of society, who are so scared of a bad cold that they hide quivering in their houses, will cluck tongues and say something about ill educated oafs who can’t do anything useful except be soldiers in need of lifetime psychological support. But you’d do best to remember:
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
(Kipling: Tommy)
Brothers, I salute you. I wasn't strong enough or tough enough to join your ranks. But I sure wish I was.