"There It Is": Narratives of the Vietnam War. Tom Burns

extent the production of the men who fought it and reflects the conclusions about the American soldiers reached in the previous section. This literary production, in all its variety, constitutes the “American Literature of the Vietnam War,” as Stewart O’Nan has properly called it.80 It is worth recalling that the war is called the American War by the Vietnamese. There are now a growing number of works written by Vietnamese-Americans that are taking their place within the corpus of Asian-American literature, as well as imaginative works written by non-Asians about Vietnamese immigrant communities in the United States.81

The most notable fictional work written by a Vietnamese American is Viet Thanh Nguyen’s superbly written The Sympathizer (2015), about the fall of Saigon and its aftermath. The unnamed narrator is a “spook,” but “one able to see any issue from both sides.” His narrative is a “confession” to his Communist superiors, written in a re-education camp, about his time served as the aide-de-camp and intelligence officer to an ARVN general during the time in which he was actually an infiltrated NVA spy. The novel shows him to be sympathetic to both the cause of North Vietnam and the plight of the people of the defeated south, as well as a close observer of American politics and culture.82

      The radical critic Don Ringnalda has argued against the possibility of any narrative representation of the war “getting it right” because of the ineffectiveness of any master narrative to explain such a complex event. This may be true, but every narrative adds something to the whole picture and most fictional narratives of war, especially those written by subalterns or enlisted men have always focused on a limited field of action. Ringnalda views these narratives as simultaneously attracting and repelling. Aestheticising war is perhaps impossible to avoid completely despite the depiction of its horrors (cf. the Iliad), but readers must reflect—something that is more difficult for filmgoers, who are willing voyeurs—on war as spectacle versus war as historical moment.

Most of the narratives discussed here focus on the American soldier, but there is a broader perspective in the earlier literary works that reflect the period before the United States became the overwhelming presence in Vietnam, as well as in the later works that reflect social and cultural concerns that go beyond the war itself. Although the Vietnamese people are explored in the exile and immigrant literatures mentioned above, as well as in the plethora of historical and cultural studies that followed the war, in the American novels, autobiographies, and memoirs of the war discussed in this book the Vietnamese tend to be stereotyped. As O’Nan puts it: “In work after work, Vietnam and the Vietnamese are merely backdrops for the drama of America confronting itself.”83 The anti-war feminist writer Lynne Hanley states the situation more bluntly:

…virtually all our well-known representations of Vietnam in literature and film ask us, first and foremost, to pity the white American soldier—to share his guilt, to weigh his wounds, to forgive his degradation, to understand his loyalties, to admire his endurance, to appreciate his betrayal, to recognize “the superior spiritual status” of the American soldier “trapped by history, dragged down into the animal mud” of Vietnam.”84

Hanley’s assessment is harsh, but with the exceptions discussed in Renny Christopher’s book on exile narratives, it is undoubtedly true. At the same time, one might ask what these unprofessional soldier-writers were supposed to write about if not their own experiences, and it seems that the indictment Hanley makes of the American literature and films for their “shockingly thin version of the Vietnamese” in the representations is not a condemnation of the soldier-writers but of American society and culture as a whole. As she observes, and as Frances FitzGerald shows again and again in her book Fire in the Lake (1970), the failure to understand the Vietnamese “was very close to the heart of our problems in that country.”85

Because most of the war narratives were written by veterans, they have also been included in what is called the “literature of trauma,” thus connecting them with survivor narratives from other wars and other kinds of traumatic experiences, a grouping that makes explicit the status of the veteran as victim. Although certainly not all veterans would classify themselves in this way, the classification has the merit of showing how their narratives are “the product of three coincident features: the experience of trauma, the urge to bear witness, and a sense of community.”86 Through their narratives, these soldier-writers have borne witness to, and, to some extent, come to terms with their traumas while at the same time establishing common ground—a community—with other survivors.87

      Remembering also remains an important experience for the culture as a whole, especially American culture, which tends, like other cultures, to mythologize its past. Ringnalda, for example, complains that

much of America’s memory of Vietnam is on the [Catch-22’s Snowden’s] hip wound inflicted on the proud myths of the City on a Hill. And sad to say, much of its energy is focused on restoring those myths. Too often the radical wound goes unattended, perhaps out of collective and in individual fear that it’s beyond treatment.88

Ringnalda cites novelist Tim O’Brien, who told a group of students that the First Gulf War, so soon after Vietnam, proved that the latter war never happened: “History and memory had been air-brushed out of existence.”89 The misinterpretation of history can be a way of reinterpreting reality, and it has not been confined to the war in Vietnam. World War II was a horrific historical event that has been relentlessly mythologized as the “Good War” ever since its close in 1945. As Fussell, a student of the culture of the two world wars, has written, “America has not yet understood what the Second World War was like and thus been able to use such understanding to re-interpret and redefine the national reality.”90 Although some commentators have drawn connections between American myths and attempts to explain—or explain away—the war, Marilyn B. Young argues that the war is too large an event in our consciousness to be able to will it to disappear:

What militarists deplore as the Vietnam syndrome can better be understood as a relatively unique event in American history: an inability to forget, a resistance to the everyday workings of historical amnesia, despite the serious and coordinated efforts of the government and much of the press to “heal the wounds” of the war by encouraging such forgetting.91

      One motive for this will to forgetfulness is that until Vietnam, defeat in war, with the exception of the American South, had not been a part of American historical experience. Indeed, the collective trauma of defeat seemed to be so strong that the Vietnam War was forgotten—repressed—for a decade. But it refused to go away, insisting on being recovered because of the traumatic collective consciousness of national defeat.

In the meantime, historians, social scientists, literary critics, and other scholars have attempted to explain the war for their own purposes. Here, as always in American history, American literature has played an essential critical role in interpreting the collective past. In Philip K. Jason’s view, “the imaginative literature of the Vietnam War, broadly defined, participates—whether overtly or covertly, consciously or unconsciously—in a struggle for the national memory.”92 Another important critic, Milton J. Bates, also reminds us how literature may play different interpretive roles: “the war story, like war itself, is politics by other means.”93