TREMAINSVILLE, New York -- July 4th in small-town America, a tradition that thrives despite a "sophisticated" world that views such things as "hokey" or "corny." None of the folks of Tremainsville think of themselves as "corny" as they line up on the street to watch sons and daughters and relatives march grandly through a brilliant blue-sky morning. There are the bands and the fire trucks and the Scout troops and Miss Davenport's dance class and the American Legion with their arms cocked in salute and the chicken barbecue at the Fairgrounds and, at night, the fireworks that will fill the sky with light and noise. It is July 4th in small-town America, a day of festivity and good cheer.
You know, the farthest I've ever gone was to New York City for the Model UN meeting (remember that resolution for world peace you helped me write?), and even then I didn't have the guts to go to the top of the Empire State Building. But look at me now, John Willis, Private, U.S. Army. I have to admit I was scared during the physical -- no, even before that, when I got the notice to show up. And the way they ran me through it, like Dad and you and me doing the hogs at butchering time. I figure now that's how they got my attention, by taking all the fight out of me. Then they filled me up with a whole different sort of fight. I'm not scared anymore, but I don't mind admitting that I was.
But look at me now! I'm on an Army transport out of the States to this Asian country I've only heard of in the news and I'm going to end up in Hawaii and the Philippines and then Vietnam. It's great! Some of the guys say that the only drawback is getting killed, but they don't know what they're talking about. I can shoot a gun, I have muscles I never knew I owned. I know how people are against this war (you've told me enough about it!), but I feel lucky to be here and do my part. It's a great adventure.
The parade twists along Main Street like some antic Chinese dragon. People hug the sidewalks and hang out windows in the century-old brick buildings that line the street. Maybe all parades are the same, but each one carries its own excitement. First come the firetrucks. Everyone is decked out in their gear. Eighteen-year old boys hang importantly off the ladders, trying not to smile too hard, proud to be volunteers. Then comes the American Legion with every shopkeeper and insurance salesman turned out in military form despite their larger stomachs and aching arches. The band clutters the air with brass and percussion. Then there are the majorettes and the police force (all four of them) and the July 4th queen sitting on a plywood throne decked with crepe rosettes and hauled by a battered Ford pick-up. All of this and more winds through a crowd that smiles and cheers and waves while gaggles of children run and scream, busy in their own frantic world. When the parade reaches the huge parking lot at the edge of the village, it gathers its forces, turns around, and repeats its run, to the delight of the crowd.
Nothing takes a long time here. The first day we arrived we were on patrol. Sitting here now, when things are quiet and safe and I'm surrounded by people I know, I can honestly say I have never been so scared in my life. It wasn't a game this time, no drill sergeants chewing me out, no soap fights in the shower. I couldn't see anything! The damn jungle was so thick, and walking through it was like walking through the barn attic full of spider webs. Our commander kept telling us to keep our eyes open, but there was nothing to see. I'd hear something move, and I never knew if it was wind or a VC getting ready to ace me. Then suddenly, real suddenly, something wrenched inside me and I knew I was being watched and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it except keep one foot in front of the other and make my eyes ache looking for things I couldn't see. I just walked, trying to keep out of my mind that someone somewhere may be right now pointing a gun at my head and there was no way in hell I could ever know. I was hooked to that man just like I was hooked to our mother. I've never felt so helpless. I got numb, sour bile in my mouth. I wanted to scream and wave my arms and yell to him to either shoot me or run away, anything but make me wait. Nothing happened. We returned to base and I sucked down the coldest, best-tasting beer I've ever had. I felt every goddam drop of it. But even after that the bile was still there, and I don't think I'll ever get rid of it. Tom, I've never been so scared.
Every small town on the 4th has its afternoon entertainments. First, the barbecue. A line of people snakes backward while sweating Rotary wives sear ranks of legs and thighs. Juices sizzle and the air is filled with the sharp tang of food and charcoal. Then, after the chicken is downed and the paper plates are picked up and stuffed away, there are auctions and flea markets, horse racing, with even a demolition derby on the infield of the track. At the log-cutting contest men with forearms as thick as young oak trees take turns trying to beat each other at chopping or sawing a log in half. It is not spectacular entertainment. But it gives people a chance to make contact and that is its real purpose. A small town lives or dies on the closeness of its neighbors, and the parade and the barbecue and the auction all allow them to make the essential contact that gives their lives happiness and meaning.
I knew it would happen. It's a war. But it's funny how easily I can put that out of my mind sometimes. We were told to get out to Fire Base Carolyn. Carolyn is stuck on top of a small hill, like a hat on a skull, a couple of hours from base. Easy Carolyn, everyone called her, since her virtue was that nothing much happened there. We even dozed in the afternoon in the middle of the flies and the trenches and the sound of the camp beggars who followed us. Then at dusk it started. We heard movement. Instantly we were in the bunkers, guns ready. My tongue was so thick I couldn't swallow. Our commander was whispering map co-ordinates to all available artillery in the area. I couldn't see anything, but I imagined I could hear the guys sweat and even worms dig in the dirt. Again, I felt the eyes hooked into me.
Then we heard the VC mortar crews drop their first rounds into their tubes and all hell broke out. The air filled with muzzle flashes and the mortar rounds kicked up dirt and blood and bone. In the light of the explosions and tracer bullets I could see bodies chucked like loose change around the perimeter. All the machinery inside me started squeezing off rounds as fast as I could. I didn't look, I just fired. When I couldn't hit live bodies, I fired into dead ones, just to release the screaming pressure behind my eyes and in my throat.
The artillery started dropping, 105 and 155 howitzers and cannon shot. (I could imagine the guys back at base, laughing about what a barrel shoot this was.) In the silver light of the illumination rounds I could see my hand shove in magazine after magazine and I never stopped and just pulled and fought the need to scream, to stand up in the middle of the hell and scream until my lungs bled. Screams were all around me, screaming from men ripped open, screaming that melted my bones, the scream of bullets and shells and grenades and mortars and men, men, men. And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. They had pulled away, and the silence of the night was like an animal with the shape of our blistered mouths and fragged hearts. We counted our dead the best we could, Tom -- it was so dark. I cowered in the dirt until the Hueys came. I wasn't dead. I didn't know why.
The one exception to all the July 4th frivolity was a group of high school students sporting black armbands and carrying placards saying "U.S. Out of Vietnam." They marched into the Fairgrounds, set up a small microphone, and began to read a speech. They of course got a crowd, and as they got further into their speech they got jeers, catcalls, raised fists, some smiles. They didn't stay for long and when they left the celebration went on as if they'd never been there.
Tom, I've learned a lot since I've been here, but it's a lot I don't care to know. This whole thing is crazy, but everyone acts as if that's normal, so it gets harder and harder for me to separate out what I'm really feeling from what I need to feel to stay sane here. Nothing is simple. I hate what I'm doing, but I go on patrol to protect my buddies. I don't like thinking I've killed someone, but I don't want to die, so I kill. Guys around here are hooked on drugs and alcohol, company commanders are fanatic about body counts, the South Vietnamese are stuffing away money as fast as they can empty it out of other people's pockets, people are getting kicked off their land. I can't stand to see the children. Everyone's letters tell me to keep up the good work I'm doing, but I know it's not good work. But what can I say? How can I make them understand when I don't understand? Just once I'd like to figure out the truth. Maybe everything would be bearable if I know I was going to stay alive and have a chance at the truth. But I don't know. It's hard work staying alive and I think that even if I do stay alive pieces of me will never be alive again. There are eyes on me all the time.
It is perhaps the special ceremony before the fireworks, to honor those who have died to make July 4th possible, that epitomizes Independence Day in small-town America. The head of the American Legion post stands at a rostrum on the football field; in back of him are the fire crews and the hired pyrotechnician. The commander speaks briefly in praise of the men who have died, calling on those who are still alive to remember their sacrifice. Then he adds that one more name must go on the list, that of Private John Willis, the brother of the police chief, recently killed in action, the only boy from the town so far who has died. He asks for a moment of silence. Then with a smile he calls for the fireworks to begin and the first booming explosion brings out a brilliant swirl of red, white, and blue.