The Truth About the War

Written in May 2006. A story following a nosy and ignorant reporter.

            Brad slowly crept through the neighborhoods of downtown Minneapolis. The buildings were small, close together, and looked as if they should be condemned. In fact quite a few were.

1667, 1669, 1671…Yes! 1673! Brad said to himself as he counted the buildings. He pulled his car up to the curb and stepped out into the cold air. Lighting up a cigarette he stood and surveyed the building for a minute while he enjoyed his Marlboro. Dang this place looks like a dump, he thought while taking a puff on his cigarette. The building was worse off that most of the buildings on the street, but somehow not yet condemned.

It was a two story that looked big enough to only hold five rooms at most. The siding was white wood, and was pealing to reveal a turquoise blue primer underneath. The shutters on the building were either falling off or crooked. The front door was dirty, and had graffiti with Asian gang signs scrawled all over it. The steps up to the door were also wooden, but not in as good condition. They were rotten, the third step almost completely gone. And the entire house smelled like urine.

There was a small yard, no bigger than Brad’s closet, and a falling down chain link fence with the gate missing around it. All in all, the house was depressing beyond belief. Enough so to keep him out in the negative ten wind chill on the sidewalk. But he couldn’t wait all night; he had an article to write and a deadline to meet. So, up the stairs, careful to skip the rotten one, and to the door it was.

When he reached the door he knocked, trying not to knock the door in it looked so frail, and waited. Okay. So I’m supposed to interview a Vietnam War hero, named Griffen Henderson. Apparently he was part of a secret ops during the war and while on duty did things that got the public enraged a few years after the war had ended. Should make a good article comparing to the war in Iraq right now. If anything it’ll stir up some trouble for a minuet or two.

Mr. Henderson still hadn’t answered the door, so Brad knocked again. It was cold and he wanted inside. Two minutes later and still no answer. He knocked again, this time trying to knock down the door and “politely called,” “MR.HENDERSON! THIS IS BRAD DURANE, FROM THE STAR TRIBUNE. I CALLED EARLIER AND WE AGREED FOR ME TO COME OVER! IS ANYONE HOME?”

         Three minutes later and still no answer. “Damn it I needed this article!” he hissed under his breath and he kicked the door. It flung open smacking into the wall behind it. In front of him was a narrow hallway that went twenty feet before ending with a door leading outback. There were three rooms off of the hallway and one staircase. There was an eerie blue light coming from the second doorway on the right so Brad decided to check it out.

“Mr. Henderson?” He called tenitivly as he entered the room. There sitting on a couch was a man in his mid sixties watching a small television which was mutted. He was sitting in a white undershirt and a pair of ratty boxers. He had a Corona in his hands and stared at the television blankly.

What is some war hero, even a ruined war hero, doing sitting here in the dark like this, and drinking alone? Not sure that the article was worth it anymore Brad started to leave but was stopped by a deep and commanding voice from behind him, “What? You came for the article, even broke into my house to get it, and now you’re going to leave? Get what you came here for kid and get the hell out.”

Turning Brad stared at Mr. Henderson, who was now staring at him while taking a swig of his Corona. The voice was so at odds with the image of the man in front of him that it threw Brad and he had to take a minute to regain his bearings.

“Um, right. Sorry about breaking in. I didn’t mean to do it really, the door just kind of opened and then-“

Snorting Mr. Henderson turned back to the television, “Stop mumbling, close the door, and sit down. Let’s get this over with.”

“Right.” Brad hurried to appease Mr. Henderson and used the time to get his thoughts under control. This was not what he had expected, but he was here so he might as well make the best of it.

Sitting down on a metal fold-out chair across from Mr. Henderson he began the interview. “So, Mr. Henderson, what were you in the war?”

“The commander of my squad.”

“And the name of your squad?”

“We were special ops,” A small smile crept onto his face. “I doubt they would care now but the whole ‘keeping it under wraps’ is a habit that dies hard. Ya’ know?”

“Yeah, okay. So, you’re an acclaimed war hero. What was it that you did to earn that title?”

“Nothing.”

Frowning Brad looked up from his notepad where he had been taking notes. “What do you mean nothing? People just don’t become war heroes for nothing.”

Leaning his head back and closing his eyes Mr. Henderson sighed. “I did nothing heroic. The war was brutal and ugly. People came back changed. Some came back to the ridicule and hatred of the public, others came back as heroes. But we were all the same, all going through the same things. We all have the same nightmares…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Henderson, I don’t understand.”

“Griffin.”

“What?”

“Just Griffin. How bout you put down that notebook and I’ll tell ya’ all about the war. That way you’ll have a clear picture for your article.” Nodding Brad set down his notepad and leaned back in his chair. “You’re a good kid ya’ know that? Now just keep quiet and I’ll tell ya’ about the war.

          “It’s funny ya’ know? When you talk to people who were in Vietnam they never call it by its name. It’s just The War, like it’s the only war to have ever happened. And for us it is.

“I was twenty-two when the war started. I had just dropped out of college and had nothing going for my life so I decided to enlist. That way even if I died, I would have done something notable ya’ know? We were in training for about a year. They put us through drills, exercises, simulations, the whole bundle; we thought all of it was silly. Learning how to crawl through muddy trenches while under fire. We all had this glorified view of what war was going to be. We’d go, we’d kick some Viet Cong a*s, and we’d come home heroes. But that didn’t happen.

“We had only been there a week when my squad got sent out on an assignment. We were to infiltrate a village and kill all threats. We were to disarm them and leave them in peace. It sounded so simple. But when we attacked they fought back. We killed most of them, and when we began to round em’ up for disarmament we all relaxed. We had lost three men in the initial battle, I don’t remember their names. There were just so many. But back to the point, we began to disarm them, and when we were done and leaving the town some of em’ pulled weapons out of nowhere and massacred us. Only Tommy and I made it out that time. The entire war was like that…

 

 

          Brad quietly closed the front door as he left the house. Griffin had gone on for hours talking about the war. Each story he told was worse than the one before it. He claimed that no one was a hero because everyone did things to be ashamed of just to survive. But it was what the country called for them to do so they did it. And now they all had the same nightmares.

Pulling out his cell phone he called Mercy, his fiancé. “Hello?” She said, her voice slow and dragged down with sleep.

“Hey baby, did I wake you up?”

“Brad it’s 2:00 in the morning, of course you woke me up. But what did you want?”

“Oh I just wanted to talk about the article. It kinda took a different direction than I had planned.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

“Well I was going to write this story comparing the Vietnam War with the war against Iraq, both highly controversial. I wanted to stir up some trouble, see if I could cause any fires ya’ know?”

“Yeah…”

“But then,” He paused and took a cigarette from his pocket lighting up with his plastic Bic lighter. “But then I talked to this guy and… God Mercy, I don’t even know how to explain it. Everything- everything is different. I think the piece is going to be about war and how it doesn’t matter who fights it or why, but just about the truth about war.”

“What do you mean the truth about war? We all know that. War is shortcut to an end when people are too lazy or stubborn to try anything civilized like negotiation. War is silly, and a waste of our time. Those republicans are just too idealistic to realize it!”

Brad stared down at the red tip of his cigarette, but instead of a burning piece of paper he saw the explosions of grenades. He saw the flash from a firing gun. He saw the fire of a funeral pyre. When the bitter wind whipped down the street he didn’t hear the wind. He heard the wailing of Vietnamese children. The crying of mothers over fallen sons and daughters. The shouts of orders to kill over the gun fire. He heard the convictions of a Viet Cong soldier as he fought outnumbered to his death. He saw, and heard, Vietnam.

“No.” He said in barely a whisper. “No, it was so much more than that. So much more than a silly political game. So much more…”

“Sweetie what are you talking-“

Placing his phone into his pocket he got in his car and drove off for the office. Once he got there he stared at his screen willing the words to come out, to form a story to make people understand. To understand the truth about war, and ourselves. To understand what people are willing to put on the line for us, while we sit at home criticizing them and when they return condemning them for their actions.

           But nothing came… 

Reviews

[Susan M]

Annalisa, this seems like it might be a good story but, to be perfectly honest, it's got so many typos in it I don't want to read it to the end. You might want to run it through a spell-checker and then go over it again yourself. You've got minute spelled "minuet" - several times. Minuet is a word, so spell-check won't catch it. Sorry if this sounds bitchy but I think, if you want to be a credible writer, spelling is important. I'd love to try reading this again so feel free to let me know if you decide to edit it, ok?