A little while ago, while reading Jarhead, I started a list of books that “say something about the experience of war and its aftermath.” It’s not a subject area in which I’m well read, but I received some helpful suggestions both in the comments to that post and via e-mail.

Brad Hooper, who studied history before becoming a librarian and then an editor, offered the following:

World War I:
Regeneration, The Eye in the Door, The Ghost Road (a trilogy), by Pat Barker

Civil War:
Lost Triumph, by Tom Carhart
The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane

Revolutionary War:
Washington’s Crossing, by David Fischer
1776, by David McCullough

I also got an e-mail from another historian, Steve Carey, a good friend of mine who also happens to be an Army captain who commanded an infantry company in Baghdad. He prefaced his comments by saying that he thought Jarhead was “more historical fiction than memoir,” but allowed that maybe he was only envious for “not cashing in on my own made-up combat experiences.”

Here is a lightly edited version of Steve’s annotated list (I took out some of the friends-only banter and reordered it according to the way my list was ordered):

Here’s my list of “best” books, all memoirs or nonfiction, that I believe most accurately relay the experience of soldiers in combat. All touch upon, in one way or other, the struggle you addressed in your Booklist article to remain focused on the larger task of fighting and winning a war in an environment which is (mostly) mind numbingly mundane and boring. 

Iraq
Baghdad Express: A Gulf War Memoir, by Joel Turnipseed
WAY better than Jarhead, it deals with Marine truck drivers instead of “I’m too sexy for my shirt” Marine snipers. Very accurate, though the author is at times intolerable - failed but well-read philosophy major serving in one of the least-respected jobs (opposite of Marine sniper) in the Marine Corps reserve (which actually helps me buy his memoir shtick more readily).

Afghanistan
First In: An Insider’s Account of How the CIA Spearheaded the War on Terror in Afghanistan, by Gary Schroen
There are a couple of other memoirs from Afghanistan - Jawbreaker and Not a Good Day to Die come to mind - but First In is the only one that I have actually read. It concludes with a good damning critique on the manner in which the Iraq war diverted resources from the effort to destroy Al Qaeda, resulting in the current situation.

Somalia
Black Hawk Down: A Story of Modern War, by Mark Bowden
…is right on the mark.

Vietnam
Platoon Leader: A Memoir of Command in Combat, by James McDonough
A little self-aggrandizing, but good. Larry Heinemann’s Close Quarters is better (as is O’Brien, as you note), but is an informed novel rather than a no-shit memoir. At least Heinemann has the decency to call it a novel…

Korean War
I have not read anything except what Hackworth wrote, which I can not recommend for a best list. His stuff, while good, carries with it too much of his personal agenda (however noble) of making himself look good while poking the Pentagon in the eye - he used his memoirs too much as a soapbox.

World War II
(Pacific - UK)
Quartered Safe Out Here, by George MacDonald Fraser
One of the best war books ever - great writing. It’s about the British in Burma.

(Pacific - US)
Goodbye Darkness: A Memoir of the Pacific War, by William Manchester
This is very good, too.

(Europe - US)
Company Commander: The Classic Infantry Memoir of WWII, by Charles MacDonald
Talks about how little control officers really had over their men, and that by the last few months of the war the soldiers’ only real motivation was to stay alive by any means possible.

I would have to give more careful thought to anything prior to WWII.

In my original post I considered the idea of a making this a “best” list, then decided that was too daunting. But with so many good suggestions, I think I’ll have enough for something pretty useful anyway.

Anyone have any more? Remember, I’m most interested in books that treat the experience of war, and to keep things from getting out of hand, I’m limiting it to wars with U.S. involvement (but within that, it makes sense to include some non-U.S. perspectives).

I’m nearing the end of Jarhead. Operation Desert Storm has finally started but the men are still waiting to go into combat. The waiting reminds me, in a way, of the waiting in trench warfare, like All Quiet on the Western Front, except that, in today’s wars, the enemy is not waiting just a few hundred yards away. Armor and airplanes mean troops can deploy far and fast, and often will be deployed only after guided missiles and bombs have done the bulk of the killing. Today’s wars are both better documented - the missiles carry cameras on their way to the targets - and more abstract, because the soldiers have so little first-hand knowledge of their enemy.

Books about war have often depicted the soldiers as young, conflicted, and confused, but at times there’s almost an absurdist quality to Jarhead. Maybe no more absurd than All Quiet on the Western Front, but at least in trench warfare there’s a clearly defined objective, no matter how valueless (e.g., three hundred yards of mud and craters). There’s no sense of order and purpose in Jarhead. Even the soldiers’ routine, the busywork designed to keep them from losing focus or morale, is unable to keep them from floundering.

The modern soldier is trained to kill even more efficiently than his historic counterpart, yet is saddled with more rules and regulations about how to do so. The rules suggest that killing can be made moral or done right, and the constant training and exhortations keep the Marines keyed up and ready to kill on command. But the command rarely comes, if ever. It’s no wonder they’re confused and anxious.

Yesterday I wrote about my interest in nonfiction books that take me inside societies or groups to which I wouldn’t otherwise have access. Books about war are especially important because for every person who fights in or is victimized by war, there are many more who experience war third-hand, through the words of blow-dried anchorpeople. We need first-hand accounts to understand what it means to be there. Without meaningful data, our opinions on the subject don’t mean much.

I started thinking about books from particular wars and conflicts, wondering if I could make a list of the books that define particular wars. In a variation of Chicago’s citywide reading club (”One Book, One Chicago”), it could be called “One War, One Book.”

Reductive lists like this are always flawed, of course, as are any “best” lists. But - as the list-makers always cry in their own defense - it’s an interesting exercise. Of course, there have to be criteria: do the books represent “our” point of view, or “theirs”? The winners or the losers? Are the books overviews or personal views? Fiction or nonfiction?

Okay, I give up on this project already. Too explosive. But, in a general and non-definitive spirit, here are a few books that crossed my mind as being essential narratives (both fiction and nonfiction) of various wars, conflicts, police actions, etc. These aren’t necessarily histories with maps of troop movements, but books that say something about the experience of war and its aftermath.

This area isn’t my strong suit, so I need help. Anyone have any suggestions for more? (Just to draw the line somewhere, let’s keep the list limited to conflicts with U.S. involvement).

Iraq:
Jarhead, Anthony Swofford
Baghdad Burning, by Riverbend
The Pearl of Kuwait, by Tom Paine

Afghanistan:
??

Somalia:
Black Hawk Down, by Mark Bowden

Vietnam:
Dispatches, Michael Herr
The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien

Korea:
??

World War II:
Catch-22, by Joseph Heller
Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut
The Naked and the Dead, by Norman Mailer
Night, by Elie Wiesel

World War I:
All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque

Civil War:
Andersonville, by MacKinlay Kantor

War of 1812:
??

Revolutionary War:
??

Apparently, there are a few essential books out there that I haven’t read! Let me know what they are.

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I stayed up far too late last night reading Jarhead. I think part of the reason I’m so absorbed in it is that I’m not reviewing it. When I’m reviewing a book, I rarely surrender entirely to the writing - there’s always a part of me that stands back, taking notes and thinking about how I’ll frame the review.

Also, because I don’t read books that I’m not reviewing very often, it kind of feels like I’m getting away with something. I’ve written about this before - only three-and-a-half months and I’m already repeating myself - but, if you love reading, becoming a book reviewer definitely falls under the category of Be Careful What You Wish For. Maybe you’re just a person who likes to read. But anyway, it’s too late to save me, so save yourselves!

As Gil Taylor wrote in his review of Jarhead, sometimes Swofford’s prose is a little over the top. First-time writers, especially those without a background in writing, tend to overwrite. But his portrait of Marine life (soldier life, not sea life) is vivid and compelling. You can see him wrestling to get it all down, just as he wrestles with his own intensely conflicted feelings toward warmongers and peaceniks alike.

And the hard partying and hijinks jibe with what I’ve heard from one of my best friends, a captain in the Army reserve. One scene reminded me of one of my early days in Chicago, when I was living in the North Side neighborhood of Edgewater. My commute involved riding a bus north to Rogers Park, where I rode a Metra train north to the suburb of Highland Park, where I managed a Kinko’s. Yes, it was every bit as exciting as it sounds.

It was a hot morning and my white starched shirt was already wilting as the bus crawled north on Clark Street. As we passed Jarheads, a seedy-looking bar, I saw Marines standing outside on the sidewalk, drinking rowdily. It looked like they were standing out there because there wasn’t enough room in the bar. It also looked like they were still going, not just starting. To me, on my way to spend my day being berated by the citizens of an affluent suburb, it seemed as if the Marines were playing life by an entirely different set of rules.

It also made me think of how we have so many populations in our country with intensely different experiences. And those with the most different experiences - soldiers, prison guards, prisoners, Alaskan king crab fishermen - are often all but invisible to us. My nonfiction tastes have always trended toward these alternative/hidden/forbidden/secret societies. In high school I loved to read about rock stars (Stephen Davis’ Hammer of the Gods) and drug addicts (William S. Burroughs’ Junky), and in college I loved to read about hobos (Jack Black’s You Can’t Win), and after college I read about homeless people (Lars Eighner’s Travels with Lizbeth and Jennifer Toth’s The Mole People), and lately I’ve been interested in mountain climbers (Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air) - who are set apart from us by obsession, specialization, and, obviously, the fact that they spend lots of time high up in the mountains. And I’ve always loved stories about gamblers and pool hustlers (Robert Byrne’s McGoorty).

I’m not equating soldiers with drug addicts, of course. But for those of us with no direct experience of either world, the initiations, rituals, and lifestyles are equally mysterious.

I started reading a new book last night, Robert Ward’s Four Kinds of Rain. I’ve never read Ward before, but his book Red Baker (1985) was apparently great. It won him a gig writing for Hill Street Blues, and he went on to become a successful writer for other television shows. If OCLC serves me right, his last book was Grace: A Fictional Memoir (1998).

I don’t know if this is a mini-trend or just coincidence, but Andrew Klavan, whose Damnation Street I just reviewed, also has some Hollywood connections: a couple of his novels were made into movies, and he wrote a couple of produced screenplays, too.

Anyway, Ward, like Klavan, has a love of old-school hard-boiled crime novels, but Four Kinds of Rain is a lot less dark than Damnation Street. Even though it references Ambien in the first sentence, and stars a washed-up ’60s activist, has a vibe that fits nicely with the lighter ’50s pulps. I think of Peter Rabe and Day Keene; modern-day analogs might include Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, or Charles Willeford’s Hoke Mosely novels. (Hiaasen’s a stretch, but I can imagine him and Ward hitting it off over drinks.) Four Kinds of Rain wouldn’t have been a bad fit for Hard Case Crime, either, where they also publish old-school stuff with contemporary settings.

The basic outline: Bob Wells, divorced, lonely, drinks too much, is a jaded community activist with a failing psychology practice. About the only thing that keeps him alive is his once-a-week gig in an oldies band, The Rockaholics, but even that is threatened: if they can’t find a better singer, they’re going to be replaced with a younger band. Enter Jesse Reardon, a smoky-voiced West Virginian who steals the show - and Bob’s heart. He falls head over heels in love with her, but Jesse keeps her distance. She comes from hardscrabble beginnings and has heard about Bob’s financial problems (he gambled away his life savings during a midlife crisis).

She wasn’t going to be into making sacrifices for “the people.” Hell, she was the people. 

Bob assures Jesse that he’s got money in the bank, and love blooms. But Bob is convinced that, if he doesn’t actually get some money in the bank, Jesse will leave him. One of his patients, an art dealer named Emile Bardan, says he has a priceless Sumerian mask (ironically, the god of justice) that a rival art dealer is going to steal from him. Bob, a good guy his whole life, decides to steal the mask himself.

The humor is very dry, and it’s fun to watch Bob as he gets in over his head.

Jesus, there was a lot to consider when you became a criminal. 

But also a lot of the humor comes from the fact that Bob has a blind spot big enough to hide a tractor-trailer.

…the whole thing - betraying the trust of his patient, stealing a valuable work of art - well, all of that would be enough to many any honest man nervous. 

I don’t know for sure, of course, but I believe Four Kinds of Rain will fall into the bumbling-criminal genre - not slapstick, but the guy who gets in over his head, whose greed changes him, who screws up his one chance at happiness by being too blind to see that it’s not money that can make him happy, but love.

Again, just a guess. But the evil lure of lucre - the elusiveness of happiness, the empty treasure vault - is perhaps the classic hard-boiled/noir trope. So I rub my hands greedily in anticipation…could this be the stuff that dreams are made of?

I’d love to hear suggestions in both the “bungling criminal” genre (comedy) and the “malevolent treasure” genre (tragedy). A couple off the top of my head:

Bumbling Criminals
Pronto, Elmore Leonard (1993)
Dutch Uncle, by Peter Pavia (2005)

Malevolent Treasure
The Maltese Falcon, Dashiell Hammett (1930)
A Simple Plan, Scott Smith (1993)

Also, I need help with a better phrase than “malevolent treasure.” I took it from Donna Seaman’s review of A Simple Plan, and it works great there, but I’m looking for something that suggests the kind of feeling the protagonist has when, after he’s screwed over family and friends and ruined his life, his ill-gotten pile of cash catches fire.