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Charlie and the Children

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THE CHILDREN WE FOUGHT(reviewer Stan Sirmans) How many Vietnam Veterans saw dead or captured Vietcong and thought they were just children? Many of them were. In her insightful and beautifully written first novel, Charlie and the Children, (Black Heron Press, 235 pp., $22.95), Joanna C. Scott has captured the essence of an enemy a French general referred to with disdain as "these little people." She has also portrayed the physical and mental deterioration of an American captive of the Vietcong. During the 1980's, on the Bataan Peninsula, refugees from Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos were infused with hope as they waited acceptance by the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service for an American visa. It was in these camps that Scott interviewed many refugees and published their stories in Indochina's Refugee: Oral Histories from Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam (McFarland, 1989). Touched by the account of an Amerasian teenager abandoned by his U.S. Navy officer father, Scott conceived the story of Charlie. Drafted soon after he is married, Charlie Lucas arrives in Vietnam and is befriended by a second-tour veteran who teaches him how to survive. One afternoon, as Charlie and his new friend sit drinking at a sidewalk cafe, an enemy grenade explodes. Charlie rescues a young woman named Minh from the rush of the crowd and promptly falls in love with her. Although he continues to write home faithfully to his wife, Charlie marries Minh, and soon a son is born.Torn by love for his wife in the States and for Minh and his son, Charlie begins to feel trapped in a hopeless situation. He channels his emotional distress into merciless assaults against the enemy. While on patrol, his platoon is wiped out, and Charlie is captured by children in black pajamas. His captors march him deep into the jungle and place him in a dark hole inside one of their tunnels. Left alone and fed little, Charlie's body and mind deteriorate. His world becomes a series of hallucinations as he descends into despair and death approaches. The singing lilt of Scott's clear narrative reflects her background as an accomplished poet. She has peppered the story with metaphors and similes that are stunning. A medevac helicopter, carrying one of Charlie's dead platoon-mates, for example, goes ^Qsobbing its way across the treetops.' Her meticulous research is reflected in the conversations of her soldiers. They talk the language of the war. The combat scenes, too, ring true. Unlike other authors with no military background who attempt to write about war, Scott is believable. She doesn't stumble. She has crafted an unusually graceful war story that depicts the experiences of young soldiers in Vietnam. It is a prodigious feat for a writer who is not a Vietnam War veteran, and it is a reflection of her enormous talent.

Joanna C. Scott was born in London during an air raid, was raised in Australia, is a widely published poet and author of a book about refugees in Indochina, and now lives in Hunt Valley, Baltimore County, with six children - all or part (or none) of which may explain her powerful descriptions of pain and injury and suffering in her new (and second) novel, a tale of the Vietnam War, Charlie and the Children. The protagonist is a young Texan, Charlie Lucas, who is drafted into the Army infantry after graduating from law school in D.C. and marrying the sophisticated daughter of a U.S. [sic] diplomat. In Vietnam he kills a lot of "dinks" (or "gooks") and cuts off their ears. He also marries one and has a son by her - without informing either wife of the other. Then, while out on a search-and-destroy mission, every soldier in his squad except Charlie is blown to bits by a booby trap, and he's captured by two Viet Cong "children" - as he perceives them - and imprisoned alone in a narrow tunnel. He also thinks of his captors as VCs or "Victor Charlie," which is sort of hideously ironic (since his own first name, remember, is Charlie). In the tunnel, apparently for a long time, Charlie is tormented by fear of torture, chiggers, an injured toe, rotten food, primitive hygienic facilities, flashbacks of a dead buddy's recitation of distractingly pornographic letters from home, thoughts of his American wife, hallucinations about his Vietnamese wife and son and - almost as nauseating to the reader as to the prisoner - a constant stink of blood, guts, sweat, tears, human waste, cordite, wet fungi, etc. Scott is especially good at describing odors. Charlie and the Children is a strong novel, very strong, probably too strong for the squeamish.THE STAR Democrat by John Goodspeed Friday, August 1997 Joanna C. Scott was born in London during an air raid, was raised in Australia, is a widely published poet and author of a book about refugees in Indochina, and now lives in Hunt Valley, Baltimore County, with six children - all or part (or none) of which may explain her powerful descriptions of pain and injury and suffering in her new (and second) novel, a tale of the Vietnam War, Charlie and the Children. The protagonist is a young Texan, Charlie Lucas, who is drafted into the Army infantry after graduating from law school in D.C. and marrying the sophisticated daughter of a U.S. [sic] diplomat. In Vietnam he kills a lot of "dinks" (or "gooks") and cuts off their ears. He also marries one and has a son by her - without informing either wife of the other. Then, while out on a search-and-destroy mission, every soldier in his squad except Charlie is blown to bits by a booby trap, and he's captured by two Viet Cong "children" - as he perceives them - and imprisoned alone in a narrow tunnel. He also thinks of his captors as VCs or "Victor Charlie," which is sort of hideously ironic (since his own first name, remember, is Charlie). In the tunnel, apparently for a long time, Charlie is tormented by fear of torture, chiggers, an injured toe, rotten food, primitive hygienic facilities, flashbacks of a dead buddy's recitation of distractingly pornographic letters from home, thoughts of his American wife, hallucinations about his Vietnamese wife and son and - almost as nauseating to the reader as to the prisoner - a constant stink of blood, guts, sweat, tears, human waste, cordite, wet fungi, etc. Scott is especially good at describing odors. Charlie and the Children is a strong novel, very strong, probably too strong for the squeamish.

Riveting . . . a heartstopper . . . yet more than just another story about war. In taking on the issue of the children soldiers leave behind, `Charlie and the Children' transforms itself into a fable for our time. I was astonished to find myself in tears

Joanna C. Scott's brilliant book takes us down that cruel path all warriors follow. The cold reality of the Viet Nam conflict is gripped tightly so that we are left stunned by scenes that leap from the page. On a different level this book ranks with works like William Manchester's `Goodbye Darkness.' The detail is lethal and exposes the futility of war, the pity of war distilled, brutal truths that no moral codes may justify. Once read, this tour de force will never be forgotten

Ms. Scott is an exceptional writer... I feel that this novel deserves the attention of the reading world and recommend it...Here is a quote from one of our editors: "The prose was nearly flawless, clear and lyrical at the same time, lush without being purple...This book did seem mythic in some way--unreal and believable at the same time. I loved the interactions between Charlie, Man One, and Man Two." This is an exceptional novel about the experience of the Vietnam War. I hope you will read Ms. Scott's novel. It is a moving experience to find such fine writing about such a complex subject

In creating a character caught somewhere between hallucination and reality, Joanna Scott has created a metaphor for the Vietnam war itself

Individual responsibility is the central theme of this...allegorical tale of a young American who recalls the events leading to his capture and imprisonment during the Vietnamese war. Scott's parable of modern negligence presents the brutality of war in a narrative voice that is almost childlike in its deliberate simplicity. A down-home boy from Texas, Charlie gets his draft notice on the day of his law school graduation and weds beautiful, sophisticated Pauline just before leaving for Vietnam. After several months of service, he rescues a Vietnamese woman named Minh during a bomb explosion, soon begins to question his superficial relationship with Pauline and is maneuvered into marrying Minh. Disassociated from the Vietnamese culture, however, Charlie becomes estranged from Minh after the birth of their son. His subsequent capture by two young boys is the beginning of a process of enlightenment, especially as he begins to feel a bond with one of them and understands for the first time his irresponsibility in fathering a son...FYI: Scott's previous work of nonfiction, 'Indochina's Refugees: Oral Histories from Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam,' brought her into contact with an Amerasian boy whose father abandoned him in Vietnam. This novel is a fictionalized sketch of what might have occurred

A Vietnam novel that was inspired by Scott's nonfiction compiliation, Indochina's Refugees: Oral Histories from Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam (1989, not reviewed. While living in the Philippines, Scott interviwed an Amerasian boy, and was so mioved by his story that she imagined the life of the father who had abandoned him in Vietnam. Charlie Lucas is a grunt who is marking off his days dear Cam Ranh Bay, trying to avoid booby-traps, fighting the Viet Cong when he must (Scott has the speech and attitudes, and the dynamics among Charlie's fellow soldiers, down precisely). Charlie dreams of the upper-class Georgetown woman, Pauline, he met shortly before being drafted, who married him out of pity but remains loyal, writing regularly of her accomplishments in school. Then he meets a Vietnamese woman, Minh, and fathers a son. Mentally walling out his marriage to Pauline, Charlie marries Minh, and then all hell breaks loose: Booby-traps decimate Charlie's platoon, and Charlie s captured by the VC. They're only children themselves, but they hold their prisoner captive deep underground, in a small dark cage. Fed only rice balls and boiled rats, Charlie begins to weaken physically. In isolation, he looks back over his life clearly at first, but then begins to sink into fantasies. In a poetic but brilliantly clear style, Scott moves seamlessly between Charlie's physical pain and his visions, until finally, as he nears death, Charlie seems to fly above the earth and visualize the fall of South Vietnam and the terrible plight of the boat people. At last one of his captors, a child to whom Charlie attempts to teach English and whom he confuses with his true son, takes pity on Charlie and delivers him to American soldiers. A beautiful story, indebted to both Larry Brown's Dirty Work and Tim O'Brien's Going After Cacciato, but with a gentleness and compassion all its own. Kirkus Reviews, February 1, 1997.