|Print List Price:||$16.95|
Save $6.96 (41%)
Random House LLC
Price set by seller.
Dispatches (Vintage International) Kindle Edition
|New from||Used from|
Single Issue Magazine
|Length: 274 pages||Word Wise: Enabled||Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled|
|Page Flip: Enabled||
Switch back and forth between reading the Kindle book and listening to the Audible book with Whispersync for Voice. Add the Audible book for a reduced price of $7.49 when you buy the Kindle book.
Enter your mobile number or email address below and we'll send you a link to download the free Kindle App. Then you can start reading Kindle books on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
There was a map of Vietnam on the wall of my apartment in Saigon and some nights, coming back late to the city, I’d lie out on my bed and look at it, too tired to do anything more than just get my boots off. That map was a marvel, especially now that it wasn’t real anymore. For one thing, it was very old. It had been left there years before by another tenant, probably a Frenchman, since the map had been made in Paris. The paper had buckled in its frame after years in the wet Saigon heat, laying a kind of veil over the countries it depicted. Vietnam was divided into its older territories of Tonkin, Annam and Cochin China, and to the west past Laos and Cambodge sat Siam, a kingdom. That’s old, I’d tell visitors, that’s a really old map.
If dead ground could come back and haunt you the way dead people do, they’d have been able to mark my map CURRENT and burn the ones they’d been using since ‘64, but count on it, nothing like that was going to happen. It was late ‘67 now, even the most detailed maps didn’t reveal much anymore; reading them was like trying to read the faces of the Vietnamese, and that was like trying to read the wind. We knew that the uses of most information were flexible, different pieces of ground told different stories to different people. We also knew that for years now there had been no country here but the war.
The Mission was always telling us about VC units being engaged and wiped out and then reappearing a month later in full strength, there was nothing very spooky about that, but when we went up against his terrain we usually took it definitively, and even if we didn’t keep it you could always see that we’d at least been there. At the end of my first week in-country I met an information officer in the headquarters of the 25th Division at Cu Chi who showed me on his map and then from his chopper what they’d done to the Ho Bo Woods, the vanished Ho Bo Woods, taken off by giant Rome plows and chemicals and long, slow fire, wasting hundreds of acres of cultivated plantation and wild forest alike, “denying the enemy valuable resources and cover.”
It had been part of his fob for nearly a year now to tell people about that operation; correspondents, touring congressmen, movie stars, corporation presidents, staff officers from half the armies in the world, and he still couldn’t get over it. It seemed to be keeping him young, his enthusiasm made you feel that even the letters he wrote home to his wife were full of it, it really showed what you could do if you had the know-how and the hardware. And if in the months following that operation incidences of enemy activity in the larger area of War Zone C had increased “significantly,” and American losses had doubled and then doubled again, none of it was happening in any damn Ho Bo Woods, you’d better believe it. . . .
Going out at night the medics gave you pills, Dexedrine breath like dead snakes kept too long in a jar. I never saw the need for them myself, a little contact or anything that even sounded like contact would give me more speed than I could bear. Whenever I heard something outside of our clenched little circle I’d practically flip, hoping to God that I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed it. A couple of rounds fired off in the dark a kilometer away and the Elephant would be there kneeling on my chest, sending me down into my boots for a breath. Once I thought I saw a light moving in the jungle and I caught myself just under a whisper saying, “I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready for this.” That’s when I decided to drop it and do something else with my nights. And I wasn’t going out like the night ambushers did, or the Lurps, long-range recon patrollers who did it night after night for weeks and months, creeping up on VC base camps or around moving columns of North Vietnamese. I was living too close to my bones as it was, all I had to do was accept it. Anyway, I’d save the pills for later, for Saigon and the awful depressions I always had there.
I knew one 4th Division Lurp who took his pills by the fistful, downs from the left pocket of his tiger suit and ups from the right, one to cut the trail for him and the other to send him down it. He told me that they cooled things out just right for him, that he could see that old jungle at night like he was looking at it through a starlight scope. “They sure give you the range,” he said.
This was his third tour. In 1965 he’d been the only survivor in a platoon of the Cav wiped out going into the la Drang Valley. In ‘66 he’d come back with the Special Forces and one morning after an ambush he’d hidden under the bodies of his team while the VC walked all around them with knives, making sure. They stripped the bodies of their gear, the berets too, and finally went away, laughing. After that, there was nothing left for him in the war except the Lurps.
“I just can’t hack it back in the World,” he said. He told me that after he’d come back home the last time he would sit in his room all day, and sometimes he’d stick a hunting rifle out the window, leading people and cars as they passed his house until the only feeling he was aware of was all up in the tip of that one finger. “It used to put my folks real uptight,” he said. But he put people uptight here too, even here.
“No man, I’m sorry, he’s just too crazy for me,” one of the men in his team said. “All’s you got to do is look in his eyes, that’s the whole fucking story right there.”
“Yeah, but you better do it quick,” someone else said. “I mean, you don’t want to let him catch you at it.”
But he always seemed to be watching for it, I think he slept with his eyes open, and I was afraid of him anyway. All I ever managed was one quick look in, and that was like looking at the floor of an ocean. He wore a gold earring and a headband torn from a piece of camouflage parachute material, and since nobody was about to tell him to get his hair cut it fell below his shoulders, covering a thick purple scar. Even at division he never went anywhere without at least a .45 and a knife, and he thought I was a freak because I wouldn’t carry a weapon.
“Didn’t you ever meet a reporter before?” I asked him.
“Tits on a bull,” he said. “Nothing personal.”
But what a story he told me, as one-pointed and resonant as any war story I ever heard, it took me a year to understand it:
“Patrol went up the mountain. One man came back. He died before he could tell us what happened.”
I waited for the rest, but it seemed not to be that kind of story; when I asked him what had happened he just looked like he felt sorry for me, fucked if he’d waste time telling stories to anyone dumb as I was.
His face was all painted up for night walking now like a bad hallucination, not like the painted faces I’d seen in San Francisco only a few weeks before, the other extreme of the same theater. In the coming hours he’d stand as faceless and quiet in the jungle as a fallen tree, and God help his opposite numbers unless they had at least half a squad along, he was a good killer, one of our best. The rest of his team were gathered outside the tent, set a little apart from the other division units, with its own Lurp-designated latrine and its own exclusive freeze-dry rations, three-star war food, the same chop they sold at Abercrombie & Fitch. The regular division troops would almost shy off the path when they passed the area on their way to and from the mess tent. No matter how toughened up they became in the war, they still looked innocent compared to the Lurps. When the team had grouped they walked in a file down the hill to the lz across the strip to the perimeter and into the treeline.
I never spoke to him again, but I saw him. When they came back in the next morning he had a prisoner with him, blindfolded and with his elbows bound sharply behind him. The Lurp area would definitely be off limits during the interrogation, and anyway, I was already down at the strip waiting for a helicopter to come and take me out of there.
“Hey what’re you guys, with the USO? Aw, we thought you was with the USO ‘cause your hair’s so long.” Page took the kid’s picture, I got the words down and Flynn laughed and told him we were the Rolling Stones. The three of us traveled around together for about a month that summer. At one lz the brigade chopper came in with a real foxtail hanging off the aerial, when the commander walked by us he almost took an infarction.
“Don’t you men salute officers?”
“We’re not men,” Page said. “We’re correspondents.”
When the commander heard that, he wanted to throw a spontaneous operation for us, crank up his whole brigade and get some people killed. We had to get out on the next chopper to keep him from going ahead with it, amazing what some of them would do for a little ink. Page liked to augment his field gear with freak paraphernalia, scarves and beads, plus he was English, guys would stare at him like he’d just come down off a wall on Mars. Sean Flynn could look more incredibly beautiful than even his father, Errol, had thirty years before as Captain Blood, but sometimes he looked more like Artaud coming out of some heavy heart-of-darkness trip, overloaded on the information, the input! The input! He’d give off a bad sweat and sit for hours, combing his mustache through with the saw blade of his Swiss... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Publishers Weekly
Copyright 1991 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
- Publication Date : November 30, 2011
- File Size : 1079 KB
- ASIN : B00640Z0RI
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Language: : English
- Print Length : 274 pages
- Publisher : Vintage; Reprint Edition (November 30, 2011)
- Enhanced Typesetting : Enabled
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Lending : Not Enabled
- Best Sellers Rank: #107,295 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
Top reviews from the United States
There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
I first read Dispatches in the late 70s and I've gone through several copies and 8 or 10 readings in the intervening years. I finally got a clue and bought the book on Kindle today so I don't have to go looking for it or buy yet another copy when I feel the urge to read this prose that can still give me chills almost four decades after I first found it.
Rest in Peace, Michael, and thank you.
The “grunts” tolerated correspondents on an individual basis but when they showed up in a grouping of five or six, for example, the troops got pretty nervous and worried that something bad was about to happen. The usual question he got was, ”What the hell are you doing here, man?” Herr’s stoic reaction — he had a job to do, just like them.
Herr writes movingly about the siege of Khe Sanh and the combat at Hue, how it changed the men who survived the seemingly endless days and nights trying to stay alive with little sleep. Occasionally he reports examples of Marines’ dark humor. The joke went, “You load all the Friendlies onto ships and take them out to the South China Sea. Then you bomb the country flat and then you sink all the ships.”
The enemy wasn’t always the Viet Cong (VC). One afternoon at Khe Sanh a Marine opened the door of a latrine and was killed by a grenade that had been rigged on the door. Something like that happened in my outfit when an unexploded grenade was discovered in the executive officer’s jeep gas tank. Another facet of the war was its cruelty and thirst for revenge. A Belgian told of an American who loaded up twenty-some VC dead bodies in a helicopter sling and dropped them in the center of a hostile village. “Ah, psywar,” said the Belgian, kissing his fingertips.
Herr was skeptical of pronouncements by the colonels and generals who claimed that things were getting better, we’re turning the corner, and other optimistic propaganda. Perhaps the truest view was that of a battalion S-2 (intelligence officer) who once covered his papers with a sheet where he had written — What does it all mean?
Herr’s book was published several years after his return to The World. He doesn’t offer any conclusions about the war and pretty much leaves it up to the reader. But looking back almost fifty years with 20/20 vision one has to wonder if it was worth the 58,315 Americans killed in action.
Top reviews from other countries
I did like his cynicism about the pen pushers fighting a war from their desks, wishing (perhaps?) they were actually the grunts facing off against the VC. Who among us could not at least grimly smile about the "mad Colonel" stories. Would have been nice to get at least a paragraph as to why he was there in the first place, as there are several mentions of the reporters being able to go home whenever they wished.
Herr’s writing style (dubbed New Journalism) took me by surprise. I was not prepared for what was overwhelming me from page one. I felt I was taken by the throat and without proper context, scene setting or introductions thrown into the brutality, horror, destruction and madness of the war. Consequently, it took time to find my bearings and to understand the language spoken, jargon used, topics discussed and the humor and logic soldiers had. The result was that I found myself utterly bewildered and mesmerized at the same time. Added to this is Herr’s eloquence in articulating his observations and emotions. It produced so many moments of brilliant prose captivating the essence that it created further breathtaking and jaw-dropping moments of shock and awe for me.
Herr contributed to the scripts of “ Apocalypse Now Redux [DVD] [1979 ]” and “ Full Metal Jacket  [DVD ]”, so watching both films after “Dispatches” is almost a must. I decided to read it in conjunction with " Vietnam: The Real War: A Photographic History by the Associated Press " to add a visual dimension. Finally, I watched the brilliant but dark 2002 Dutch documentary “First Kill” where Herr and other Vietnam veterans are interviewed about the violence, fear, seduction and pleasure in war. It provides further insight in Herr’s motivations to go to Vietnam, his experiences during the war and his conclusions about the attraction man has to war: “If war were hell, and only hell, […] I don’t think people would continue to make war.”
And that is in my opinion the most disturbing aspect of “Dispatches”. There is an undercurrent throughout the book that despite all the evil, destruction, fear and lunacy, war is also glamorous, exciting, pleasurable and even beautiful. I think Herr wrote “Dispatches” partially to come to terms with the above by “trying to piece together their very real hatred of the war with their great love for it that rough reconciliation that many of us had to look at.”
The fact that after forty years dozens of people feel compelled to write a review for “Dispatches” here tells something of the impact it continues to have on readers. I am no exception. “Dispatches” will haunt me for a long time to come. Highly recommended. 6 stars.
In preparation for his findings, he’s having me do some reading.
“Dispatches” is what he recommended, and I can see why: it’s a total assault on the senses. It’s visceral, epic, humble, bombastic, naïve and cynical all in one. And it’s laugh-out-loud hilarious.
It’s not a history, of course. It’s a trip, rather.
Michael Herr proudly offers a view from the lowest possible vantage point. His account may not even be 100% factual: rather than waste his time interviewing the officers, he spends all his time with “the grunts;” it’s their story he sets out to tell, and if some of it they made up, so be it.
In short, if you want to find out what it FELT like to fight the war, if you want to feel the horror and the confusion, if it’s the Vietnam era “All Quiet on the Western Front” you’re looking for, then you’ve come to the right place.
Obviously it does not cover the entire conflict but does cover some of the most graphic and hairy times of what was and still is a very misunderstood conflict.
The journalism is faultless and the writing superb, it draws you in and blows you away. It has real insight and portrays the 'honest' views and feelings of the grunts serving over there, even the ones who have clearly lost the plot. It was a time of free love, mind expanding drugs and a musical revolution and the average age of soldiers was 19. In one year most fighting troops fought more days than a soldier did in WWI and WWII
and most didn't know why they were there. All this and more Michael Herr covers brilliantly and it still holds the slot of best 'Nam book ever.
During that initial period of enlightenment I missed Michael Herr's 'Dispatches' which seems criminal given what an absolute classic it is. The style in which Herr writes is so vivid and his ability to communicate such unique colour, smell, tone and the soundtrack of the events he witnessed is so profound. His book is a stream of potent images that knit together into a vivid kaleidoscope of moments capturing the characters, events, locations, machinery and terrible destruction that became the hallmarks of that war.
Dispatches has sent me tumbling again down the Vietnam rabbit hole. I wish I had read this book thirty years ago but I am glad I found it now.