69 pages • 2 hours read
Tim O'BrienA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
The narrator recalls the two times he was shot. The first time, Rat Kiley tied on a compress and repeatedly checked in on him. He didn’t feel much pain. When he returned to the company 26 days later, “Rat Kiley had been wounded and shipped off to Japan, and a new medic named Bobby Jorgenson had replaced him. Jorgenson was no Rat Kiley” (181). Jorgenson was new, “incompetent and scared” (181). When the narrator is shot the second time, “in the butt, along the Song Tra Bong, it took the son of a bitch almost ten minutes to work up the nerve to crawl over to me” (181). His wound nearly becomes gangrenous, and he spends a month lying on his stomach in recovery. He imagines ways to enact revenge against Jorgenson for his injury.
His wound is a source of embarrassment rather than pride. The narrator is released from the hospital to “Headquarters Company—S-4, the battalion supply section” (182). Compared to being in the field, life is easy at Headquarters. There is rarely mortar fire, and there are many comforts and entertainments. The narrator continues to sleep on his stomach and thinks about Bobby Jorgenson’s mistake: “Bobby Jorgenson had almost killed me. Shock, I’d think—how could he forget to treat for shock?” (183).
In March, Alpha Company comes into Headquarters. The narrator parties with the men and listens to their stories; one story involves a soldier named Morty Phillips, who disappears from camp on a hot day to take a swim in a river. Afterward, Phillips gets sick: “Swallowed a VC virus or something” (186). The narrator notices that Phillips is no longer in the company. He asks where Bobby Jorgenson is. The men explain that although Jorgenson had made a mistake in his treatment of the narrator, the company had since accepted him; it is now the narrator who is an outsider, which makes the narrator feel betrayed.
The narrator runs into Jorgenson the next day. Jorgenson tries to apologize to the narrator and explain what happened. Jorgenson hadn’t been able to move: “I’d keep trying but I couldn’t make my goddamn legs work” (190). Despite the apology, the narrator does not forgive Jorgenson; instead, he continues to want revenge. He solicits the help of Azar in enacting a revenge plan.
It is Jorgenson’s night on guard duty. Azar and the narrator pass time until the night gets late and then they go out into the field outside Jorgenson’s night post. The narrator sits on some boulders behind Jorgenson’s position. He feels a coldness inside of him. He pulls a rope, which sets off a loud clatter in the field. There are eight ropes altogether, four in the narrator’s control, four in Azar’s, and “[e]ach rope was hooked up to a homemade noisemaker out in front of Jorgenson’s bunker—eight ammo cans filled with rifle cartridges” (198). Azar and the narrator take turns pulling the ropes and making noises to scare Jorgenson. The narrator feels powerful and laughs. He imagines how scared Jorgenson must be.
When the moon comes out, Azar and the narrator come out for a second round of tricks. They clatter the ropes louder. They send up flares at 3 am, and Jorgenson lets out a cry. The narrator tries to tell Azar that that is enough, but Azar wants to continue. At dawn, it is cold, but they go out for a last time. Azar begins shooting off illumination flares. The narrator begs him to stop. Azar throws a tear gas grenade and then pulls a rope attached to a white sandbag that “lifted itself up and hovered there in a misty swirl of gas” (205). Jorgenson shoots at the sandbag. Azar chants, throws a gas grenade, and sends up another flare. Jorgenson seems calm. He walks up to the sandbag and shouts out the narrator’s name. Azar says, “show’s over” (206), then looks at the narrator “with a mixture of contempt and pity” (206). As Azar walks by, he kicks the narrator in the head.
Jorgenson treats the narrator’s head wound. They shake hands. Jorgenson says of the sandbag, “That was a nice touch” (206), then asks if the two of them are even. The narrator replies, “pretty much” (207).
The platoon moves only at night in the hills near Quang Ngai City: “For almost two weeks, Sanders said, they lived the night life. That was the phrase everyone used: night life. A language trick” (209). Although moving only at night is difficult for the entire platoon, the strain is especially difficult for Rat. First, he stops talking, and then he starts talking too much. He feels that the bugs in Vietnam are “personally after his ass” (209). He can hear them saying his name and starts to lose his composure, scratching himself obsessively.
Everyone feels the effects of the long night marches. Eventually, Rat hits a breaking point. He starts to envision the men “without arms or legs—that sort of thing” (211) and sees himself dead, being eaten away at by the bugs. He shoots himself in the foot and is evacuated back to Japan.
On an afternoon in 1969, the men call in an air strike on a village along the South China Sea. Afterward, they comb through the village and find “[t]he only confirmed kill was an old man who lay face-up near a pigpen at the center of the village” (214). One by one, the men go up to the old man and greet him as though he were alive. It is only the narrator’s fourth day. He does not go up and greet the dead man; he feels sick. The men set up the body against a fence and raise a toast to him.
Kiowa approaches the narrator later that night and tells him he did a good thing by refusing to shake hands with the old man. The narrator tells Kiowa that the body of the old man reminded him of another body he once saw. Linda and the narrator were both nine, “but we were in love” (216). The narrator takes Linda on the first date of his life in the spring of 1956. They are driven to the movie theater by the narrator’s parents. She wears a red cap. They park and walk up Main Street to the theater. They see a World War II film called The Man Who Never Was. After, they go to the Dairy Queen. He walks Linda to her front door.
At school, Linda wears the red cap and kids like Nick Veenhof tease her. The narrator says, “Nick would creep up behind her and make a grab for the cap, almost yanking it off, then scampering away” (221). One afternoon in class, Nick Veenhof takes off Linda’s cap as he passes by her desk: “Even now, when I think back on it, I can still see the glossy whiteness of her scalp. She wasn’t bald. Not quite. Not completely” (222). Linda doesn’t react. After a time, she turns and stares at the narrator. Later she cries. The narrator and Nick Veenhof walk her home. Linda lives through the summer and dies in September at the age of nine.
The narrator briefly revives Linda: “In a story, miracles can happen. Linda can smile and sit up. She can reach out, touch my wrist, and say, ‘Timmy, stop crying’” (224). Nick Veenhof comes up to the narrator on the playground and tells him that Linda has died. He walks home, drinks chocolate milk, and lies down on the sofa. He daydreams about Linda and starts to cry. The day after she dies, the narrator asks his father to take him down to the funeral home to see the body. The first thing he notices is “the smell, thick and sweet, like something sprayed out of a can” (228). He feels panic as he walks up the aisle. The body doesn’t seem real to him because “[h]er arms and face were bloated. The skin at her cheeks was stretched out tight like the rubber skin on a balloon just before it pops open” (229). He closes his eyes and his father suggests they get some ice cream.
The narrator never shakes hands with the dead bodies he encounters in Vietnam, although confronts many. He continues to make up stories about Linda to bring her back to life. In one, he asks Linda what it’s like to be dead: “‘Well, right now,’ she said, ‘I’m not dead. But when I am, it’s like…I don’t know, I guess it’s like being inside a book that nobody’s reading” (232).
He relates, “[a]nd then it becomes 1990, I’m forty-three years old, and a writer now, still dreaming Linda alive in exactly the same way” (232). He can see her “as if through ice” (232) in a world where Kiowa, Ted Lavender, and Curt Lemon also live. A younger version of himself lives there as well, ice skating with Linda: “[W]hen I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy’s life with a story” (233).
“The Ghost Soldiers” points toward an irony in the soldier’s story. Though at the beginning of the book, the narrator does not want to go to war and nearly evades the draft by escaping to Canada, toward the end of the book—when he is removed from his duties as a soldier—he feels anger, loss, and a sense of betrayal. Alpha Company comes into Headquarters and the narrator says, “In a way, I envied him—all of them. Their deep bush tans, the sores and blisters, the stories, the in-it-togetherness. I felt close to them, yes, but I also felt a new sense of separation” (184). It is this sense of separation developed throughout the story that causes the narrator to act out against Jorgenson. Jorgenson becomes part of the brotherhood of soldiers while the narrator is pushed out by his injury, deepening his sense of hatred, jealousy, and isolation. As the narrator says:
They were still my buddies, at least on one level, but once you leave the boonies, the whole comrade business gets turned around. You become a civilian. You forfeit membership in the family, the blood fraternity, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t pretend to be part of it (185).
The narrator’s paradoxical longing to be part of the experiences that bonded Alpha Company together after he was transferred to Headquarters is a form of Survivor’s Guilt. The juxtaposition of their physical bodies, which bear tans and sores—marks of their presence in the field—with his body, which is mostly healed, makes him feel ashamed of his civilian status, as if he is cowardly for having been shot. Even though Jorgenson’s incompetence is responsible for the severity of the narrator’s wound, the rest of the company accepts him because they are bonded through their survival of the war’s traumatic events, and that is no longer true for the narrator. His desire to get revenge on Jorgenson by making him think he is under attack is both petty and futile. Nothing can make up for the sense of loss the narrator feels at being separated from the company even though remaining with them would have cost him his life.
The story “Night Life” chronologically precedes “Ghost Soldiers” and tells the story of how Rat Kiley ended up leaving the company. His act of self-mutilation speaks of the extreme psychological stress the soldiers face during their time in the field. The story’s title tonally juxtaposes its events: “night life” usually refers to fun times that friends spend together at clubs or bars while here, they face physical and mental torment. The group’s adoption of that term is their attempt to bring dark humor to their situation. This puts Jorgenson’s arrival in perspective, as Kiley’s departure happened under such dire circumstances.
“The Lives of the Dead,” is a meditation on the relationships between memory, death, and storytelling. One function of storytelling is that it is capable of reviving memories of the dead:
That’s what a story does. The bodies are animated. You make the dead talk. They sometimes say things like, ‘Roger that.’ Or they say, ‘Timmy, stop crying,’ which is what Linda said to me after she was dead (219).
For the narrator, storytelling proves to have many functions, but perhaps the most important is revealed in the last words of the book: “[W]hen I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy’s life with a story” (233). The act of Talking as a Way of Processing Trauma, along with writing, and telling stories, is an ongoing effort to “save Timmy’s life” (233). The Things They Carried takes on a deep level of meaning with these words, positioning itself as an antidote for emotional, psychological, or spiritual paralysis—or even suicide. In this way, it might serve as a directive suggestion for others affected by war—an emphatic encouragement for them to “talk.”
By Tim O'Brien
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