Pat Conroy's Awakening
"The true things always ambush me on the road and take me by surprise when I am drifting down the light of placid days, careless about flanks and
rearguard actions. I was not looking for a true thing to come upon me in the state of New Jersey. Nothing has ever happened to me in New Jersey. But
came it did, and it came to stay. In the past four years I have been
interviewing my teammates on the 1966-67 basketball team at the Citadel for a book I'm writing. For the most part, this has been like buying back a part
of my past that I had mislaid or shut out of my life. At first I thought I was writing about being young and frisky and able to run up and down a court
all day long, but lately I realized I came to this book because I needed to
come to grips with being middle-aged and having ripened into a gray-haired man you could not trust to handle the ball on a fast break.
When I visited my old teammate Al Kroboth's house in New Jersey, I spent the first hours quizzing him about his memories of games and practices and
the screams of coaches that had echoed in field houses more than 30 years before. Al had been a splendid forward-center for the Citadel; at 6 feet 5
inches and carrying 220 pounds, he played with indefatigable energy and
enthusiasm. For most of his senior year, he led the nation in field-goal percentage, with UCLA center Lew Alcindor hot on his trail. Al was a
battler and a brawler and a scrapper from the day he first stepped in as a Green Weenie as a sophomore to the day he graduated. After we talked
basketball, we came to a subject I dreaded to bring up with Al, but which lay between us and would not lie still.
"Al, you know I was a draft dodger and antiwar demonstrator."
"That's what I heard, Conroy," Al said. "I have nothing against what you
did, but I did what I thought was right."
"Tell me about Vietnam, big Al. Tell me what happened to you," I said.
On his seventh mission as a navigator in an A-6 for Major Leonard Robertson, Al was getting ready to deliver their payload when the
fighter-bomber was hit by enemy fire. Though Al has no memory of it, he punched out somewhere in the middle of the ill-fated dive and lost
consciousness. He doesn't know if he was unconscious for six hours or six days, nor does he know what happened to Major Robertson (whose name is
engraved on the Wall in Washington and on the MIA bracelet Al wears).
When Al awoke, he couldn't move. A Viet Cong soldier held an AK-47 to his head. His back and his neck were broken, and he had shattered his
left scapula in the fall. When he was well enough to get to his feet (he still can't recall how much time had passed), two armed Viet Cong led Al
from the jungles of South Vietnam to a prison in Hanoi. The journey took three months. Al Kroboth walked barefooted through the most impassable
terrain in Vietnam, and he did it sometimes in the dead of night. He bathed when it rained, and he slept in bomb craters with his two Viet Cong captors.
As they moved farther north, infections began to erupt on his body, and his legs were covered with leeches picked up while crossing the rice paddies.
At the very time of Al's walk, I had a small role in organizing the only antiwar demonstration ever held in Beaufort, South Carolina, the home of
Parris Island and the Marine Corps Air Station. In a Marine Corps town at that time, it was difficult to come up with a quorum of people who had even
minor disagreements about the Vietnam War. But my small group managed
to attract a crowd of about 150 to Beaufort's waterfront. With my mother and my wife on either side of me, we listened to the featured speaker, Dr.
Howard Levy, suggest to the very few young enlisted marines present that if they get sent to Vietnam, here's how they can help end this war: Roll a
grenade under your officer's bunk when he's asleep in his tent. It's called fragging and is becoming more and more popular with the ground troops who
know this war is bullshit. I was enraged by the suggestion. At that very moment my father, a marine officer, was asleep in Vietnam. But in 1972, at
the age of 27, I thought I was serving America's interests by pointing out
what massive flaws and miscalculations and corruptions had led her to conduct a ground war in Southeast Asia.
In the meantime, Al and his captors had finally arrived in the North, and the Viet Cong traded him to North Vietnamese soldiers for the final leg of
the trip to Hanoi. Many times when they stopped to rest for the night, the local villagers tried to kill him. His captors wired his hands behind his
back at night, so he trained himself to sleep in the center of huts when the villagers began sticking knives and bayonets into the thin walls.
Following the U.S. air raids, old women would come into the huts to excrete on him and yank out hunks of his hair. After the nightmare journey
of his walk north, Al was relieved when his guards finally delivered him to the POW camp in Hanoi and the cell door locked behind him. It was at the
camp that Al began to die. He threw up every meal he ate and before long was
misidentified as the oldest American soldier in the prison because his appearance was so gaunt and skeletal. But the extraordinary camaraderie
among fellow prisoners that sprang up in all the POW camps caught fire in Al, and did so in time to save his life.
When I was demonstrating in America against Nixon and the Christmas bombings in Hanoi, Al and his fellow prisoners were holding hands under
the full fury of those bombings, singing "God Bless America." It was those bombs that convinced Hanoi they would do well to release the American
POWs, including my college teammate. When he told me about the C-141 landing in Hanoi to pick up the prisoners, Al said he felt no emotion, none
at all, until he saw the giant American flag painted on the plane's tail. I stopped writing as Al wept over the memory of that flag on that plane, on
that morning, during that time in the life of America.
It was that same long night, after listening to Al's story, that I began to make judgments about how I had conducted myself during the Vietnam War.
In the darkness of the sleeping Kroboth household, lying in the third-floor guest bedroom, I began to assess my role as a citizen in the'60s, when my
country called my name and I shot her the bird. Unlike the stupid boys who
wrapped themselves in Viet Cong flags and burned the American one, I knew how to demonstrate against the war without flirting with treason or
astonishingly bad taste. I had come directly from the warrior culture of this country and I knew how to act. But in the 25 years that have passed
since South Vietnam fell, I have immersed myself in the study of totalitarianism during the unspeakable century we just left behind. I have
questioned survivors of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, talked to Italians who told me
tales of the Nazi occupation, French partisans who had counted German tanks in the forests of Normandy, and officers who survived the Bataan Death
March. I quiz journalists returning from wars in Bosnia, the Sudan, the
Congo, Angola, Indonesia, Guatemala, San Salvador, Chile, Northern Ireland, Algeria. As I lay sleepless, I realized I'd done all this research to
better understand my country. I now revere words like democracy, freedom, the right to vote, and the grandeur of the extraordinary vision of the
founding fathers. Do I see America's flaws? Of course. But I now can honor her basic, incorruptible virtues, the ones that let me walk the streets
screaming my ass off that my country had no idea what it was doing in South Vietnam. My country let me scream to my heart's content--the same country
that produced both Al Kroboth and me.
Now, at this moment in New Jersey, I come to a conclusion about my actions as a young man when Vietnam was a dirty word to me. I wish I'd led a
platoon of marines in Vietnam. I would like to think I would have trained my troops well and that the Viet Cong would have had their hands full if they
entered a firefight with us. From the day of my birth, I was programmed to enter the Marine Corps. I was the son of a marine fighter
pilot, and I had grown up on marine bases where I had watched the men of the corps perform simulated war games in the forests of my childhood.
That a novelist and poet bloomed darkly in the house of Santini strikes me as a remarkable irony. My mother and father had raised me to be an Al
Kroboth, and during the Vietnam era they watched in horror as I metamorphosed into another breed of fanatic entirely. I understand now that
I should have protested the war after my return from Vietnam, after I had done my duty for my country. I have come to a conclusion about my country
that I knew then in my bones but lacked the courage to act on: America is good enough to die for even when she is wrong.
I looked for some conclusion, a summation of this trip to my teammate's house. I wanted to come to the single right thing, a true thing that I may
not like but that I could live with. After hearing Al Kroboth's story of his walk across Vietnam and his brutal imprisonment in the North, I found
myself passing harrowing, remorseless judgment on myself. I had not turned out to be the man I had once envisioned myself to be. I thought I would be
the kind of man that America could point to and say, "There. That's the guy. That's the one who got it right. The whole package. The one I can depend
on." It had never once occurred to me that I would find myself in the position I did on that night in Al Kroboth's house in Roselle, New Jersey:
an American coward spending the night with an American hero."