Notes to The Things They Carried
Tim O'Brien
Best known for his fictional portrayal of the Vietnam War, Tim O'Brien is an American
novelist and short story writer who has been compared to Ernest Hemingway, Stephen
Crane, and Joseph Heller.In Going After Cacciato (1978) and The Things They Carried
(1990), the novels that established his reputation, O'Brien explores the horrors and
ambiguities of war in a style that is eloquent, precise, and highly evocative.An intensely
passionate writer, O'Brien has attempted to move beyond the tag of "war writer" by
composing works that reveal the ways in which love and civilian life can resemble war.In
his novel In the Lake of the Woods (1994), which portrays a defeated politician
struggling with a secret past and imperiled marriage, O'Brien brings the fear and torment
of Vietnam to the Minnesota wilderness.
First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross
More than any other character, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross has to deal with the weight of
responsibility.All the other soldiers experience death and horror, but they also all seem to
take solace in the senselessness of war.Because he is in charge of the platoon, however,
Jimmy Cross blames himself for every soldier's death.
Dave Jensen
Jensen is a minor character in the platoon, who is never fully developed.Jensen is only a
significant character in two stories, "Friends" and "Enemies," in which Jensen's complex
relationship with Strunk is portrayed.
Kiowa
Kiowa is the narrator's best friend in the platoon, who dies when the platoon mistakenly
camps in a latrine on the banks of the Song Tra Bong.Kiowa's death is given greater
prominence in the text than his life.When Kiowa does speak, he is shown to be a
character of great compassion and intelligence.His death, more than any of the others,
speaks of the senseless cruelty of the war.
Rat Kiley
Rat Kiley is the platoon's medic.The narrator has great respect for Kiley, especially for
his medical prowess and nerve. There are two moments, however, when Kiley displays
disturbing violence and instability.
Lee Strunk
He is another soldier in the platoon, a minor character who dies in "Friends" when he
steps on a mortar round. Strunk's only other significant appearance is his brief, tense trip
into a Vietnamese tunnel.
Mitchell Sanders
Sanders is one of the most likeable soldiers in the platoon, and the one who makes the
greatest impression on the narrator. Sanders is kind, devoted to his fellow soldiers, and
possesses a keen sense of justice. He makes his impression on O'Brien by serving as the
platoon's chief storyteller and story critic. As such, Sanders is a kind of father figure in
the book, guiding the narrator towards his own revelations about memory and writing.
Norman Bowker
He is a quiet soldier during the war, and we learn that a few years after the war, he
commits suicide. Bowker embodies the damage that the characters carry with them even
after the war is over. His story, particularly his letters to the narrator, demonstrates the
importance of talking, and of sharing one's stories.
Henry Dobbins
He is the platoon's hulking machine-gunner. He is a fairly constant presence in the book,
but does not occupy a position of real significance. His profound decency seems out of
place with his big, bearish frame, and he serves as a prime example of the incongruities
that one encounters in these stories.
Ted Lavender
He is the first soldier to die in the book, and although he only appears for a brief instant,
his ghost hangs over the rest of the text. Before his death, Lavender is young and
constantly terrified, and takes tranquilizers as a way of dealing with the fear. His death
seems almost inevitable from the start.
Letters from soldiers to family and friends back home
October 20, 1966
Dear Aunt Fannie,
This morning my platoon and I were finishing up a three-day patrol. Struggling over steep hills
covered with hedgerows, trees, and generally impenetrable jungle, one of my men turned to me and pointed
a hand, filled with cuts and scratches, at a rather distinguished-looking plant with soft red flowers waving
gaily in the downpour (which had been going on ever since the patrol began) and said, "That is the first
plant I have seen today which didn't have thorns on it.” I immediately thought of you.
The plant, and the hill upon which it grew, was also representative of Vietnam. It is a country of
thorns and cuts, of guns and marauding, of little hope and of great failure. Yet in the midst of it all, a
beautiful thought, gesture, and even person can arise among it waving bravely at the death that pours down
upon it. Some day this hill will be burned by napalm, and the red flower will crackle up and die among the
thorns. So what was the use of it living and being a beauty among the beasts, if it must, in the end, die
because of them, and with them? This is a question which is answered by Gertrude Stein's "A rose is a rose
is a rose.” You are what you are what you are. Whether you believe in God, fate, or the crumbling cookie,
elements are so mixed in a being that make him what he is; his salvation from the thorns around him lies in
the fact that he existed at all, in his very own personality. There once was a time when the Jewish idea of
heaven and hell was the thoughts and opinions people had of you after you died. But what if the plant was
on an isolated hill and was never seen by anyone? That is like the question of whether the falling tree
makes a sound in the forest primeval when no one is there to hear it. It makes a sound, and the plant was
beautiful and the thought was kind, and the person was humane, and distinguished and brave, not merely
because other people recognized it as such, but because it is, and it is.
The flower will always live in the memory of a tired wet marine, and has thus achieved a sort of
immortality. But even if we had never gone on that hill, it would still be a distinguished, soft, red, thorn less
flower growing among the cutting, scratching plants, and that in itself is its own reward.
Love,
Sandy
On 11 November 1966, less than three weeks after he wrote this letter to his great-aunt Mrs. Louis Adoue,
Marine 2Lt. Marion Lee Kempner, from Galveston, Texas, was killed by a mine explosion near Tien Phu.
After he disarmed one mine, another was tripped by one of his men. Although wounded by shrapnel, Lt.
Kempner ordered the corpsman to take care of the other wounded man first. He died aboard a medevac en
route to the hospital. He was 24 years old. (Dear America Letters Home from Vietnam p.131-133)
Dear Madeline,
Hello my sister. Boy, I sure feel close to you. Since your last letter, I almost feel as if you are my
sister. It’s good to have someone to tell your troubles to. I can't tell them to my parents or Darlene because
they worry too much, but I tell you truthfully I doubt if I'll come out of this alive.
In my original squad I'm the only one left unharmed. In my platoon there's only 13 of us. It seems
every day another young guy 18 and 19 years old like myself is killed in action. Please help me, Mad. I
don't know if I should stop writing my parents and Darlene or what.
I'm going on an operation next month where there is nothing but VC and VC sympathizers. The
area is also very heavily mined. All of us are scared cause we know a lot of us won't make it. I would like
to hear what you have to say about it, Madeline, before I make any decisions.
Oh, and one more favor. I’d like the truth now. Has Darlene been faithful to me? I know she's
been dating guys, but does she still love me best? Thanks for understanding. See ya if it's God's will. I have
to make it out of Vietnam though, cause I'm lucky. I hope. a ha.
Miss ya,
Love,
Ray
PFC Raymond C. Griffiths went to Vietnam just after Christmas in 1965 and was assigned to Company A,
1st Battalion, 9th Marines, 3rd marine Division. He wrote this letter to Madeline Velasco, a friend form
high school in San Francisco, California, in June 1966.He was killed a few weeks later, on the Fourth of
July. He was 19 years old. (Dear America Letters Home from Vietnam p. 118-119) (Amy)Back to Text
The Letters
Last Will & Testament
Of PFC Richard E. Marks
December 12, 1965
Dear Mom,
I am writing this in the event that I am killed during my remaining tour of duty in Vietnam.
First of all I want to say that I am here as a result of my own desire-I was offered the chance to go
to 2nd Marine Division when I was first assigned to the 4th Marines, but turned it down. I am here because
I have always wanted to be a Marine and because I always wanted to see combat.
I don't like being over here, but I am doing a job that must be done- I am fighting an inevitable
enemy that must be fought-now or later.
I am fighting to protect and maintain what I believe in and what I want to live in-a democratic
society. If I am killed while carrying out this mission, I want no one to cry or mourn for me. I want people
to hold their heads high and be proud of me for the job I did.
There are some details I want taken care of. First of all, any money that you receive as a result of
my death I want distributed in the following fashion.
If you are single, I want you and Sue to split it down the middle. But if you are married and your
husband can support you, I want Sue and Lennie to get 75% of the money, and I want you to keep only
25%-I feel Sue and Lennie will need the money a lot more.
I also want to be buried in my Marine Corps uniform with all the decoration, medal, and badges I
rate. I also want Rabbi Hirschberg to officiate, and I want to be buried in the same cemetery as Dad and
Gramps, but I do not want to be buried in the plot next to Dad that I bought in mind of you.
That is about all, except I hope I never have to use this letterI love you, Mom, and Sue, and Nan, and I want you all to carry on and be very happy, and above all be
proudLove & much more love,
Rick
PFC Richard E. Marks, who grew up in New York City, served in Vietnam with Company C, 1st Battalion,
3rd Regiment, 3rd Marine Division, which operated in 1 Corps. On 14 February 1966, two months after he
wrote this letter, he was killed. He was 19 years old.
Dear Doug,
The monsoon had been late up to now, but this day it rained in torrents. The jungle and the rice
paddy we'd been wading around in wasn't affected much, but waist-deep streams we had waded [through]
coming out were now impassable swamps 300 yards wide. I was put in the point now, with instructions to
hurry toward what was a likely crossing on the map in hopes that it hadn't risen too much.
Almost immediately we discovered tracks, obviously too small to have been Occidentals. The scout read
them as a mixture of VC and NVA. There was no way I could make any time and check every possible
ambush, so I sent a double point as far ahead as practicable and kept everyone widely dispersed. We all
expected to be hit any minute as fresh tracks were discovered. There was a sniper fire at the rear of the
column, and this heightened the tension. But we reached the river without incident. It was now impassable.
We were cut of from our base and requested a helicopter evacuation with priority for 30 cases of immersion
foot, many of which had begun to bleed because of the constant water. We were all in sad shape now. I
know that at one point, my feet about to crack open, my stomach knotted by hunger and diarrhea, my back
feeling like a mirror made of nerves shattered in a million pieces by my flak-jacket, pack, and extra
mortars, machine-gun ammo, my hands a mass of hamburger from thorn cuts, and my face a mass of welts
from mosquitoes, I desired greatly to throw down everything, slump into the water of the paddy, and sob. I
remember a captain, an aviator, who, observing a group of grunts toasting the infantry in a bar, said, "You
damned infantry think you're the only people who exist.” You’re damned right we do.
Love,
David
1Lt Victor David Westphall 111, who arrived in Vietnam in October 1967, a platoon leader with Company
B, 1st Battalion, 4th Regiment, 3rd Marine Division, was killed on 22 May 1968 in an ambush at Con
Thein. He was 28 years old. In his memory, his father built the Vietnam Veterans Peace and Brotherhood
Chapel in Eagle Nest, New Mexico. Doug is his brother
Poems
Wall
"Facing It"
My black face fades,
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears
I'm stone. I’m flesh
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird or prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way-the stone lets me go.
I turn that way-I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky.A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine.I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone.In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
"Tunnels"
Crawling down headfirst into the hole,
he kicks the air & disappears.
I feel like I'm down there
with him, moving ahead, pushed
by a river of darkness, feeling
blessed for each inch of the unknown.
Our tunnel rat is the smallest man
in the platoon, in an echo chamber
that makes his ears bleed
when he pulls the trigger.
He moves as if trying to outdo
blind fish easing toward imagined blue,
pulled by something greater than life's
ambitions.He can't think about
spiders& scorpions mending the air,
or care about bats upside down
like gods in the mole's blackness.
The damp smell goes deeper
than the stench of honey buckets.
A web of booby traps waits, ready
to spring into broken stars.
Forced onward by some need,
some urge, he knows the pulse
of mysteries & diversions
like thoughts trapped in the ground.
He questions each root.
Every cornered shadow has a life
to bargain with. Like an angle
pushed up against what hurts,
his globe-shaped helmet
follows the gold ring his flashlight
casts into the void.Through silver
lice, shit, maggots, & vapor of pestilence,
he goes, the good soldier,
on hands & knees,tunneling past
death sacked into a blind corner,
loving the weight of the shotgun
that will someday dig his grave.