Battle Fatigue

BATTLE FATIGUE

Two months after my father’s death, I began research on a book about our family’s history with war. I had a cousin who served as a cook in the Gulf War, in 1990; I had another cousin who served in the Vietnam War as a cook; and my father’s father, Adolph, served in the Second World War and was killed in action on Okinawa, on April 5, 1945.

During my research, I interviewed thirteen men who’d served with my cousin in Vietnam but could find only one surviving man who’d served with my grandfather. This is a partial transcript of that interview, recorded with a microphone and an iPod on January 14, 2008:


Me: Ah, yes, hello. I’m here in Livonia, Michigan, to interview—well, perhaps you should introduce yourself, please?

Leonard Elmore: What?

Me: Um, oh, I’m sorry, I was asking if you could perhaps introduce yourself.

L.E.: You’re going to have to speak up. I think my hearing aid is going low on power or something.

Me: That is a fancy thing in your ear.

L.E.: Yeah, let me mess with it a bit. I got a remote control for it. I can listen to the TV, the stereo, and the telephone with this thing. It’s fancy. It’s one of them Bluetooth hearing aids. My grandson bought it for me. Wait, O.K., there we go. I can hear now. So, what were you asking?

Me: I was hoping you could introduce yourself into my recorder here.

L.E.: Sure, my name is Leonard Elmore.

Me: How old are you?

L.E.: I’m eighty-five and a half years old (laughter). My great-grandkids are always saying they’re seven and a half or nine and a half or whatever. It just cracks me up to say the same thing at my age.

Me: So, that’s funny, um, but I’m here to ask you some questions about my grandfather—

L.E.: Adolph. It’s hard to forget a name like that. An Indian named Adolph, and there was that Nazi bastard named Adolph. Your grandfather caught plenty of grief over that. But we mostly called him Chief. Did you know that?

Me: I could have guessed.

L.E.: Yeah, nowadays I suppose it isn’t a good thing to call an Indian Chief, but back then it was what we did. I served with a few Indians. They didn’t segregate them Indians, you know, not like the black boys. I know you aren’t supposed to call them boys anymore, but they were boys. All of us were boys, I guess. But the thing is, those Indian boys lived and slept and ate with us white boys. They were right there with us. But, anyway, we called all them Indians Chief. I bet you’ve been called Chief a few times yourself.

Me: Just once.

L.E.: Were you all right with it?

Me: I threw a basketball in the guy’s face.

L.E. (laughs).

Me: We live in different times.

L.E.: Yes, we do. Yes, we do.

Me: So, perhaps you could, uh, tell me something about my grandfather.

L.E.: I can tell you how he died.

Me: Really?

L.E.: Yeah, it was on Okinawa, and we hit the beach, and, well, it’s hard to talk about it. It was the worst thing—it was hell. No, that’s not even a good way to describe it. I’m not a writer like you, I’m not a poet, so I don’t have the word, but just think of it this way. That beach, that island, was filled with sons and fathers, men who loved and were loved, American and Japanese and Okinawan, and all of us were dying, were being killed by other sons and fathers who also loved and were loved.

Me: That sounds like poetry to me— tragic poetry.

L.E.: Well, anyway, it was like that. Fire everywhere. And two of our boys, Jonesy and O’Neal, went down, were wounded and in the open on the sand. And your grandfather—who was just this little man, barely over five feet tall and maybe a hundred and thirty pounds—he just ran out there and picked up those two guys, one on each shoulder, and carried them to cover. Hey, are you O.K., son?

Me: Yes, I’m sorry. But, well, the thing is, I knew my grandfather was a war hero—he won twelve medals—but I could never find out what he did to win the medals.

L.E.: I didn’t know about any medals. I just know what I saw. Your grandfather saved those two boys, but he got shot in the back doing it. And he lay there in the sand—I was lying right beside him—and he died.

Me: Did he say anything before he died?

L.E.: Hold on. I need to—

Me: Are you O.K.?

L.E.: It’s just—I can’t—

Me: I’m sorry. Is there something wrong?

L.E.: No, it’s just—with your book and everything, I know you want something big here. I know you want something big from your grandfather. I know you’re hoping he said something huge and poetic, and, honestly, I was thinking about lying to you. I was thinking about making up something as beautiful as I could. Something about love and forgiveness and courage and all that. But I couldn’t think of anything good enough. And I didn’t want to lie to you. So I have to be honest and say that your grandfather didn’t say anything. He just died there in the sand. In silence.

Sherman Alexie

from his new book WAR DANCES
Posted over on The New Yorker