From the Publisher
“Webb’s cultural and political portrayal of Vietnam 25 years after the war’s end is delivered with such bold strokes and magical detail.... This is a highly personal and empathetic look at today’s Vietnam.... This detailed, lovingly drawn portrait of Vietnam reveals a sad, tortured country that has never recovered from the horrifying events of a quarter-century ago.”
— Publishers Weekly
“James Webb’s new novel paints a portrait of a modern Vietnam charged with hopes for the future but haunted by the ghosts of its war-torn past. It captures well the lingering scars of the war, and exposes the tension between the dynamism of a new generation and the invisible bondage of an older generation for whom wartime allegiances, and animosities, are rendered no less vivid by the passage of time. A novel of revenge and redemption that tells us much about both where Vietnam is headed and where it has been.”
— Senator John McCain
“A masterpiece, one of the most poignant and powerful novels of this generation ... Lost Soldiers is one of those rare books that is not only a beautifully realized literary triumph but also a crackling good page-turner. Its seamless blend of mystery and intrigue, with its subtle truths of history and culture and its stories of love and honor played out by unforgettable characters, is nothing short of miraculous. Jim Webb did not set out to write a healing book, but that is what he has done. I suspect Lost Soldiers can bring my country together after years of debate and division — and it took a warrior to write it. You will come away a different person after you’ve read it.”
— Walter Anderson, Chairman and Publisher, Parade Magazine
Acclaim for the novels of James Webb:
Fields of Fire
“In my opinion, the finest of the Vietnam novels.”
— Tom Wolfe, Hooking Up
“In swift, flexible prose that does everything he asks of it, Webb gives us an extraordinary range of acutely observed people.... Fields of Fire is a stunner.”
“Few writers since Stephen Crane have portrayed men at war with such a ring of steely truth.”
— The Houston Post
“A novel of such fullness and impact, one is tempted to compare it with Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead.”
— The Oregonian
The Emperor’s General
“Powerfully compelling and moving ... historical fiction of a high order ... hypnotic storytelling ... mesmerizing.”
— Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“With The Emperor’s General, Jim Webb cements his reputation as an extraordinarily gifted storyteller. He excels in mining the rich veins of history to invest his fiction with the drama of great events.... An engrossing, moving, and splendid book.”
— Senator John McCain
“Webb writes history with an urgency and clarity that makes it pop from the page.”
— The Washington Post Book World
WE GO TO WAR
Our response to the Sept. 11 horror is exactly right. The only opposition seems to be coming from academic left-wingers who fancy themselves fashionable in their constant and now-frantic efforts to blame America, even for Sept. 11.
Had we failed to launch the continual, strong attacks that we have, we would have told terrorists around the world that it is safe to attack America with impunity. The road we have chosen is the right one. It will be long, and not without risk. If the patience and strength of our country matches those of our leadership, we will win.
THE BOOKS OF SUMMER IX
This annual review of books read during the summer in Maine is appearing now because far more important events intervened. These books, however, are worth reading anytime.
John Adams (Simon & Schuster, $35) is David McCullough's magisterial and altogether wonderful bi-ography. Joseph Ellis' 1993 biography of Adams began the process of demonstrating how much we owe to this most extraordinary of our founding fathers. McCullough completes the rescue of our second President from the comparative obscurity to which the far better known lives of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin had seemingly condemned him.
Adams, a Massachusetts farmer and lawyer, was a proud descendant of the Puritans and outdid some of them in his rigid rectitude. He had a towering intellect, refined and toned by his Harvard education. He scorned those of lesser intellect and some who simply disagreed with his firmly held opinions. Anyone subjected to his disdain was not likely to forget it.
Adams worked endlessly for causes he believed in, especially personal liberty and freedom fromoppression. He was unwilling to compromise in the least on anything remotely resembling a matter of principle. But these character-istics enabled him and his sometimes irritated colleagues (no mean intellects themselves) to work together to produce our democracy. We probably would never have taken the extreme step of severing relations with Great Britain without Adams' relentless pursuit of what he saw as necessary to secure our freedom and our future.
Some of the finest chapters are those involving Adams' responsibilities representing the Colonies' interests in France, which led to France's committing troops to our Revolution. In all this Adams was far more than aided by his extraordinary wife, Abigail. Almost a dual biography, this book includes perhaps the first full appreciation of how much Abigail contributed to the Revolution and our nation's birth.
The summer was also enlivened by a controversial little book, The Jefferson-Hemings Myth: An American Travesty (Thomas Jefferson Heritage Society, $11.95). Ten contributors, including editor Eyler Robert Coates Sr. and Bahman Batmanghelidj, offer virtually irrefutable proof that Jefferson did not father a child by Sally Hemings, a myth that many have come to accept.
Three novels, brilliantly written, with fascinating narratives, completed this summer's fare. Readers may recall my unbounded admiration for James Webb, one of our finest war novelists since Stephen Crane. It is a pleasure to re-port that Webb's Lost Soldiers (Bantam Books, $25) is fully up to his high standards--taut with skillfully nar-rated realism. It is a tale of the search for two American traitors who caused the death of Marines in a remote outpost in Vietnam. No one else has ever conveyed better the dangers, risks and horrors of our war in Vietnam. Once again we see and live through the misery, terror and hardship of infantry fighting in that strange land--a land that Webb has clearly come to love.
Death in Holy Orders, by P.D. James (Knopf, $25), is the latest of the Adam Dalgliesh mysteries. An ordinand's death at a small theological college leads into a tale of multiple murders and horribly sacrilegious acts, along with the familiar descriptions and character studies that distinguish all of Baroness James' works. This is a most reward-ing and skillfully constructedexample of the classic mystery as told by a master of the art.
One of the nicest short books I've read in a long time is Girl With a Pearl Earring, by Tracy Chevalier (Plume, $12). This is the tale of painter Johannes Vermeer and his tumultuous household in 1660s Holland. But it is also the story of his 16-year-old housemaid and model, Griet, who sat for the glorious portrait "Girl With a Pearl Ear-ring." This is a most delightful lesson in art history, as well as a study in vivid contrasts between Vermeer's life and that of his most famous model.
In my opinion, the finest of the Vietnam novels.
A masterpiece, one of the most poignant and powerful novels of this generation ... Lost Soldiers is one of those rare books that is not only a beautifully realized literary triumph but also a crackling good page-turner. Its seamless blend of mystery and intrigue, with its subtle truths of history and culture and its stories of love and honor played out by unforgettable characters, is nothing short of miraculous. Jim Webb did not set out to write a healing book, but that is what he has done. I suspect Lost Soldiers can bring my country together after years of debate and division and it took a warrior to write it. You will come away a different person after you’ve read it.
With The Emperor’s General, Jim Webb cements his reputation as an extraordinarily gifted storyteller. He excels in mining the rich veins of history to invest his fiction with the drama of great events.... An engrossing, moving, and splendid book.
In swift, flexible prose that does everything he asks of it, Webb gives us an extraordinary range of acutely observed people.... Fields of Fire is a stunner.
Few writers since Stephen Crane have portrayed men at war with such a ring of steely truth.
A novel of such fullness and impact, one is tempted to compare it with Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead.
Washington Post Book World
Webb writes history with an urgency and clarity that makes it pop from the page.
Webb's cultural and political portrayal of Vietnam 25 years after the war's end is delivered with such bold strokes and magical detail that it really doesn't matter that the plot itself is relegated to the backseat. This is a highly personal and empathetic look at today's Vietnam, a land of misery and inequity, yet one still vibrantly alive. The story follows the experiences of Brandon Condley, an ex-Marine whose job it is to find missing American soldiers, dead or alive. Condley is trying to track down Theodore Deville, an army grunt who not only deserted his unit in 1969 and killed a fellow serviceman, but then joined the ranks of the enemy. Condley is convinced Deville is still alive, operating somewhere in southeast Asia's underground economy. Webb introduces a rich cast of supporting characters as Condley pursues his quarry across Vietnam, Australia, the former Soviet Union and Thailand. Among the most delicately etched is Dzung, a former South Vietnamese officer now relegated, like thousands of others on the losing side, to a menial station in life, one that he and his family have no hope of escaping. Such characters, as well as the highly textured mood and atmosphere that Webb creates, tend to further eclipse the main narrative and shift the focus to the moral consequences and social fallout of the war. This detailed, lovingly drawn portrait of Vietnam reveals a sad, tortured country that has never recovered from the horrifying events of a quarter-century ago. Major print and radio advertising. (Sept. 4) Forecast: Webb (Fields of Fire) is no stranger to the bestseller lists; endorsements from heavy hitters like Sen. John McCain will help put him there once again. Copyright 2001Cahners Business Information.
Some of the memories were horrible. A few of them were good. But all of them had meaning. Thus begins a gripping tale of mystery and intrigue set in present-day Vietnam. The center of this fine novel is the search for two army deserters who led U.S. troops into ambush and then hid in North Vietnam after the hostilities ceased. Like the best of such tales, however, the novel offers more than the resolution of a mystery: it also tells a poignant story of a love that might have been and of friendship across partisan lines and is rich with the sounds and smells of its foreign setting. Former Secretary of the Navy and Assistant Secretary of Defense Webb (also the author of the best-selling Fields of Fire and other novels) has used his familiarity with the Far East to evoke the tangled net of loyalties and enmities bequeathed to a troubled country by a savage history of conflict. This exceptionally well-written book tells a gripping tale; enthusiastically recommended. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/01.]David Keymer, Zayed Univ., Dubai Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
The author of Fields of Fire (not reviewed), one of the best Vietnam War novels ever, sends a fictional ex-Marine to contemporary Vietnam to hunt down a murderous deserter. Webb, a former Marine and secretary of the Navy, offers a heartbreaking portrait of modern Vietnam in the character of Dzung, a highly skilled soldier who lost his family fighting the communists and now makes a paltry living as a Saigon bicycle cabbie: home is a miserable shack where he lives with his young wife and five children, one of whom is dying of an infectious disease. Dzung is a close friend of Brandon Condley's, a former Marine who stayed in Southeast Asia after the war as a security consultant and freelance trouble-shooter for the CIA. Condley blows into Saigon with Hanson Muir, a pompous but well-meaning forensic anthropologist searching for the remains of American soldiers. When Dzung learns that the bones of Muir's latest find are not those of the American deserter Theodore Deville, a homicidal turncoat Marine who liked to sever the hands of his victims and who led an ambush on Condley's platoon during the war, he is forced by a member of the Vietnamese security to begin training as an assassin. Condley is sure that Deville is still alive, and he uses his almost too cordial friendship with retired Communist Intelligence operative Colonel Pham (Pham's daughter, Van, has a crush on Condley) to dig up clues (and another body) in a forbidding hilltop village; a Soviet observer's seedy Moscow apartment; and in some sleazy Bangkok dives, where Deville might be working as a drug smuggler with the Vietnamese Communist regime. Meanwhile, Dzung wonders whether he'll be able to kill his best friend Condley when theinevitable command comes. Vividly atmospheric settings steal the show from Webb's meandering story as Condley visits old soldiers from both sides of the conflict, united in their inexplicable love for Vietnam.
Read an Excerpt
Quang Nam Province, Viet Nam
“Typhoon,” said Brandon Condley, his hard gray eyes expertly searching the bruised horizon.
It had been drizzling all morning, which was no surprise because actually it had been drizzling for weeks. But off to the east the real deal was rolling in from the South China Sea, having just wreaked havoc in the northern islands of the Philippines. Condley zipped his rain jacket all the way up underneath his throat as if to emphasize the coming storm, then pulled his worn baseball cap lower over his eyes. And finally, just to make the point that he did not really care, he laughed.
“Hey, Professor, Buddha’s pissed. Welcome to the real Viet Nam!”
Hanson Muir stood like a dreamer ten feet in front of him, near the prow of the narrow wooden boat. The boat was struggling against the angry current of the chalky, swollen Thu Bon River, its two-cylinder motor putting like a loud lawn mower. Its bow yawed this way and that, smacking against odd flotsam and swirling eddies. The monsoon had come to central Viet Nam five weeks before. It had dropped a hundred inches of rain in two weeks and then settled into an intermittent drizzle that would last for months. The fog-shrouded, unending mountains to the west were still weeping tons of water every hour from it. The rivers and streams had outgrown their banks. The endless terraces of rice paddies that filled the valleys leading eastward to the sea were now hidden under vast lakes of rainwater, often indistinguishable from the rivers or even the sea itself. And along the tree-choked knolls and ridges in the middle of the paddies, hundreds of villages sat serenely above the water, isolated like ancient little islands.
“How much further, Brandon?”
Muir’s posed stance made Condley laugh yet again. The brilliant scientist seemed to be imagining himself as a Viking marauder with his puffed chest and raised chin, one hand stroking his beard as the other held on to a railing. Hearing Condley laugh, he turned and caught the smaller man’s amused expression.
“Having your fun, are you?”
“You look ridiculous, Professor.”
“And it’ll be even funnier if we drown, I suppose?”
“You won’t drown. You’re too fat to sink.”
“I’m surveying the riverbanks,” said Hanson defensively. “In the event I am required to swim ashore.”
Condley laughed again. He knew this river. “I wouldn’t give a nickel for you making it to shore if this boat splits in two.”
“I thought you said I wouldn’t drown.”
“That doesn’t mean I think you can swim.”
“Your sense of humor leaves me weak.”
“Then don’t lose your grip, there.”
Condley walked carefully toward the stern and caught the attention of the boat’s owner. The tight-muscled little man, whose name was Tuan, was intently working the till of his creaky wooden craft while standing barefoot in a gathering pool of water. Three hours before, Tuan had seemed incurably happy when these two Americans had offered him forty dollars to take them upriver to the village of Ninh Phuoc and back. Now he had lost his smile. His narrow eyes squinted as he watched the clogged current. He was drenched and shivering, his rain jacket and shorts soaked all the way through.
“Bao,” said Condley, using the Vietnamese word for typhoon and pointing again toward the distant sea. “Sap den! Phai khong?”
Tuan glanced quickly up into the sky, then focused back on the dangers of the river. He tilted the rudder away from a swiftly moving log and then narrowly dodged the bloated carcass of a dead pig. “Khong co sao,” he answered. Condley could tell that a typhoon would never deter Tuan. Forty dollars was the equivalent of a month’s wages, and the little boatmaster had already planned on how he was going to spend it. “Di Ninh Phuoc di ve Danang, bon muoi do-lah, duoc, duoc.”
“What did he say?” asked Hanson Muir.
“Roughly, he said, ‘So fucking what?’ The rain doesn’t matter. He wants the money. He’s a tough little bastard, I told you that.”
“No, let’s put this in character, Brandon. If you hired him, he’s got to be the toughest little bastard in all of central Viet Nam, right? And by the time we finish this trip he’ll have become a legend.”
“He’s already a legend, just for taking us,” said Condley, secretly enjoying Muir’s unease. “If we finish the trip, they’ll erect a shrine in his honor.”
Muir shrugged, nervously looking at the sky. “I take your point about the storm. Tell him we’ll give him the money anyway. He didn’t even look up at that cloud bank, you know.”
“He was born here. He can smell a typhoon from fifty miles away.” Condley waved the boatmaster on, laughing grimly. He loved the nguoi trungs, as they called the combative, tough people from Viet Nam’s central mountain region. “The fucker’s going to die for forty bucks.”
“I told you, give him the money.”
“Well, then you’ve got to deal with his pride. He’s a nguoi trung, Professor. He’ll never take a handout.” Condley nudged Muir. “Are you sure you want to keep going?”
From the look on his flabby moon of a face, it was clear that Hanson Muir was not sure at all. The boat hit a half-submerged log, jarring them and knocking Muir sideways. The heavyset anthropologist held nervously to the boat railing and pushed his dirty eyeglasses back up his nose. Finally he sighed. “We’re almost there, aren’t we? If we return to Da Nang we’ve got to come back out here and do it all over again.”
“If we keep going and then get back to Da Nang after the typhoon hits, we won’t get out. The plane from Sai Gon won’t even come in there. The entire airport area will be underwater. And if we get stuck in Ninh Phuoc during a typhoon, we might end up staying there till spring. The way the Taiwanese have been strip-logging up in those mountains, the root systems are almost gone. This whole region could become one giant mud slide.”
Muir forced a grin, masking his fear. “I’ve always been tempted to take a Vietnamese wife.”
“Trust me, you’re not going to feel like settling down in Ninh Phuoc. If you want a wife, I’ll find you one in Sai Gon.”
“I was teasing. My present wife would object rather violently to being replaced, you know.”
“No need for that,” shrugged Condley. “The Vietnamese have always been polygamous. You can have as many wives as you can afford.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
“Actually, I’m not.”
Muir rolled his eyes, obviously thinking of a retort, then let the notion go. Sai Gon was a long way away, but Ninh Phuoc was just up the river. If they could make it up the river. He gave Condley a questioning look. “You haven’t really told me what to do or say when we get there.”
“It depends on what they’ve got, Professor. If it’s real, you can do your thing. If it’s chitchat, just be nice. Make the people feel important.”
“I’m a scientist. I’m not supposed to be nice.”
Another dead pig floated past, and then off next to the shore a dead villager, spread-eagled and bloated, spinning in the rapid current. Muir swallowed hard, watching the body twirl past them. Condley nudged him, snapping him out of it. “When we get there, just watch me. Smile when I smile. Eat the rice when I eat the rice. Drink the tea when I drink the tea. Smoke the cigarette when they give you one.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“You do now.”
Condley’s craggy face twinkled with secret happiness as the boat fought its way upriver. His shoes were squishy from the water in the boat and his fingers were crinkly from the rain. He feared the raw, surging power of Song Thu Bon, but at the same time he felt oddly content. The chalky river that ran from the mountains in Laos all the way to the sea just south of Da Nang was as comforting as an old friend. He had memories along its banks. Some of the memories were horrible. A few of them were even good. But all of them had meaning. And what was life if it brought you no meaning?
Muir had decided to ignore him. The brilliant academic had turned away from him now, studying the flotsam as if history itself were slapping and bumping along the gunwales. The old boat shuddered against the current, causing its boards to creak. Muir shifted his gaze from the river to the dangerous beauty of the mountains that now rose up fierce and shrouded on all sides. “Do you know where we are?”
Condley pulled out an old American tactical map he had kept from the war, carefully unfolding it. As a Marine thirty years before, he had laminated the map to protect it from the rains. It still bore black and red stains along its folds from where he had once used grease pencils to mark checkpoints for patrols and on-call targets for artillery. Turning it this way and that, he started matching the map to terrain features that rose up near the banks of the river. This was his area. He had walked every inch of it in another life, and neither he nor it had changed a whole lot since he’d left. Finally he held his finger on the map, showing Muir where they were.
“We’re right here, Professor. That mountain over there is Nui Son Su. It was one of our key outposts on the edge of the Fifth Marines regimental headquarters in An Hoa. An Hoa is just behind the mountain. Or its ruins are, anyway. So that means we have two or three more turns in the river. The mountains will close in on us, then open up, then close in again — right here. And when they open up again, we’ll be in Ninh Phuoc.”
Muir looked upriver. Indeed, the mountains were assembling themselves through the rain-mist, pushing at the river from both sides. He gave off a little shiver as he stared into the gap. The current picked up, turning frothy as the river narrowed where it passed between the mountains. Condley watched Tuan, studying the boatmaster’s face for clues and deciding from the little man’s steadfast eyes that they were going to make it. Then for a long time he peered upriver through the rain, lost in memories.
Lots of memories. Years of them, clinging to the crags and standing deep inside old foxholes that still scarred the hillsides.
They broke through the pass and entered calmer, wider waters. Muir seemed to relax, his scientist’s need for certainty calmed by Condley’s map-reading skills. The river turned sharply to the left and Condley pointed to a high, steep mountain that rose more than a thousand feet up into the mist.
“That’s Cua Tan,” he said. “We’re almost at Ninh Phuoc.”
After Cua Tan the river’s left bank opened into a valley that reached far to the east. Condley knew that the valley would eventually end in a huge canyon up against even higher mountains, a fiercely sharp range called the Que Sons. The Americans used to call the big box canyon the Antenna Valley. And at its entrance, just off the river, he could finally see the village of Ninh Phuoc.
“There it is,” he said. “We made it.”
Long time no see.
The boatmaster thankfully followed his directions and left the river’s main current, navigating across the floodlands toward the village. “A badass place,” said Condley as they approached the looming darkness of its tree lines. “Lots of people died in here. The NVA kept a division up in those mountains. We had a reinforced Marine regiment back in An Hoa. When they ran into each other it could fuck up your entire day.”
Tuan didn’t know ten words of English, but as he expertly worked the tiller he understood exactly what Condley was saying. He laughed, still shivering from the cold rain, and pointed toward the mountains.
“Da, truoc nay, co nhieu linh Bac dang kia.” Tuan then slipped from Vietnamese into the mix of pidgin French and English still left over from the region’s thirty years of war. “Boo-coo bang bang obah dare.”
“Boo-coo,” laughed Condley, repeating the murdered French phrase that had become so common in Viet Nam. “Boo-coo bang bang.”
Quyen was waiting for them. The Vietnamese government’s liaison officer was standing on the high, flat paddy dike that marked the outer edge of the village, dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt, and black leather shoes. His thick hair was matted by the rain. Dozens of drenched villagers stood along the dike with him, smiling and elbowing each other as if the boat’s approach was grand entertainment. Condley waved to Quyen, calling to him. The whole village waved back, welcoming them.
The boat putted up to the edge of the dike, docking alongside it as if it were a pier. Tuan threw a rope to a group of laughing, screaming young boys, who immediately tied the boat up to a tree. The current was strong here, even away from the main path of the river, and Tuan’s boat nudged gently prow-first against the mud of the dike, held fast by the flow of the water.
“Chao ong, Chao ong!”
Quyen greeted Condley with genuine happiness as the American stepped from the boat onto the muddy dike. The political officer had traveled to the village the day before in order to prepare the villagers for the meeting. Condley had worked with Quyen twice before, and he knew the young bureaucrat would be dying to go home. Quyen was a city boy, from Ha Noi in the north. In Da Nang two nights before, the locals had teased him that the villagers in the mountain hamlets off to the west were wild, of a different species, that drinking their water or their tea might make him sick, that some of their food might kill him, and that many of them even had tails. Quyen had half believed even the part about the tails.
“Ah, Mr. Condley, Mr. Muir,” said Quyen. He smiled brightly, rubbing his hands in front of his dark, narrow face as if each of these Americans were holding up a Buddha to be prayed to. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you to Ninh Phuoc. Come with me, come with me.”