This is a story about Jim, a draftee, grunt, and reluctant warrior, who goes through a challenging and intense experience as a member of the 1st Cavalry Division. The narrative involves foul language, death, drugs, betrayal, prostitution, stupidity, and brutality, capturing the harsh realities of war and its impact on Jim's humanity.
Excerpts:
"The limbs of the scrub brush acted like a spiderweb, snaring the contents of his wallet along with flesh and blood.":
"Captain Americaâbrave, personable, young, and smartâflew off into the blue sky. I told myself he'd be OK. Heroes never die. At least, not in the comic books."
"As we righted ourselves, falling in line, moving through the shallow stream, I could see strands of thick, dark red blood reaching my boots."
The story concludes with the aftermath, depicting Jim's struggle to adjust and regain his sanity.
This is a story about Jim, a draftee, grunt, and reluctant warrior, who goes through a challenging and intense experience as a member of the 1st Cavalry Division. The narrative involves foul language, death, drugs, betrayal, prostitution, stupidity, and brutality, capturing the harsh realities of war and its impact on Jim's humanity.
Excerpts:
"The limbs of the scrub brush acted like a spiderweb, snaring the contents of his wallet along with flesh and blood.":
"Captain Americaâbrave, personable, young, and smartâflew off into the blue sky. I told myself he'd be OK. Heroes never die. At least, not in the comic books."
"As we righted ourselves, falling in line, moving through the shallow stream, I could see strands of thick, dark red blood reaching my boots."
The story concludes with the aftermath, depicting Jim's struggle to adjust and regain his sanity.
   Seated in the back seat of the army transport van, I peered out of the back window at the car headlights following us. They were searching the highway for what I had no clue. As they passed, red taillights seemed to signal caution. It was twilight, and I was sandwiched between two worlds. The weather felt cold and damp against my skin for a change. Two hours ago, I had ingested a steak dinner, a welcome-home offering provided courtesy of the United States Army.
I was dressed in army greens, thanks to a newly minted uniform issued at Fort Lewis, Washingtonâearned ribbons, name tag, crossed rifles pin on the lapel, shiny black shoes. Iâd stepped into a world that had lived only in my mind for the last twelve months. The pace, the fast-moving cars, everything out of stepâeverything was moving so fast. I wondered where they were going. Did they even know where they were going? Why were they going so fast? What was all that important? It just felt weird and foreign.
The flight from the Seattle-Tacoma airport to San Francisco was short compared to the long trip from Cam Ranh Bay. After checking into the Hilton and hauling my duffel bag up to the room, I decided to get a drink.
My eyes took in the rich and excessive atmosphere of the hotel restaurantâwrong somehow. A band was playing at the far end. A few other chaps like me floated about in similar garb, but most were in civilian clothes, living the good life. Out of danger and without a care in the world, fellow travelers were wrapped in a blanket of security, sipping highballs, the men playing pocket pool and laughing. I hated them. I should have gone AWOL in Japan when we stopped there to refuel.
As I found a stool and sat down at the bar, I stared at the image of myself in the mirror. I ordered a draft and my mind started to wanderâthe thought of the past year, the carnage. The image of a boy serving me my last beer in the Nam, his face melted by napalm, flashed through my mind. I studied my image in the mirror; the Air Medal on my chest caught my eye. I was proud of that one. You had to fly twenty-five missions for that one. Then the Combat Infantry Badge; you had to have been in combat for at least thirty days for that one. I was proud, conflicted, and confused; the beer in front of me seemed wholly inadequate.
As I looked around, I realized no one here really gave a shit. They were dressed in comfortable clothes, sipping their drinks, eating their steaks, and making their money with their only worry being investments.
âCan I sit here?â a voice asked.
I looked up and noticed a kindred spirit with sandy blond hair, a stocky fellow with a round face and innocent eyes, a fellow soldier, also slightly out of place in this opulent environment.
âSure, have a seat,â I said.
He pulled out the stool and sat down. âWhere you from?â I asked.
âKansas, western Kansas. How about you?â he asked.
âSouthern Cal, San Bernardino,â I answered. âWhat do you do there in western Kansas?â
âMainly farming, wheat and cattle.â
From his single ribbonâGood ConductâI surmised he was bait for the cause.
âWhatâs your name?â I asked.
âJerome, Jerome Richardson,â he said.
âWhere you headed?â I asked as if I didnât know.
âVietnam,â he answered.
âYeah, well, I just got back from there today,â I said.
âWow, whatâs it like?â he said.
âItâs no walk in the park, I can tell you.â I could see from the crossed rifles on his lapel he was infantry. Judging from his size, I figured a machine gun was probably in his future.
âWhereâd you train?â I asked.
âTigerland.â
âMe too.â
Suffering from jet lag and sleep deprivation, I thought of Japan and the restaurant on the top floor of the hotel where I was staying. Scott McKenzieâs song âSan Franciscoâ flashed through my mind. âGentle people with flowers in their hair.â And here I was, in San Francisco, having a drink with my replacement. Poor bastard.
âScared?â
âYeah,â he said, then fell silent.
âItâll be all right,â I said, knowing 500 guys a week were being sent home in body bags. With the Tet Offensive in full swing, the whole fucking country was in flames. Yeah, itâll be all right, my ass.
The band started playing â(Sittinâ on) the Dock of the Bay.â Wow, never heard that before. Shit, thatâs good stuff. What else have I missed? Fucking weird, having taken a snapshot out of the window of a commercial jet with my Kodak Instamatic of two C-130s at the ready on the tarmac in Cam Ranh Bay on February 10, andâbecause of the international date lineâbeing discharged from active duty and sucking up suds at the Hilton the same day. I woke up in the Nam and would be going to bed back in the world.
I glanced down at the ringworm on my handâa parting gift, you might sayâand I wondered if Jerome would make it. Would he come home in one piece or zipped up in a body bag? Would he be just another baby killer in the making? Maybe heâd earn the title and wear it proudly. And would he be able to survive the guilt if he did make it? Perhaps heâd be a stoner, a drunk, a rapist. How soon would the shackles of civilization peel away? Would his moral compass go south on day one or day three hundred? All I knew was he might get out of the Nam standing up, but he wouldnât get away free. Like a cattle brand, images of horror, the smell of burning flesh and shit, and the cries of innocents would burn into his brain. It might scab over, but it wouldnât heal.
We shared the expense of the room I already had and parted ways after breakfast.
âGood luck,â I said and slipped my name and address, written on the hotel notepad, into his hand. âLet me know where you end up.â
We shook hands. Looking into his eyes, I knew theyâd see things only I and others like me would understand a year from now. Jerome left in search of transportation to Alameda and processing, and I went to find the PSA ticket counter to purchase airfare to LA.Â
Because Memories Time Canât Heal is written as a memoir, the incidents remembered are generally unrelated to one another. As a result, it can read in a slightly choppy manner. Even with that minor flaw, the story told is captivating. Other than that, there is not much that can be criticized about the work James Quinnett has produced here. It should be noted, though, that there is profanity, some sexual content, and many incidents of violence. With that being said, none of these are present to the extent of making it difficult to read, even for a sensitive reader.
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Running low on negative facets, this book overflows with positive aspects. One can love this read because the chapters are so short that they make the entire book feel shorter, the attention to detail gives exceptional insight into the lives of soldiers, and the witty tone utilized herein makes a heavy situation a little easier to digest. For all these reasons, and many others, if you enjoy period pieces or war reads you should treat yourself to this book as it is likely to give you more than what you expect.
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Many books that tell war stories tend to just give readers gore but the subtlety employed here is genius. Quinnett knew exactly when to give details and which details to share. As a result, even when told about the guy who got shot in all four limbs and his abdomen or the one who was scattered to pieces by a grenade, one does not feel so repulsed that they have to close the book. Instead, Quinnett pulls the reader further into the story to the point that even the small matters like how cigarettes are held or how food is prepared are engrossing. So go ahead and treat yourself to this Vietnam War novel!