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War Jokes Wanted: No Laughing Matter
By
Marc Levy and Susan Erony
Colonel: What is that
you've got written on your helmet?
Pvt. Joker: Born to Kill,
sir.
Colonel: You write
"Born to Kill" on your helmet and you wear a peace button.
What's that supposed to be, some kind of sick
joke?!
Pvt. Joker: No, sir.
Hasford, Herr, Kubrick: Full Metal Jacket
Picture This
After a time the image and text fell into
place. The well known Uncle Sam portrait, stern eyes staring you down, defiant
finger stabbing the air, but emblazoned on his left breast, combat ribbons, and
above and below him the fiery red phrase "I Want Your War Jokes From
Hell!" And beneath this message: "Widely published Nam vet
seeks your best combat jokes to teach civilians the grim, raw truth of war.
Any war, any branch of service."
The basic assumption: place the ad
at VAwatchdog.org, with Armytimes in hard copy, send out informal queries,
contact Iraq/Afghanistan veteran associations; the gallows humor will roll
in. Larry Scott, web master at VAwatchdog.org even profiled the
project: we hoped to write a book on combat jokes with essays on why soldiers
resort to dark humor under extreme circumstances. We did not want the
puff pieces once gamely trotted out in Humor in Uniform, a monthly Readers
Digest collection of old-time military gags which put a smiley face on
horror. We sought tasteless, obscene, unforgivable lawless jokes whose
wit and irony strips war bare of its mythic bones, looks death full in the
face. And laughs. But why did they laugh-those GI jokers?
Veterans who answered the
call struggled with the concept of grim war humor. Maybe they just didn't
get it. Most sent in cute vignettes, sanitized anecdotes, or clean cut bits on
inter-service rivalry. In the end we received a half dozen items that
conveyed how war numbs the soul and how humor, in service to survival, reflects
demonic courage.
Far from the heated stink of carnage, combat vets may tell
battle gags to uncomprehending civilians, or to other vets. Or they may
set aside the jokes they carried. Misunderstood on the home front,
freighted with secret guilt and shame, far from the bullet's madding crowd,
gallows humor, may over time, lose its healing cautery.
Public Jester
Nam vet, teacher, and distinguished writer Larry Heinemann,
author of Pacos Story (National Book Award), Close Quarters (some say the best
fictional account on the Vietnam War) and Black Virgin Mountain, sent this gem:
"A colonel and his sergeant
major chopper out to a landing zone to see for themselves the aftermath of a
large and bloody firefight. There was heavy fighting, and many casualties
on both sides. When they arrive the American KIAs are lined up shoulder to
shoulder in back of the makeshift aid station, covered with ponchos and waiting
for the choppers to come fetch them. There are many, many bodies.
The colonel and the sergeant major slowly make their way down the line, lifting
the flaps of the ponchos to view the faces. The colonel looks more and
more troubled the farther down the line he goes, and is truly upset.
Finally he looks over to the sergeant major and says, "All so young.
What a pity. What a waste. Sergeant Major, how old do you think these
boys are?" The sergeant major looks at the colonel, and says,
"They're all dead, Colonel. That's as old as you get."
Only veterans laughed when the Sergeant
Majors Sancho Panza upends his Don Quixote colonel. Instead of sorrow, he
cracks a simpletons smile over a gauntlet of corpses. But the simpleton is no
fool. The good Sergeants knife-edge clarity has been won through repeated
jousts with mortal danger. His understatement is a moral coup de grace.
Drop Dead Funny
Former Lieutenant Fred Angyo Tomasello
Jr., author of Walking Wounded: Memoir of a Combat Veteran, wrote in, "I
never thought anyone would want to hear this," then unleashed this tale:
"On February 1, 1968, my Marines responded to an attack on the Cam Lo
District Headquarters near the Demilitirized Zone. My platoon was tasked
with counting the dead and wounded. I assigned the job to Frenchy's fire team.
Artillery had butchered the enemy bodies. Heads, many still wearing helmets,
were separated from torsos. Arms and legs were scattered all over the
battlefield. The NVA had dug shallow trenches under the barbed wire and used
sand to try to cover their dead. "Goddamn, they're all fucked up, one
of Frenchy's men complains. "They're probably booby trapped
too. I ain't touching any dead gooks. Frenchy shoves him in the chest and
yells, "What the fuck's wrong with you? You chicken-shit or
something? Here! Here's how you do it." Frenchy grabs an ankle
sticking up from a shallow trench and tugs as hard as he can. The soldiers body
jerks out of the ditch, his other leg flops behind him and the leg that
Frenchy's holding snaps from the body. Frenchy holds the leg up at me and
smiles. "Hey, Lieutenant, he says, "Lets grab one leg each and make a
wish."
Civilians find this tale repugnant.
How could tough well disciplined US troops laugh as they violate enemy
losses? And why, forty years later, did combat vets belly laugh at the
grisly punch line?
Frenchy pokes fun at superstition, at
himself, and assumes the Lieutenant will join him in laughter. Why? Because
counting corpses is normal. It has been done many times. War wisdom
counsels caution but do the job, marine, and do it right. Rocket, mortar
and sapper attacks, day and night ambushes, hunting and being hunted by human
beings, have bled all mercy from these men. They are numb to gods, immune
to devils. They act in league with death, they have become it, which frees them
to mock their mirror image.
"Mental survival depended on the
ability to view life as a black comedy," said holocaust survivor Thomas
Retjo, author of The Reluctant Adventurer. Or as former Lieutenant
Tomasello, Jr wrote, "If you don't laugh, you'll cry." In the valleys
and shadows of death hope dies last.
Battle jokes offer a unique insight into the war
experience. Grim GI gags create and reflect a necessary distance from the
situation that is their subject. This gap allows soldiers to continue
their dirty work in hell's deadly canyons. The battlefield joker assumes power
over the powerless dead, the nightmare of frightfully mangled, human beings.
With a devils grin, he defuses chaos. By standing meaning on its head, the
joker erases, for a moment, the indelible imprint of horror.
The attentive reader may ask this riddling question:
if few vets submitted jokes, and few seem to tell them, why did those who
heard the battle antics convulse with laughter? To this we no immediate
reply.
Little Bobby
The following arrived
from net friend Tommy Skeins, web master of buffgrunt.com, a site dedicated to the
Americal's 4/3 Light Infantry Brigade, one of several units at My Lai:
Little Bobby and his 6th grade class were given
the assignment of writing a fairy tale with a moral ending. The next day, the
teacher first called on Susie, who wrote about not counting your chickens
before they're hatched. Then came Mary, whose story involved not crying
wolf. Then, it was Little Bobby's turn. "My uncle Tony was in
Vietnam and one time he went on a combat assault," he said. "On
the way, he drank a case of beer, then jumped off the helicopter and killed 100
Viet Cong. He killed the first 80 with his rifle, 10 with his pistol and
clubbed the other 10 to death. After that, he took a knife and a pair of pliers
and yanked out all the gold teeth from the dead Viet Cong. The teacher was
aghast and blurted out: "Bobby, that's horrible! What possible moral can
you get from that awful story?" Little Bobby shrugged and said:
"Don't fuck with my uncle Tony when he's been drinking."
What makes this 'home
from combat' joke funny? Naive female 6th graders, aided by a prudish teacher,
are pitted against an impish male braggart. Challenged to defend his
tale, Bobby's obscenity slaps you in the face like Zen masters
enlightened blow. The foul language wields the uncle's war-born malice and
shields the boy from actual horror.
Let The Bad Times Roll
In 1972 Michael Casey
wrote "Obscenities," which won the Yale Younger Poets Award, and was
re-issued by Carnegie-Mellon in 2002. A gem among many in the book is the poem
"A Bummer." In twenty-six stark lines, Casey depicts an encounter
between a column of tracks (mechanized vehicles), a peasant farmer, and the TC
(track commander). The poem's last mordant lines and final barbed
flourish could have been written yesterday, today, or tomorrow.
A Bummer
We were going single file
Through his rice paddies
And the farmer
Started hitting the lead track
With a rake
He wouldn't stop
The TC went to talk to him
And the farmer
Tried to hit him too
So the tracks went sideways
Side by side
Through the guys fields
Instead of single file
Hard On, Proud Mary
Bummer, Wallace, Rosemary's Baby
The Rutgers Road Runner
And
Go Get Em-Done Got Em
Went side by side
Through the fields
If you have a farm in Vietnam
And a house in hell
Sell the farm
And go home
* * *
Such things and worse transpire in combat's ironic cauldron,
and will continue, until unwanted American troops, struggling to hold out in
foreign lands with dignity, depart. Even then a blood trail of guilt,
shame and sorrow will long shadow their lives, and those they love. And
that, Mr. Bring Em On, is no laughing matter.
§
Marc Levy was an infantry medic with Delta 1/7 First Cavalry in
Vietnam and Cambodia in 1970. He can be reached at silverspartan@gmail.com.
Susan Erony is an artist and art historian who has exhibited extensively in
Europe and the US. She can be reached at erony1@verizon.net.
Fred Angyo Tomasello's book is available at http://web.mac.com/kbft2929/iWeb/WalkingWounded/Welcome.html.
Larry Scott's VAwatchdog.org profile on War Jokes Wanted is at http://www.vawatchdog.org/08/nf08/nfJUL08/nf070708-1.htm.
Obscenities, by Michael Casey, is available at: http://www.cmu.edu/universitypress/browse/
(poem used by permission of the author)
A version of this article was first published in counterpunch.org
on 26 September 2008
The Chickasaw Plum - Volume VI - Number 3 - March 2009
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