Reflection
As I worked through the three papers for the Research and Writing Portfolio, I quickly realized that the types of rhetorical engagement with academic literature required in each paper were very new to me. While I had experience during my undergraduate career reading academic articles as secondary sources for my own work, I had never engaged so intentionally with them as I did for this class. Specifically, the Orchestrating Critical Conversation paper required engaging with three critics and not only helping them speak with one another, but engaging them all in my own unique argument. While this was certainly a difficult process, it greatly improved my ability to understand and argue alongside scholars in my field of study. Learning how to do this also revealed key moves that critics often make in their work that I was unaware of, such as locating readers in the ongoing research area they are discussing. As I hope to continue on in academia and teach at the collegiate level, research and writing will be a large part of my focus. Learning how this is modeled by academics and being able to do so myself, as this course has taught me, is crucial for my future success.
Additionally, this portfolio process improved my ability to summarize scholarly and critical writing. Prior to completing the Research and Writing Portfolio, my experience summarizing scholarly work was very limited. During my undergraduate career, we read an extensive amount and variety of scholarly articles but rarely engaged in writing activities where we had to summarize to the degree (and accuracy) that we have done in this course. Primarily, engagement with scholarly articles and critical writing was more passive, such as choosing quotations to utilize that supported already developed arguments. As a result, I never had to fully understand the more nuanced arguments of the article, so long as I had found a part of the whole argument that I could work with. As such, I greatly appreciated the time spent both in class and individually summarizing articles and essays. I’ve found that my attempts at completing summaries have improved from the first set of papers, resulting in a much better summary in this Research and Writing Portfolio.
I also learned how to utilize the metaphor of conversation in engaging with numerous critics at once, as well as in my own critical approach. Completing the Orchestrating Critical Conversation papers for this class was by far my favorite element of the coursework. I had never experienced tying together various critics in a conversational format such as this one. Instead, I had been taught how to read and analyze articles separately without considering how they might play off of one another.
In writing the Orchestrating Critical Conversation paper for both Tropic of Orange and my own selected novel (Going after Cacciato), I found that the depth of my analysis and my ability to make more significant arguments greatly increased when I included more than one voice on a given area of critical study. Additionally, I found that I could incorporate the same approach in my other research papers as well. For example, as I worked on a research paper exploring Ernest Hemingway’s focus on androgyny in his earlier novels, I included several other critics who discussed issues of gender in Hemingway’s works. Because of this portfolio, I understood how to pull out key elements of each argument and piece different arguments together in a more nuanced and critical way. Not only did this lend credence to the suitability of my argument, but it laid the groundwork for locating my audience in the broader field of study with which my paper engaged.
Furthermore, as I completed the Working with Theory paper for this portfolio, I realized that there was a wealth of theory at hand to analyze my selected text: Going After Cacciato. While I focused specifically on literary theory during my first Working with Theory paper, my focus on psychological trauma for this portfolio showed me there are a number of disciplines that can (and should) be utilized when analyzing literature. This is especially true when engaging literature to identify social issues and find solutions to them. In analyzing the diagnosis and treatment of war trauma for this portfolio, for example, I was able to familiarize myself with the evolution of post-traumatic stress disorder in veterans. This psychological component of my research helped me better recognize the elements of trauma woven throughout the novel. Additionally, reading about the various treatments available helped shape my own argument in addressing current issues of trauma treatment among veterans in the United States.
However, even before engaging with critics and drafting my own arguments for this portfolio, I learned how to craft a meaningful research question and prepare a research approach to answer it. While I had experience developing research questions and strategies through my undergraduate courses, the questions posed for this portfolio helped me to greatly refine my area of research. Specifically, I greatly appreciated the question of significance – what is at stake – for my argument. When I first began developing my research question, I knew that I wanted to focus on the traumatic experience of war and the lasting impact it has on soldiers. This is a deeply personal topic to me as I have several family members who have served in war, as far back as the Civil War, who were unable to talk about their experiences. However, I was unsure how to move from this point of passion to an answerable research question. Reflecting on the purpose and direction of my research helped me craft a question that was worth answering while also aligning with my interests.
As I conducted my research and translated this into writing, I became aware of the significance of proper transitions, quote integration, and organization. These are areas that were especially eye-opening as I reflected on my own writing style. Specifically, I learned that I had been holding on to rules that had been engrained in me during high school, particularly around transitions and quote integration, that were holding back the clarity and creativity of my writing at the graduate level. As I integrated the advice of Professor Vander Zee and my peers, I noticed that my ability to locate my quotes in the context of their speaker and source improved. Through the revision process, I learned how to vary my quote integration to ensure understanding and to frame my quotations in their original context.
As I completed the editing process, I also greatly appreciated and benefited from Joseph Williams’ Style and his approach to addressing errors in writing from a grammatical level. While I enjoy writing and never really struggled when it came to formulating written arguments, I found that my understanding of intricate grammatical rules was lacking and, as a result, my papers were prone to confusing instances of things like unnecessary nominalization and lengthy prepositional phrases. Additionally, the organization and overall cohesion of my writing was greatly improved in reading and applying Eric Hayot’s The Elements of Academic Style. Specifically, Hayot’s model of the ‘Uneven U’ helped me to think more critically about each sentence I crafted and how these sentences worked together to promote a tiered structure in each paragraph. Not only this, but understanding the purpose of each paragraph ensured that I was constantly pushing my argument forward while also engaging my reader with moments of close reading contrasted with moments of broader analysis. Of all the books we read during this course, Hayot’s is one that will stay with me as I continue my academic career and seek to turn this portfolio project into presentable material at a conference in the future.
What follows this reflection is a testament to the significance of the Introduction to Graduate Studies course in preparing me for my career as a graduate student. I want to thank my fellow classmates and Professor Vander Zee for their tremendous guidance throughout the writing process. I am truly grateful for your contributions to this portfolio and for bettering me as a writer.
1. Trauma and Recovery in Going After Cacciato
Trauma among combat veterans has historically been viewed by political and social entities as a display of weakness and cowardice. Beginning with the U.S. entry into the First World War in 1917 through the end of the Vietnam War in 1975, no clinical psychological definition for the experiences of soldiers traumatized from battle even existed – WWI soldiers were ‘moral invalids,’ WWII soldiers were ‘shell shocked,’ and Vietnam War soldiers had simply gone wild[1]. Veterans of the Vietnam War recall being told by their superiors in the face of trauma: “You didn’t experience it, it never happened, you don’t know what you know” (Shaw 171). Only in the past 40 years has the term ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’(PTSD) become normalized in reference to soldiers, and increasingly specialists have developed proper treatment for those diagnosed with it.
Despite advancements in the field of psychology in relation to progressive treatment for trauma victims, few experts have addressed the need for rethinking the way Vietnam veterans with combat trauma are treated psychologically. This is especially important given the drastically different nature of the Vietnam War in relation to the wars that came before it. As Tim O’Brien highlights in his second novel Going After Cacciato, soldiers in Vietnam battled not only enemies but the land, and were often put in danger by superiors’ lack of trustworthy communication[2]. Two psychiatrists who have emerged as leaders to address this gap are Judith Herman[3], author of Trauma and Recovery, and Jonathan Shay[4], author of Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character.
In her study of traumatic disorders and the necessary stages of recovery, Herman outlines the progressive advancements of psychological care made following WWII. Rather than treating patients separately, soldiers from the same units were treated together. This was due in large part to American psychiatrist Abram Kardiner, whose time studying with Freud in Vienna greatly influenced his approach to recovery. Including the use of what Herman calls the ‘talking cure’, Kardiner encouraged soldiers to express their trauma verbally, experiencing a form of catharsis in reliving traumatic memories. While approving of this approach, Herman notes the failings of this form of treatment in the hands of military psychiatrists: “Opinion favored a brief intervention as close as possible to the battle lines,” she explains, “with the goal of rapidly returning the soldier to his fighting unit” (25). Rather than delving into traumatic memories and integrating them into the consciousness of the soldier, as Herman advocates, military psychiatrists took a ‘one size fits all’ approach to trauma care – bodies to participate in war were prioritized over sound minds. It is with this historical understanding that Herman posits a new way of defining and treating combat trauma in Vietnam veterans.
Central to Herman’s definition of combat trauma is the biological response that is left unfulfilled: “Traumatized people,” she writes, “feel and act as though their nervous systems have been disconnected from the present” (35). Although soldiers in combat experience what she describes as “intense fear, helplessness, loss of control, and threat of annihilation,” their bodies are unable to process and react as they were designed to due to their inability to escape – or desert – the battlefield (33). In the face of this perceived biological failure, PTSD manifests in three central ways, which Herman terms as: hyperarousal, intrusion, and constriction (35). Through these three categories, symptoms such as insomnia, abnormal memory construction, and dissociation, respectively, manifest in survivors of combat trauma. Interestingly, Herman also notes that the risk of PTSD is highest in those soldiers who have “been active participants in violent death or atrocity” (54). Historically, the Vietnam War has been characterized as one of the bloodiest in relation to civilian deaths. Incidents such as the My Lai Massacre[5] highlight the atrocities committed by U.S. soldiers against the Vietnamese civilian population. As a result, Herman’s observation rings true for many Vietnam veterans who participated in such atrocities.
Clearly establishing the PTSD suffered by veterans of the Vietnam War – particularly those who committed atrocities against their own troops[6] and Vietnamese civilians – Herman turns to a progressive method of treatment. Central to this method is the importance of community. “Recovery,” she writes, “can take place only within the context of relationships; it cannot occur in isolation” (133). This approach is revolutionary not just in relation to the methods of treatments in previous wars, but as a direct opposition to the method of training and deployment that were utilized in the Vietnam War. Rather than sending out soldiers as part of units, individuals were sent for basic training and later deployment on their own. As a result, there was a disconnect in the sense of comradery seen in previous wars. For Herman, this is a central part of the problem resulting in trauma; to counter it, recovery must be a communal activity.
Similarly to her diagnosis of PTSD, recovery also includes three separate stages: establishment of safety, remembrance and mourning, and reconnection with ordinary life (155). Progressing effectively through these three phases of recovery all rely on truthful and accurate retellings of traumatic memories. Especially significant for Herman is reconstructing trauma in a linear narrative which not only includes the soldier’s life before trauma but also reliving the traumatic event itself. “Out of the fragmented components of frozen imagery and sensation, patient and therapist slowly reassemble an organized, detailed, verbal account, oriented in time and historical context” (177). In order for healing to occur, factually accurate recreations of trauma in the form of narrative must be crafted by the sufferer. Equally important, however, is the active role of listener that the therapist represents. Not only must their listening present emotional engagement, Herman argues, it must also display a level of moral understanding that does not excuse potentially violent behavior on the part of soldiers but engages with their actions on a factually accurate basis.
While Herman’s approach to trauma and recovery fundamentally challenges the way not only combat soldiers but PTSD sufferers in general were viewed and treated by society, Shay’s Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character specifically focuses on Vietnam veterans and the unique problems of the Vietnam War that have hindered recovery for soldiers haunted by trauma. Through his own experience as a psychiatrist treating Vietnam veterans through reading Homer’s Iliad, Shaw outlines the importance of betrayal in the onset of trauma for soldiers. In particular, Shaw notes that the betrayal of thémis by their superiors, an ancient Greek term encompassing “moral order, convention, normative expectations, ethics, and commonly understood social values,” impacted not only trauma during war but its lasting effects after the Vietnam War had ended (5). “Moral injury,” Shaw explains, “is an essential part of any combat trauma that leads to lifelong psychological injury. Veterans can usually recover from horror, fear, and grief once they return to civilian life, so long as “what’s right” has not also been violated” (20). Building on Herman’s understanding of trauma, Shaw posits that the intensity of trauma is felt at a much greater degree when the source of betrayal comes from those whom you trust. In the face of this betrayal, Shaw notes that many soldiers turn to various outlets for retreat in lieu of actual desertion. While desertion is an option for Achilles in Homer’s Iliad (and one which he threatens early on in the epic), soldiers caught deserting their platoon or company were considered criminals by U.S. law. Shaw states that one such outlet was the fragging of military superiors who were seen as incompetent and uncaring. In a discussion of why soldiers resorted to fragging, Shaw states that “units in the field were on the edge of mutiny… [and] soldiers rebelled against the senselessness of their sacrifice by assassinating officers and non-coms in “accidental” shootings and “fraggings” with grenades”” (28). When soldiers saw a betrayal of thémis that had been central in other wars, they turned to violence to restore some semblance of control and safety[7].
This betrayal was deepened, Shaw argues, when the failure of proper intelligence communication led directly to soldiers killing Vietnamese civilians. Rather than addressing their mistakes, superiors played on the deceptive nature of perception in the Vietnam War exacerbated by Vietnamese guerilla warfare. Between the dense jungle forests and uncanny ability of enemy forces to hide in plain sight, American soldiers were conditioned to distrust not only people and the landscape but their own senses as well. “Prolonged contact with the enemy in war,” Shaw notes, “destroys the soldier’s confidence in his own mental functions” (35). Between the enemy’s ability to utilize their native landscape for successful ambushes and the inability of superior officers to differentiate between the enemy and civilian locations, soldiers were at the mercy of the orders they were given. This often resulted in innocent deaths that were deemed as simply part of the body count of Vietnam and therefore acceptable[8]. Given the nature of violence towards fellow Americans and innocent civilians, it is unsurprising that traumatic suffering includes not just social but moral elements. As a result, Shaw argues that proper treatment of trauma must also include social and moral elements in the form of narrative healing in order for recovery to occur. For Shaw, the significance of narrative healing lies in its power to restore the character destroyed by betrayal of thémis. This process of storytelling, however, must be accompanied by a witness – a listener – who is trustworthy, emotionally engaged, and refrains from moral judgement (188). This last point is significant in its divergence from Herman’s necessity that a therapist should fill this role. Here, Shaw deviates away from Herman’s insistence that the listener be a therapist and instead advocates for civilian listeners serving as witnesses.
Paramount to this position, however, is Shaw’s insistence that witnesses refrain from moral judgement and leave their own political views to the side. “Support on the home front for the soldier, regardless of ethical and political disagreements over war itself, is essential” (197). While Shaw notes that the health care and prison sectors have traditionally been relegated as witnesses for traumatized soldiers, he posits a world in which fellow citizens from a soldier’s own community act as witnesses. By shifting this role of witness from the public sector to the private (or domestic) sector, Shaw seeks to form a relationship between soldiers and civilians that promotes not only healing but understanding.
Both Herman and Shaw agree on the significance and necessity of healing through creating a shared experience of war via trauma narrative. In Tim O’Brien’s Going After Cacciato, readers are given the opportunity to act as witness to one soldier’s telling of his war trauma and subsequent PTSD. Paul Berlin, a young American soldier drafted into the Vietnam War, crafts the story of his trauma narrative during a long sleepless night atop an observation post in Vietnam. As Berlin weaves his real memories into the fictional story of his pursuit of deserting soldier Cacciato, the reader becomes aware of a maze of time impacted by the traumatized mind of the narrator. Unable to confront the ultimate source of his guilt – his participation in the fragging death of Lieutenant Sidney Martin, Berlin creates a fictional chase of Cacciato as a path towards redemption and courage. Only in understanding the entire fictional nature of Cacciato – he is not simply a real soldier on an imagined chase, but a figment of Berlin’s guilty conscious – can the reader fully engage with Berlin’s trauma narrative and lend to him what he cannot achieve on his own – healing and forgiveness. Understanding the narrative of Paul Berlin in this way also impacts our 21st century engagement with veterans of war – both in Vietnam and elsewhere – and drastically alters our participation as society in their recovery.
Understanding that the Observation Posts are the only present and truthful moments of Berlin’s story, the fictional narrative that falls between them takes on a whole new meaning. Couched between the Observation Post chapters towards the end of the novel (and the approaching dawn) is the real memory of the planned fragging of Lieutenant Martin and the fictional memory of Berlin’s patrol falling into the hands of Iranian military officials. In these real memories we learn that Berlin – along with the rest of his patrol – force their fellow soldier Cacciato to touch the grenade they will later use to murder Lieutenant Martin. While the reader might believe that Berlin’s greatest moment of guilt lies in the fictional desertion he participates, it is this unseen moment that holds the key to understanding Berlin’s grief and trauma. “It’s a thing that has to be done. That’s all it is. It’ll be done anyway…Nothing will stop it. It’ll happen anyway” (O’Brien 239). As Cacciato is fishing by the river, recounting the positive aspects of Lieutenant Martin’s character, Berlin is on a mission to convince him to touch the grenade – to become complicit in his death. Despite his child-like character and whimsical nature, Cacciato in this moment of refusal shows more courage than the other hypermasculine members of the patrol. Cacciato represents for Berlin the bravery he is unable to show in the face of murder. It is unsurprising, then, that Berlin (who failed to show bravery in his memories) fanaticizes the punishment of the members of the patrol who participated in Lieutenant Martin’s fragging. “Now you will confess. You will say to me, ‘Yes, we ran from our duty; stupidly we turned and ran.’ You will say it. Say it now” (230). As they await certain death in an Iranian jail, the men confess to cowardice, but not the cowardice of desertion. Instead, they confess – in the mind of Berlin – to the cowardice of giving in to the pressures of war, of committing murder.
While the reader never sees the confession of Berlin in fragging Lieutenant Martin, this imagined confession serves as an admission of guilt that he was unable to make in reality. Additionally, the appearance of this fictional confession in between the reality of the Observation Post chapters helps highlight the PTSD symptoms that Berlin clearly displays and the act of his narrative as a confession to the reader on his path to recovery. Specifically, O’Brien’s contrast of light and dark as Berlin watches the transition from night to morning highlights Berlin’s ability to clearly see the need for healing in light of his fantastical journey. “Dawn, of course, would be a dangerous time, but he trusted his eyes, which now saw only steadiness and calm” (O’Brien, 219). Contrasting with previous images of darkness and night, as Berlin nears the end of his real confession at the Observation Post he is finally able to see the truth of his guilt and the need for healing. While he has been unable to confess the whole truth of Lieutenant Martin’s murder, his trauma narrative that takes place throughout Going After Cacciato serves as a hopeful sign of his eventual recovery – and our participation in his journey as witnesses.
Through understanding Going After Cacciato as the trauma narrative of Paul Berlin, readers can engage as witnesses (or listeners) to his experiences of trauma and war. Far from being a wasted experience due to its fictional nature, this journey of hearing the trauma of one solider from the Vietnam War – arguably as real as the veteran who crafted him – help to provide a basis for understanding the veterans around us. As Herman and Shaw both note, the creation of shared community is the first step in helping veterans achieve healing from trauma. We honor soldiers who fight for their nation – or at least we say that we do. Rather than relegating our honor to a day on the calendar, it is important to recognize that participation in healing is one of the most significant acts of honor we can engage in.
[1] Citation for Judith Herman “Trauma and Recovery”
[2] Further compounding on the many troubles of the Vietnam War was the overwhelming disapproval of U.S. involvement by civilians at home. This would create an added layer of trauma as soldiers returned not to cries of heroism but cries of damnation.
[3] Judith Herman, M.D. is an Associate Clinical Professor of Psychiatry at Harvard Medical School and is also the Director of Training at the Victims of Violence Program at Cambridge Hospital.
[4] Jonathan Shaw holds both an M.D. and Ph.D. and runs treatment programs specifically for veterans of the Vietnam War.
[5] During just four hours of combat, the Alpha Company killed more than 500 civilians, including men, women, and children. Despite the wide media coverage and firsthand accounts of this event, only one man was ever convicted. He served a grand total of 3 years house arrest.
[6] Fragging – the act of attacking a superior officer with grenades or gunfire that resulted in injury or death – was more common in the Vietnam War than would like to be believed. See discussion of Jonathan Shaw’s Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character.
[7] Shaw also notes that 20% of officers who died were the result of fragging by soldiers they led.
[8] It is important to note that the success in Vietnam was not gauged by number of battles won but number of enemy combatants killed. This led to an inflation of body count numbers with civilian deaths, giving the false image that America was winning the war prior to her ultimate defeat.
2. Slaying the Observation Post: Reimagining Structures of Fantasy in Going After Cacciato
As a veteran of the Vietnam War, Tim O’Brien has centered his novels around experiences – both historical and fictional – of the American soldier in Vietnam. In his second novel Going After Cacciato, O’Brien famously blurs the line between reality and fantasy through the imagination of Paul Berlin, an American soldier drafted into the Vietnam War, who battles against cowardice in search of courage through a story he crafts of a fictional chase of deserting platoon member, Cacciato. Through this metafictional tale, critics have identified a three-tiered narrative structure which oscillates between Berlin’s war memories (the past), the Cacciato chapters (the fictional future), and the Observation Post chapters (the present). In his article “A Rumor of War: Another Look at the Observation Post in Tim O’Brien’s Going After Cacciato”, Jack Slay, Jr. engages in this critical discussion by largely affirming the traditional view of the narrative structure. However, Slay posits that the Observation Post chapters, long viewed as the only real and present moments of the novel, are just as fantastical as the platoon’s chase of Cacciato. In relegating the Observation Post to the imagination of Paul Berlin, Slay calls into question the very purpose of these chapters. Furthermore, Slay contends that the only real moments of the novel exist in a moment of pure cowardice when Berlin botches the attempted ambush of Cacciato, allowing his escape and solidifying Berlin’s failure. Rather than acting as a mere location for the crafting of Berlin’s fictional tale, Slay argues that the Observation Posts are also a part of Berlin’s larger fantasy, working together with the Cacciato chapters to explore Berlin’s feelings of guilt and act as renewed chances to disavow his cowardice and perform acts of courage.
Slay begins his argument by laying the logical groundwork for understanding the chase of Cacciato as Berlin’s fantasy by nature of the suddenly consistent chronology of the chapters and the parallels that exist between his war memories and the fictional chase. While Slay sees the details of Berlin’s war memories as inconsistent – soldiers die in differing orders, for example, depending upon the retelling – Berlin’s metafictional telling of Cacciato’s desertion is clear and orderly: “The faithful and rigorous chronology presented in those sections,” Slay writes, “counters the haphazard recollection of the war memories. Spanning the months from October 1968 to April 1969, the chapters constitute a fantastic possibility, a time of miracles, of love, and the search for happy endings” (80). For Slay, the war memories that exist in Berlin’s real past are chaotic and confusing by nature of the traumatized mind remembering them; Berlin doesn’t want to remember the reality of his trauma and cowardice, so his mind confuses these memories. In contrast, the fictional chase of Cacciato provides Berlin with a much-desired escape from his memories of war as well as his current involvement. As this is a fantasy that Berlin longs to make a reality, Slay argues that it follows a more logical progression like any good fairytale.
Additionally, the impossible elements included in the platoon’s chase for Cacciato also highlight the magical (and thus fictional) quality of Berlin’s story. Attending to one such magical element, Slay notes how “[every] person the patrol encounters – including the South Vietnamese refugee Sarkin Aung Wan, the North Vietnamese Li Van Hgoc imprisoned in a Wonderland of tunnels, and Fahyi Rhallon, a captain of the Savak – speaks perfect English!” (80). While language is an element of Berlin’s fantasy that goes largely unnoticed, Slay highlights the absurdity of individuals from rural Vietnam and Iran, respectively, being able to speak perfect English with Berlin and his fellow platoon members. As in many fictional stories, there are elements that would seem ridiculous in the real world that – in a world of fiction – go unquestioned and are necessary for the movement of the plot. While these characters speaking English is pertinent to Berlin’s ability to tell the story, they relegate these chapters to the realm of fantasy.
Furthermore, the actions in the Cacciato chapters closely mirror events in Berlin’s war memories – only with more courageous outcomes. For example, Slay highlights the moment when Berlin and his platoon fall through a hole in the Vietnam landscape, entering a tunnel where they meet a North Vietnamese soldier. Immediately following this fantasy is a real memory of Berlin’s platoon destroying a Vietnamese village until it resembles the very hole he has just fallen through. These parallel images, Slay argues, reveal a much deeper complexity between reality and fiction: “The membrane between his reality and his fantasy, Berlin quickly learns, is too thin; his fantasies are continually tainted with ‘an odd sense of guilt’ [that makes] ‘the whole made-up world [seem] to dissolve” (81). For Slay, this ‘odd sense of guilt’ is caused by Berlin’s active participation in the fragging murder of the platoon’s original lieutenant, Sidney Martin, while he is searching a tunnel much like the one Berlin falls through in his fantasy.
After this paralleled moment, Berlin’s story quickly begins to unravel. As Slay notes, the fantasy grows outside the control of its author (Berlin) as he struggles to come to terms with his guilt. This culminates for Slay in the final imagined interaction between Berlin and his Vietnamese love interest, Sarkin Aung Wan. O’Brien depicts this scene as a debate between the two lovers moderated by Berlin’s new lieutenant, Corson. As Sarkin urges Berlin to leave the war and build a new home with her in Paris, the latest location of his fantasy, Berlin decides that he cannot desert his duties: “More than any positive sense of obligation, I confess that what dominates is the dread of abandoning all that I hold dear” (O’Brien, 320). For Slay, this act of commitment is not one of bravery; it occurs in Berlin’s fantasy and is instead a working out of guilt. Instead, Slay notes that Berlin’s final real moment in the novel – continuing to march after his botching the ambush of Cacciato – is his true act of bravery: “In the midst of his deepest humiliation,” Slay contends, “an embarrassment caused directly by his cowardice, Berlin steps back into the line of duty and fire and dismisses the occasion to desert in Cacciato’s fading footsteps” (84-85). Berlin has tarnished his character by helping to murder Lieutenant Martin, and his constant fantasy of chasing Cacciato –resulting ironically in Berlin’s own desertion – shows that what he desires most is to escape. Rather than giving in to this desire, Slay argues, Berlin bravely steps back into his role as an honorable soldier by continuing his duties after severe cowardice and embarrassment.
While this is a touching way to view the end of the novel, this is not actually what happens in the closing chapter of Going After Cacciato. As Berlin and Lieutenant Corson reflect on their failed pursuit of Cacciato, Corson optimistically argues that Cacciato does the impossible: “And who knows? He might make it. He might do all right” (O’Brien, 336). Rather than picking up and continuing on with their chase, Berlin and Lieutenant Corson contemplate (and hope) that Cacciato could in fact desert the war and find peace.
Coupling this faulty reading with an argument that the Observation Post chapters are also all in the mind of Berlin, Slay creates a problematic understanding of atonement for guilt and redemption through courage for veterans of war. In Slay’s analysis, Berlin is never able to act courageously in the real moments of the novel – namely in his participation in the fragging of Lieutenant Sidney Martin. Instead, the only real moments of Berlin’s life – according to Slay – solidify him as a coward under fire. Additionally, by removing the Observation Posts from Berlin’s real experience of war and relegating them to fantasy, Slay also removes the final hope for Berlin to actually display bravery in reality. While it is certainly tantalizing as a critic to question the entirety of O’Brien’s novel as an act of the imagination, doing so limits the ability for Berlin to seek redemption from past trauma – a key theme that O’Brien traces across Going After Cacciato.
In the final Observation Post chapter of the novel, Berlin has successfully kept watch throughout the night, fighting off sleep and taking on the duty of other soldiers. As the sun rises and Berlin contemplates a new day, O’Brien captures Berlin’s inner thoughts on war and courage. “The war was still a war, and he was still a soldier. He hadn’t run. The issue was courage, and courage was will power, and this was his failing” (O’Brien, 322). Reading this moment as occurring in the present, there is renewed hope for Berlin’s ability to choose bravery. Consumed psychologically with a desire to run from his guilt that manifests in his fantastical chase of Cacciato, Berlin’s struggle throughout the novel is having the power to stay and confront his fears. By keeping the night watch on his own (arguably the most dangerous), Berlin has proven that he does have the power to stay and to be brave in the reality of war. With this bravery, then, comes a renewed hope for atoning for his complicity in murder and his desire to run from his actions. Perhaps as the sun rises and his watch ends, he will have the power to admit these truths in the light and confess the sins of his past.
3. Narrative Trauma and the Witness of Healing: Confronting Guilt and Trauma in Going After Cacciato
The end of the Vietnam War on April 30th, 1975, saw the return of American troops to a less than welcoming home front. While public ire of more recent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq has largely been relegated to public officials, veterans of the Vietnam war bore the brunt of civilian scorn. Expounding this chilly reception was the trauma of the soldiers themselves, who found no solace or comfort waiting for them.[1] Author Tim O’Brien in his novel Going After Cacciato puts into narrative form the extent of trauma faced by veterans — himself a Vietnam veteran, courtesy of the draft system. The novel centers on Paul Berlin, a solider in Vietnam, and his patrol’s pursuit of fellow soldier-turned-deserter Cacciato.[2] However, as the story unfolds, the underlying guilt Berlin carries due to his participation in the fragging[3] of Lieutenant Martin is slowly revealed.
Since its publication in 1978, critics have argued about the structure of the novel (far from ordinary in nature) as an expression of Berlin’s traumatized mind. The result of such discourse has been great disagreement on truth and fantasy in the novel, as well as the nature of Berlin’s trauma and potential for healing. Jack Slay, for example, argues that O’Brien’s novel focuses on Berlin’s fantasized journey of accepting his past cowardice. In ruining the capture of Cacciato by prematurely firing his gun and soiling himself in the process, Berlin has solidified his early cowardice in what Slay argues are the only real moments of the novel. To find redemption and healing, Slay argues, Berlin ultimately comes to terms with his cowardice and chooses bravery by refusing to desert. Contrastingly, Dennis Vannatta, in his work on the theme and structure of O’Brien’s novel, posits that all present moments of the novel occur not in this moment of embarrassment but during Berlin’s time in the observation tower; all other events are past war memories or Berlin’s fantasy of chasing Cacciato. Here, Berlin is able to substitute the horrors of the Vietnam war for a fantasy of escape. However, Vannatta finds that Berlin is unable to maintain his fantasy and is doomed to live in a state of wishful thinking. Approaching this fantasy world from a more positive perspective, Brad Lucas addresses the biological and psychological aspects of trauma in relation to narrative trauma as a genre. Specifically, Lucas argues that Berlin’s fantasy of chasing Cacciato is a way to heal from the traumas of war. Central to Lucas’s claim – and absent from Slay and Vannatta’s discussions – is the role of reader as witness and participant in healing through retelling trauma.
While all three critics craft interesting interpretations of O’Brien’s narrative structure in relation to Berlin’s traumatized mind due not only to the war but to the fragging of Lieutenant Martin, their arguments fail to adequately address the significance of Berlin’s imaginings of home and O’Brien’s own trauma experience as moving forces behind Berlin’s inability to deal with his trauma. This also highlights an underlying theme of the novel: trauma in relation to war can never be treated in solitude, it requires the active participation of willing and nonjudgmental witnesses.
All three critics – Slay, Vannatta, and Lucas – divide the narrative structure of Going After Cacciato into three distinct chapter types: war memories, chasing Cacciato, and the Observation Post. However, each critic differs in their designation of significance to the overall structure of the novel. Slay, for instance, notes that both chasing Cacciato and Observation Post chapters are fantasies of Berlin and exist outside of normal time and space. Instead, the only present and real moments of the novel occur in the (roughly) five minutes of the failed capture of Cacciato at the beginning of the novel. While interesting for going against the grain of most critics in viewing the Observation Post chapters as fantasy, Slay’s interpretation is based on a problematic reading of Going After Cacciato in a moment when Berlin’s final thoughts are revealed. “They talked of rumors,” thought Berlin, “an observation post by the sea, easy duty, place to swim and get solid tans and fish for red snapper” (300). The key word that Slay stakes his interpretation on is ‘rumor,’ understandably troubling.
However, Vannatta’s own interpretation of the Observation Post chapters in reference to time calls into question Slay’s allocating it to the realm of fantasy. Vannatta argues that “all the chapters take place in the observation post… [where] we are simply more consciously aware of the present” (243). Unlike the war memories (past) and chase of Cacciato (fantasy), Vannatta notes that the only chapters which display a sense of coherent chronology (through the rising of the sun) are the Observation Post chapters. Similarly, Lucas also relegates the chase of Cacciato to the realm of fantasy while the Observation Post is referred to as “the central narrative…set in the present” (31). By placing the observation post firmly in the present, Lucas posits that all of Berlin’s thoughts – including his past war memories and phantasmal chase of Cacciato – are his narrative trauma being expressed to the reader.
Emerging through each critic’s view of the narrative structure of Going After Cacciato is their interpretation of Berlin’s source of trauma. While all agree that the war in general is a major contributor to Berlin’s inability to live firmly in reality, they differ on the defining moment that packs the greatest punch on Berlin’s psyche. Slay argues that Berlin’s misfiring of his weapon and allowing Cacciato to escape (made no easier by his soiling himself in front of his patrol) is the pinnacle moment that results in lasting trauma for Berlin. This is a “harsh reality,” Slay notes, that Berlin seeks to escape through fantasizing a fictional chase of Cacciato (79). In his reimagining the event, Berlin is given a second chance to choose bravery and erase his failure. Conversely, Lucas argues that beneath all other traumas is the guilt that Berlin carries for his willful participation in the fragging of Lieutenant Martin. While Slay notes this as part of Berlin’s experience, he views it as more of an intrusion on his fantasy than the defining moment of trauma.
What truly fractures Berlin’s psyche and pushes him towards his creative fantasy, Lucas notes, is the moment of Lieutenant Martin’s death. Interestingly, the actual depiction of this moment is absent from the novel and, hence, Berlin’s own thoughts. For Lucas, this is because it is a “repressed memory” created as a result of his guilty conscience. As Lucas notes in his discussion of the biological and psychological repercussions of trauma, “the traumatic memory is inscribed “in” or “on” the body” (32). In turn, this physical manifestation results in a trauma that is, to use Lucas’s terms, “pre-linguistic” and “pre-narrative” (32). This is why the reader never witnesses Berlin’s ultimate moment of guilt and trauma – it is simply too traumatizing to put into words.
Instead, Lucas posits, this memory exists on his very body and mind and “drives the entire narrative process, but it is a memory that cannot be confronted directly, for this is the nature of trauma” (31). As such, Lucas interprets the dissociative memories in the novel (namely Berlin’s fantasy) as an attempt to work through this guilt towards healing. Surprisingly, Vannatta does not even focus on the fragging of Lieutenant Martin as a source of trauma for Berlin. Instead, it is the entirety of the war that has traumatized Berlin rather than one particular incident. As such, the chasing Cacciato fantasy, according to Vannatta, takes on an escapist quality: “[Berlin’s] solution to the horror and chaos of memory,” Vannatta argues, “is to substitute for a possibility that happened – the “real” war – one that did not” (244). Berlin’s substitute, as Vannatta states, is the only narrative line in the novel that is a fantasy: the chase of Cacciato.
Interestingly, all three critics also vary in the stability of Berlin’s fantasy as a means for seeking healing. Slay argues that Berlin’s desire to escape through fantasy is undermined by his moment of greatest cowardice – his participation in the fragging of Lieutenant Martin. However, Berlin is able to achieve bravery by the end of Going After Cacciato by choosing to stay with his patrol despite his embarrassment, rather than deserting like Cacciato. This reading is plausible, according to Slay, because the novel itself is a contemplation of cowardice. Slay turns to the final moments of Berlin’s fantasy, where he engages in a debate of courage with his fictional girlfriend Sarkin, as proof of Berlin’s ultimate bravery. “More than any positive sense of obligation, I confess that what dominates is the dread of abandoning all that I hold dear,” Berlin states, “I fear the loss of their respect” (286). Accordingly, what prevents Berlin from deserting following his cowardice is disappointing his family back home – the subject of ‘their’ in his statement to Sarkin. For Slay, this is his act of bravery.
Conversely, Vannatta argues that Berlin is doomed to oscillate between two opportunities to escape the chaos of trauma: heroism and flight. Both of these options, Vannatta argues, are rendered impossible as the war continually invades his fantasy and destroys it. As a result, Vannatta concludes that “Paul will once more march off to do battle, will fail once more” (246). This interpretation, then, translates into a hopeless life of repeated trauma for Berlin. Lucas, differing from both Slay and Vannatta in his approach, posits that healing from trauma is experienced when the traumatized individual is able to “bring an audience (of one or many) into the [traumatic] experience” (35). While Lucas notes the importance of including a witness, like the reader, in the healing experience, he never defines who this is in relation to Berlin. Interestingly, Berlin himself never tells this story to any of his fellow soldiers; the reader is the only plausible option. This is significant in relation to Lucas’ closing argument: that Berlin attempts to understand his participation in the fragging of Lieutenant Martin, but does not succeed.
Ultimately absent from each critic’s interpretation of Going After Cacciato is the expression of O’Brien’s own views on the Vietnam War and trauma, as well as the significance of the soldier’s reception upon returning home. As a veteran of the war, it is vital to consider O’Brien’s own negative feelings towards both the draft system as well as the U.S.’s involvement in Vietnam. While Slay, Vannatta, and Lucas treat O’Brien as an absent author from a moral perspective, it is clear in the final moments of the novel that O’Brien imbues his characters with a hope that Cacciato – the deserting soldier – is able to succeed. As the novel closes, Lieutenant Corson reflects on their failed capture of Cacciato: “And who knows? He might make it. He might do all right” (336). These words echo the hope that Berlin himself shares – that Cacciato will successfully desert the Vietnam War rather than stay and fight. Understanding that O’Brien is the author behind the scenes of this narrative, coupled with his own stories of contemplated desertion following his being drafted, it is impossible to label O’Brien as morally absent as the above critics claim.
Furthermore, none of the critics offer adequate application of Berlin’s search for recovery from trauma, although Lucas comes close. Simply stating the need for an audience to witness the retelling of trauma is not enough; there is a burden of identifying a specific audience if we are to find any applicable lesson following the experience of reading Berlin’s trauma. Although Berlin does not share his fantasy (and thus trauma) with his fellow patrol members, he does often think of home and his family in the midst of his trauma. Most notably, during his imagined debate with Sarkin Berlin rejects the temptation to run away with her – to desert the war – because of his love for his family. Berlin cares what they think of him, and he won’t do anything to jeopardize his reputation in their eyes. “I fear the loss of my own reputation,” Berlin states, “Reputation, as read in the eyes of my father and mother, the people in my hometown, my friends” (320). The audience that Berlin most cares for are his family and friends back home. His reputation in their eyes is what ultimately encourages him to reject desertion – an escape from war and trauma – as a possible means of healing. As such, they are the perfect audience to facilitate healing for Berlin upon his eventual return at the end of the war.
Similarly, we in America are still living with a generation of Vietnam veterans who – like Berlin – have been deeply traumatized by war. As Lucas suggests in his argument, we must engage with their stories not as passive listeners but active participants. We are part of their community as they are ours, and in living side by side we also bear a burden of witnessing their trauma – not berating their service as was done in the 1970s nor relegating it to the pages of history, as is often done today. While they are still with us, we should work with them towards understanding and healing.
[1] This was especially true for soldiers who were drafted into the war – approximately 25% (Littig)
[2] Interestingly, the word Cacciato in Italian means ‘chase’ or ‘hunt’. This plays an important role in discussion of the symbolic nature surrounding Cacciato as a character.
[3] Fragging was the intentional killing (or attempt to kill) a fellow soldier. One source states that in the entirety of the Vietnam War, approximately 1,017 cases of fragging were reported. Of these, the majority were against higher ranking officers (Gabriel and Savage). These estimates are arguably on the low side, as Lucas cites another source that states “more than 2000 incidents… [were] reported in 1970 alone” (Lucas 33).
4. Bibliography
Gabriel, Richard A. and Savage, Paul L. (1978), Crisis in Command, New York: Hill & Wang, p. 183.
Herman, Judith Lewis. Trauma and Recovery. Rev. ed., BasicBooks, 1997.
Littig, James M. “Vietnam War Stats.” Congressional Strategies. American Legion, 2011, https://post3legion.org/Vietnam_Statistics.pdf.
Lucas, Brad. “Traumatic Narrative, Narrative Genre, and Exigencies of Memory.” Utah Foreign Language Review, vol. 9, no. 1, April 1999, pp. 32-38. EBSCO, https://epubs.utah.edu/index.php/uflr.
O’Brien, Tim. Going after Cacciato: a Novel. Delacorte Press/S. Lawrence, 1978.
Shay, Jonathan. Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of Character. 1st Touchstone ed., Simon & Schuster, 1995.
Slay, Jack, Jr. “A Rumor of War: Another Look at the Observation Post in Tim O’Brien’s Going after Cacciato.” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, vol. 41, no. 1, 1999, pp. 79–85. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1080/00111619909601579.
Vannatta, Dennis. “Theme and Structure in Tim O’Brien’s ‘Going After Cacciato’”. Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 28, no. 2, The Purdue University Department of English, 1982, pp. 242–46.
No comments yet.