Though an interesting read, I did not find it as enjoyable or insightful as 'The Things They Carried'.

"If I Die in a Combat Zone: Box Me Up and Ship Me Home" by Tim O'Brien is a profound and evocative memoir that delves into the harrowing experiences of a young soldier during the Vietnam War. This book transcends the typical war narrative, offering readers an intimate and unflinching look at the psychological and moral complexities of combat, making it a must-read for anyone interested in the human aspects of war.

O'Brien's writing is nothing short of masterful. He combines a journalist's precision with a novelist's flair for storytelling, creating a narrative that is both gripping and thought-provoking. The book is structured as a series of vignettes, each one meticulously crafted to capture the chaotic and surreal nature of war. From the terrifying moments of battle to the quieter, reflective times between engagements, O'Brien's prose brings to life the full spectrum of a soldier's experience.

One of the most striking aspects of "If I Die in a Combat Zone" is O'Brien's honesty. He does not shy away from depicting the fear, confusion, and doubt that plagued him throughout his tour in Vietnam. This candor is refreshing and deeply moving, as it provides a stark contrast to the often sanitized or glorified portrayals of war found in other accounts. O'Brien's vulnerability allows readers to connect with him on a personal level, making his journey all the more poignant and relatable.

The memoir also serves as a powerful critique of the Vietnam War and, by extension, all wars. O'Brien grapples with the moral ambiguity of the conflict, questioning the purpose and justification of the violence he witnesses. His reflections on courage, cowardice, and duty are particularly compelling, as they challenge the simplistic notions of heroism that are frequently associated with soldiers. Through his introspective and philosophical musings, O'Brien encourages readers to contemplate the ethical dimensions of warfare and the impact it has on those who are caught in its grip.

In addition to its philosophical depth, "If I Die in a Combat Zone" is also a vividly immersive account of the Vietnam War's physical and sensory realities. O'Brien's descriptions of the dense jungles, the oppressive heat, and the omnipresent danger are so vivid that readers can almost feel the humidity and hear the distant gunfire. This attention to detail not only enhances the authenticity of the memoir but also underscores the relentless and dehumanizing conditions that soldiers endured.

The supporting characters in the book are equally well-drawn and contribute to the richness of the narrative. From the stoic sergeants to the weary foot soldiers, each individual O'Brien encounters adds a unique perspective to the story. These interactions reveal the camaraderie and tension that exist within a platoon, highlighting the complex relationships that form in the crucible of war.

In conclusion, "If I Die in a Combat Zone: Box Me Up and Ship Me Home" is a poignant and powerful exploration of the Vietnam War and its profound effects on those who fought in it. Tim O'Brien's exceptional storytelling, combined with his unflinching honesty and philosophical insights, makes this memoir a timeless and essential read. It is a book that not only informs but also deeply moves its readers, leaving a lasting impression long after the final page is turned. For its literary excellence and emotional impact, it deserves a five-star rating without hesitation.

'Do dreams offer lessons? Do nightmares have themes, do we awaken and analyze them and live our lives and advise others as a result? Can the foot soldier teach anything important about war, merely for having been there? I think not.
He can tell war stories.'

Insanely good! O’Briens terrifying first hand accounts are beautifully written and feel more real than any pictures or statistics of the war could. Without trying to deduct any preconceived meaning out of the events he simply tells the stories of the common soldier on the ground. Just read it.

Good job it wasn't me out there. Poor bastards...
O'Brien did a good job of this book. I wonder how the American GI's ever could get over it?

Why have I not read a VC account of the war?

I was shocked when I read this in high school but overall I'm grateful for a teacher who actually took the time to do a unit on Vietnam since the history teachers never got to it. Also one of two books that I never forgot since high school. I'm now teaching another Tim O'Brien book to my students because of this book and my own high school experience.

This is Tim O'Brien's other book about the Vietnam war. It is very similar to "The Things they Carried" but this book is one big story instead of many smaller stories. Tim O'Brien includes the same detailed violence of the Vietnam War but different characters and relationships. This book wasn't as enjoyable as "The Things they Carried" but it still has the elements of the same war. These include death, trauma and experiences you can only indulge at war. Tim O'Brien writes from the first person perspective only instead of how he writes from multiple perspectives in his other book. Overall, this book is decent but, if you enjoy the Vietnam war then I would recommend this book.

I was so ready to give this 5 stars somewhere in the middle of the read, but then the last chapter came and made me pretty angry. Let’s break this down:

I love how this book is both personal and solemnly detached. I love how text is dynamic, how it accelerates and slows down not only within chapters, but within paragraphs. Intense and gruesome descriptions end with bitter jokes and it feels like tension is never released, so it just keeps building up behind you.
Basically, O’Brien writes how I would want to write: sharp and concise. He is separated from the text, but not emancipated. And this leads me to the next point: the narrator (O’Brien himself). Even though I can put the ambivalence of the narrator in both likes and dislikes, it surely kept me reading. In the begging of the book there’s this beautiful passage:

“Can the foot soldier teach anything important about war, merely for having been there? I think not. He can tell war stories”

This gave me an explanation and a lens to look at the whole book: at least the format of the story can explain the lack of self-awareness (painting the picture becomes more important than intellectualising the experience). And he stays true to this for the most part, but then comes Plato and ruins the whole idea. For example, he dedicates a whole chapter to talk about courage and it just looks extremely out of place. For me, when he starts talking about philosophy, he automatically switches from telling to teaching, so it becomes problematic looking at the other chapters knowing that out of all things he could philosophise about (guilt, regret, grief, responsibility) he choses courage. The same problem I had with the last chapter. He speaks about what the war taught him and goes back to courage. It feels like at the end of the book he believes that the war was wrong a bit less than he did in the beginning. I guess it could feel like this because of him not wanting to rationalise the traumatic experience, but then again him and Plato? I’m really conflicted about this.
I give this 4 because it feels very familiar and is beautifully written. I also will never understand why a person would go to a war like this despite all the explanations and I don’t think I will be able to feel sympathy for the narrator.

I really get stuck on how to rate books like this and ‘All the Light We Cannot See.’ I put those two in the same genre as anti-war books that focus on the hope in the darkness. The problem is that these books are a) beautifully written, and b) approach the topic of war in a way that can only be described as ‘lacking nuance.’

That is to say that all people more or less agree that war is bad. In the case of ATLWCS, they show the badness of war by showing how it causes the loss of innocence in two young children. It’s a unique take, for sure, but it also seems less poignant to me than, say, the possibility that Nazism could have taken over Europe and wiped out entire races of human beings. All we’re left with is a kind of poetic exercise that really attempts humanity — and mostly succeeds if you take the humanity out of context.

If I Die in Combat Zone isn’t nearly as egregious as ATLWCS, because the mid-late sixties were confusing and because, at the time, the author wasn’t sure he agreed with the war. I think that’s fair. People can, do, and should ask questions of the leaders that put American lives in danger.

The problem is that we have nearly fifty years of hindsight and people are still claiming that the Vietnam War was a bad war to support. Mind you, they are not arguing that American strategy failed or was flawed (they might, but that’s usually beside the point); they are arguing that the very decision to engage in Vietnam was flawed.

Frankly, this point of view holds no water. When America left South Vietnam, the North entered and executed 600,000 non-combatants based on racial differences. For anyone alive in the 80’s, you’ll likely remember the ‘boat people’ of the late 70’s/early 80’s, when people literally mass emigrated from Vietnam due to genocide. Furthermore, if you take the two largest massacres carried out by the North Vietnamese, the number of dead innocents outweighs the total number of innocents killed in aberrant massacres by US troops.

There’s no question that the communist North — trained and indoctrinated by one of Stalin’s most important protégés, Ho Chi Minh (a man who helped Mao Zedong implement the great Chinese famine that killed over 30 million people, by the way) — was the bad guy. At the time, it was a fair question to ask: is the South Vietnamese government really better than the Communist one? With decades of hindsight, though, how can we continue to argue that saving the lives of 600,000 innocent people wasn’t worth it?

What we’re left with, then, at least in my opinion, is a beautiful and tragic book written by a great man who never truly understood the war he was fighting. And how do you judge that? Do you judge the quality of writing? Do you judge the lack of nuance? I don’t know; it makes O’Brien’s semi-autobiographical novel one of the more difficult books to review.

Tim O'Brien was until very recently a complete unknown to me. On the back of the first few chapters in this masterpiece, I have ordered not far off his entire collection of works. Guy can write!

I get so mad thinking about the fucking US Army putting Tim O’Brien in harms way

"Can the foot soldier teach anything important about war, merely for having been there? I think not. He can tell war stories."

That's in the opening pages of the book. O'Brien is one of my writing idols, whose stories I sometimes see as a template, and I may as well replace that with my own: "Can the now-illness-free dude teach anything important about cancer, merely for having had it? I think not. He can tell cancer stories."

O'Brien ends the book with something similar during the Q&A, and in between are stories demonstrating the feeling of shame, the horror of the war, and what hatred of another human can look like. I'm blown away he wrote this both while in Vietnam and in the couple years following, and at such a young age when surely I wouldn't have been so grounded.

Here are some of my favorite segments from all those pages in between:

The monotonous shared horror:

Things were peaceful. There was only the sky and the heat and the coming day. Mornings were good. We ate slowly. No reason to hurry, no reason to move. The day would be yesterday. Village would lead to village, and our feet would hurt, and we would do the things we did, and the day would end. “Sleep okay?” Bates said. “Until two hours ago. Something woke me up. Weird—sounded like somebody trying to kill me.” “Yeah,” Barney said. “Sometimes I have bad dreams too.” And we gathered up our gear, doused the fires, saddled up, and found our places in the single file line of march. We left the hill and moved down into the first village of the day.

I can feel the painful morning:

The bones and muscles and brain are not ready for three-o’clock mornings, not ready for duties and harsh voices. The petty urgencies of the mornings physically hurt. The same hopeless feeling that must have overwhelmed inmates of Treblinka: unwilling to escape and yet unwilling to acquiesce, no one to help, no consolation. The reality of the morning kills words. In the mornings at Fort Lewis comes a powerful want for privacy. You pledge yourself to finding an island someday. Or a bolted, sealed, air-conditioned hotel room. No lights, no admittance, no friends, not even your girl, and not even Erik or your starving grandmother.

This is so relatable and touching and sad. He just wanted something real and human, even for a moment:

I walked into a sorority house and rang a button. A girl came down in jeans. Black hair, and blue-rimmed glasses. I told her I was from Minnesota, that one of my fraternity friends there had said I might find a date if I just rang for a girl in this house. She asked for my friend’s name, and I manufactured one. She asked about the fraternity, and, not knowing any of the names, I said Phi Gamma Omega. She said she’d never heard of Phi Gamma Omega, but she crossed her arms and hooked one ankle around the other and seemed willing to talk. “Actually,” I said, “I’m not a sex maniac. I’m just visiting Seattle, and I didn’t want to waste the night. Maybe a movie or something?” “Jeez,” the girl said. “You look like a pretty nice guy. But you know how it is, I have to study. Big exam tomorrow.” “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You have classes on Saturday?” “No, not really. The test’s Monday. It just slipped out, I guess.” “Well,” I said, “the truth is, I didn’t think you’d want to go. But maybe you know somebody.” “Sorry. But it’s just before Christmas break. We’re having finals, you know, and all my friends are at the books.” She smiled. “Besides, this is no way to conduct human relations.” So I left, embarrassed

Hatred is crushing:

A blustery and stupid soldier, blond hair and big belly, picked up a carton of milk and from fifteen feet away hurled it, for no reason, aiming at the old man and striking him flush in the face. The carton burst. Milk sprayed into the old man’s cataracts. He hunched forward, rocking precariously and searching for balance. He dropped his bucket. His hands went to his eyes then dropped loosely to his thighs. His blind gaze fixed straight ahead, at the stupid soldier’s feet. His tongue moved a little, trying to get at the cut and tasting the blood and milk. No one moved to help. The kids were quiet. The old man’s eyes did a funny trick, almost rolling out of his head, out of sight. He was motionless, and finally he smiled. He picked up the bucket and with the ruins of goodness spread over him, perfect gore, he dunked into the well and came up with water, and he began showering the next soldier.

The dehumanizing effect of war:

Other times we talked, and I tried to pry Johansen into conversation about the war. But he was an officer, and he was practical, and he would only talk tactics or history, and if I asked his opinion about the politics or morality of it all, he was ready with a joke or a shrug, sending the conversations into limbo or to more certain ground. Johansen was the best man around, and during the April afternoons it was sad he wore his bars.

My God:

Scraps of our friends were dropped in plastic body bags. Jet fighters were called in. The hamlet was leveled, and napalm was used. I heard screams in the burning black rubble. I heard the enemy’s AK-47 rifles crack out like impotent popguns against the jets. There were Viet Cong in that hamlet. And there were babies and children and people who just didn’t give a damn in there, too. But Chip and Tom were on the way to Graves Registration in Chu Lai; and they were dead, and it was hard to be filled with pity.

Just another day:

we swam. We bellowed and grinned, weapons and ammo in the sand, not giving a damn. We slammed into the water. We punched at it and played in it, soaked our heads in it, slapped it to make cracking, smashing sounds, same as blasting a hand through glass. Mail came. My girlfriend traveled in Europe, with her boyfriend. My mother and father were afraid for me, praying; my sister was in school, and my brother was playing basketball. The Viet Cong were nearby. They fired for ten seconds, and I got onto the radio, called for helicopters, popped smoke, and the medics carried three men to the choppers, and we went to another village.

And finally, O'Brien, the philosopher:

The remaining pages of this little book were written in the two years following my return from Vietnam. First in my hometown of Worthington, Minnesota, and then later in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I sought to bear witness not only to the war, but also to my own failures, and to do so as bluntly and as forcefully as I was then able. The object was not to make literature. The object was to make a document of the sort that might be discovered on the corpse of a young PFC, a Minnesota boy, a boy freshly slaughtered in Quang Ngai Province in the year 1969.