the war at home - craig anton mcdondald

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65

CRAIG ANTON McDONALD

The War at Home

EVER since I fell into the volcano, I don't quite know when things

happened, or if they happened at all, but to me it really does not matter

as long as I sense that I know how they did. So when I hear the Women

say that about the time I took my fall my brother stopped talking to the

family, I begin to confuse what I know I have imagined with what I know

is the truth. And of this truth I am certain.

It all goes back to the time of the Tet offensive, the time when the

uniforms arrived.

The Vietnamese were on the attack when my brother tricked one of the

Women into knitting a Viet Cong flag. He strapped the Red and Black to

a homemade tackle dummy that we kept tied to a tree in the courtyard

The dummy, of course, was yellow. My brother manned the artillery by

throwing rocks at the dummy from the roof, while I waited hidden, my

nose flat against the mud, to catch the dummy unawares, ambush him

and kill him. These exercises went on until the day he hit me in the head.

I made a bit of noise that time, enough, I guess, to pull the Women from

their prayers and have them come out into our Zone. Afterwards, they

noticed that the plants around the dummy had begun to die. Geraniums,

begonias, poinsettias-all wounded or dead. We almost got knitting

lessons out of that one. But instead the Women locked my brother in the

big closet upstairs and they watched me do my homework.

The moment we were allowed back into the courtyard my brother

organized a solemn burial for the dummy He said he had not survived

the weather, the isolation or the torture. All through the funeral I shouted

cannon shots at precise fifteen second intervals while he delivered

eulogies in different voices. It all went well until one of the Women broke

the protocol and pointed out that the flag around the corpse was

Vietnamese. I suppose she meant to say that the dummy was the Enemy .

66 BLUE LIGHT RED LIGHT

This invasion by the Women threw my brother into a rage. He told them

that a flag was just a flag and that any flag would do. But he left the

dummy unburied and went in search of stars and stripes. For days he

seemed to disappear.

The war was at a standstill when one day my brother reappeared in the

courtyard. He dragged me into one of his hide-outs to tell me that our

efforts at reporting the position of the Enemy had been heard and

signaled back. His voice changed when he said "by our highest

commanders." Soon we should be expecting a visit from one of them. To

prepare for this arrival every afternoon we faked a game of Stratego in a

room that faced the street. And while I thought a blitzkrieg move-a

phrase he had taught me in case the Women asked me where he was-he

squeezed through the narrow window grates and slipped away to make

the rendezvous. His parting words were, "The Enemy is everywhere."

One afternoon while he was out for very long I began to wander from

my watch and into thinking of the Enemy, with all its messages and

secrets, in the rice fields and the jungle. And as I shuddered at the

dangers my brother could be facing, something pinched me in the arm.

tried to escape but underneath me everything was moving. I saw the

window I was guarding, closed, and the Women, I saw them wake me

up, stretch my arms and make me stand. Straight, they said. I gave my

name and serial number while the Women pulled a sweater on my face

and into my arms. Heat rushed through me, through my face, up to my

head. I tried to tear them off-the sweater, my hair, the heat-but I was

blindfolded and tied. I was surrounded by wool scratching my cheeks,

my nostrils, my eyes-when through the loose weave of the sweater I

thought I saw my brother climbing up the window grates into the terrace.

That is when I panicked and seemed to lose my footing. I fell, I think,

entangled by the sweater. For once I wished the Women would order me

to go and fetch them something-knitting needles, yarn or Mon Tricot-as

they often seemed to do. This way I could justify the failure to my

brother, saying I had been forced to labor for the Women. But the

Women, they would not take me prisoner.

Afterwards, slowly, I went up the winding staircase to the terrace. My

brother, of course, would court-martial me for gross negligence to duty.

In the past the punishment for failure had been silence-a form of

******* --

67

:.. . . :.. 0 a rage. He told them

o. But he left the

a..:-:.i stripes. For days he

.j. brother reappeared in the

S·U is to tell me that our

~l1d been heard and

. ' your highest

-:; 3 ::-.slt from one of them. To

::..Ceo a game of Stratego in a .' a blitzkrieg move-a

-~,:ed me where he was- he

..ci slipped away to make

.::.:-:emy is everywhere."

-~ : began to wander from • - 1, . S messages and

- ~ 5~uddered at the

~J ~:nched me in the arm.

--: : saw them wake me

. : . . ey said. I gave my

- - sweater on my face

.. ..~ h my face, up to my

. :::; ; ~ the heat-but I was

scrtching my cheeks,

·save of the sweater I

... - .... Jates into the terrace.

~. ::lO ng I fell, I think,

, - 'Nomen would order me

=- yarn or Mon Tricot-as -' . :he failure to my

""" \Nomen. But the

. - se to the terrace. My

~ ,. 55 negligence to duty.

".."",~e-a form of

*******

CRAIG ANTON MCDONALD

punishment I had never really liked.

I expected my brother to be standing at the center of the terrace raving

to me streets about my failure and then becoming silent the moment that

he saw me. But instead I found a large package at the center of the

terrace, encircled by geraniums in red ceramic pots. The whole thing

looked like a tomb. It was obViously a trap. Any wretched scout could

see that much. But I am one of those who will always get killed by

curiosity . My fingers , however, never made it to the package. From

behind me a voice I did not recognize told me not to move. Of course I

did, slowly, but when I rurned, my stomach sank. I found him ten feet off

the ground, his feet barely resting on an ornament above the terrace

door. He was pointing at me a finger· made automatic. I never had a

chance to ask him how he climbed there: I went dizzy and had to close

my eyes. When I opened them again he was already beside me. He

dragged me to the door and ordered me to report on the whereabouts of

the Women. No more than a minute later I reported back at package

headquarters that the Enemy was knitting. My brother dismissed my

words with his hands and told me to stand at attention. Then, like a

general, he began to pace, his hands behind his back and his eyes

searching in the distance. Every so often he rurned to me, muttered to

himself and then answered with different voices. At times he bent his head

as if to listen to one of his subordinates. I was certain that the trial was

about to start. My brother made a signal. I began to sing .

Our custom was, before any ceremony could start, to sing the song of

vi.ctory from the Halls of Moclezuma. It is only now, when the song just

seems to float into my lips , semper fidelis, that the facts it sings of get me

quite confused. After all, I have heard the Women say that the halls of

Moctezuma are only an hour from our house. My brother says a Panzer

tank could reach the halls in less than fifteen minutes. The YanqUi

aggressor might have taken our avenue to get there. Although back then

they did not come in tanks . By boat and on foot the marines came all the

way from Washington, D.C.-I only learned of this in school this year

commanded by the Invader Winfield Scott. He wanted to be crowned

emperor of Mexico in a ci ty surrounded by volcanoes. The Women say

that it was not long ago that one could see the sleeping woman,

Ixtlacihuatl , and Popocatepetl, perperually covered by snow, from the

roof I cannot climb to. The one in which I fell is called Xitlacatepetl. I am

* ******-


not quite sure where that one is. But every time I bring up the volcano,

my brother or the War, the Women only nod their heads, and tell me that

my guardian angel plucked me miraculously from death. I don't

remember seeing any angels, so I wonder if the Women really know.

For abou t the shores of Tripoli the Women know as little as 1; about War

they know nothing, and abou t falling they know even less.

On that day I knew li Ie, but standing stiff and singing, it did not seem

to matter. After we finished claiming proudly the title of Marines my

brother put me at ease. Twice we marched around the flowers and then

we stopped m front of the package. My brother knelt to unwrap it and

from the box came out a green fatigue with patches on the elbows and a

long green formal coat. He stretched them both on the ground and tried g. ~

to smooth out their wrinkles. They were beaten and old. Yet it was as if

our boys had just come home.

I almost broke all military protocol to ask the story of these soldiers but

my brother suddenly jerked himself up, clicked his heels, and addressed

the uniforms as the Judges for my triaL The charge: being caught by

Women. In his tersest military voice he described my failu re to them in all

of its detail and U1en flatly asked for my demotion. To supplies, of all

places! I knew I was guilty I held back some tears as I watched in silence

how he walked away from the Prosecutor's place and joined the Judges in

their deliberations. My sentence that day seemed extremeJy light. I was

told to fetch the jug with which the Women watered the geraniums.

Maybe not that day but one just like it my brother baptized the fatigue

Jackson and the dress uniform the GeneraL Of the ceremony I was told

but received no formal invitation. It took place in regions of the house!

could not climb to.

The war went on, that much I know, but after my demotion I seemed to

lose contact with my brother. When I asked about the war he would look

away into a poster of a Leatherneck high on his side of the wall or say

that the monsoons were not copasetic for our troops. He began to spend

his time with Jackson and the General. They spent the afternoons in the

garage for reasons that at first were called secret. Later on I heard that

we had lost our positions on the terrace to the Women. It was dry that

season in Mexico. The Women decided that they liked to knit outSIde.

Down -m the garage Jackson and the General had the habit of always

I

: bring up me volcano,

••_:r heads, and tell me that

:::-. death. I don' t

-':omen really know .

.. as litt e as I; about War

':en less.

'!lging, it did Dot seem

- ile of Marines my

.. the flowers and then

.:r-.elt to unwrap it and

-- .. es on the elbows and a

O!l the ground and tried

d old . Yet it was as if

.ory of these soldiers bu t

. . heels, and addressed

my failure to them in all

To supplies , of all

- as I watched in silence

and joined the Judges in

ex em ely light. I was

.

• red the geraniums.

:::er baptized the fa tigue

'~e ceremony I was told

_-:-egions of the house I

.e war he would look

e of the wall or say

.' :he afternoons in the

;"ater on I heard that

• ~en . It was dry that

_::ed to knit ou tside.

ine habit of always

tIle gEneRAL

»

PeriOd

70 BL UE LIGHT RED LIGHT

being sprawled on chairs while my brother paced and talked.

Occasionally he stopped and picked the paper from the table. It was

always the Excelsior, the only Mexican paper served with American wires

from Saigon. At dusk, when they could not see me, I hid behind a tree

and watched them. I watched after their safety I felt it was my duty

One night a voice, reminding me of Spangler, my brother's pen-and

tape-pal friend, who had died, my brother said, behind the Viet Cong

lines, came from somewhere in the dark:

"So it seems the war might move to Paris, so says the paper."

"Jackson, you know well that every war, like every man, must have a

Waterloo," said another voice, one of someone I have known but could

not seem to remember.

"You said it, sir, said it well indeed, but Waterloo," Jackson said

maliciously, "was no Dien Bien Phu ...."

After he said that the mood seemed to get somber for there was silence

for a while. Then Jackson, who was less serious than my brother and the

General, said something I heard him say later in the war on more than

one occasion:

"Sir, I do fear being disrespectful but what is the point of talking on

about a war that's being moved to a Boulevard for invalids?"

Most of the time, however, they were silent and listened to the news my

brother read and to his ravings about how the war was soon going to

end. My brother was all for going, while Jackson wanted all of our

Leathernecks withdrawn. The General, whose voice seemed to inspire

command, wanted my brother to finish school and take care of the war at

home.

"There aren't enough men around here," I heard him say one night.

As far as the Women's intelligence was concerned the judgement of the

General seemed true. It might have been that praying season was over or

a bizarre attempt at infiltration because all of a sudden they started to

wander into our Zone. The apparent reason for their movements was the

condition of the plants. But not for nothing had we watched them from

early on in the war: it was us and our activities they were trying to

undermine.

After my demotion, I had become a fifth-column kind of soldier, a lost

** * **** *

71 -r

[t was

'th American wires

: hid behind a tree -... I: was my duty.

.-- the paper."

'e:-y man, must have a

-..ave known but could

::;0 ." Jackson said

~r for there was silence

:.'1an my brother and the

" .8 war on more than

point of talking on valids?"

:!stened to the news my

:;~ was soon going to

"anted all of our

.::8 seemed to inspire

- take care of the war at

. him say one night.

e judgement of the

y':19 season was over or ' en they started to

- !r movements was the

- ',vatched them from

_.nd of soldier, a lost


platooner wandering behind the Enemy lines into the hallway where

voices hushed and knitting needles clicked the moment I arrived. The

way they all became quiet when they saw me it seemed as if an offensive

were about to start. Although fearful that my starLls in our forces would

not warrant their listening to me, I took my chances and one day, after

invoking obscure passages from the military code, [ went without

authorization to deliver what I knew to my Gommanders.

I found them all at mess. This custom had been started deep in the

jungles of the garage, at the farthest point in the house from any of the

Women, in between boxes, barrels and crates with labels from abroad,

where the General and Jackson could hide if the enemy wandered into

the De·Womanized Zone of the patio. The DWZ. From the very moment

of arrival, the presence of Jackson and the General had been a military

secret. At first my brother had been worried that the Women, if they saw

them, would try, by sewing, patching or weaving, to put them back

together. Enough to go to church, I heard him say one time. But as the

Marine esprit de corps and camaraderie rose among our troops (seems to

me about the time of my demotion) the security of Jackson and the

General became a crucial issue. They had come from far away, from the

other war. Their presence in our war was indispensable.

I delivered the inteliigence I had gathered to the three of them. They

watched me with varying degrees of detachment (indifference, really , in

the case of Jackson and the General), depending on the size of their

contempt for my abilities. While they brooded on the news, I watched

them eat or rather, watched the food spread upon the table. There were

hamburgers and milk shakes and french fries, all so carefully wrapped

that I looked for the parachute in which the food had dropped from

heaven. I suppose I made a move toward the food waiting to be eaten,

for a voice that was neither my brother's nor Jackson's nor the General's

ordered me to stop.

"Touch it and you're dead," I heard the voices say. I began to tremble

and for a moment I saw myself fa lling ;n a ditch, waiting to be shot, like in

the news. But unlike the early stages of the war no trial was started, no

demotion happened My brother-for the others never spoke in front of

me-launched himself into a speech in which he said that the conflict had

reached a political stalemate, whatever that meant. It was time to go to

******* * ******


Their orders were for me to infiltrate again amongst the Women, and

with extreme prejudice I did by asking questions about knitting and

joining them in prayer. I even volunteered to lead all the Hails of Mary

and Fu'lls of Grace. But in vain I strained my knees, sore from all that

kneeling, for the Women never said a word that I understood as anything

but prayer. In the evening reports to my commanders I suggested more

than once the existence of a code. I insisted that it had to be deciphered.

Later on, at night, standing in the courtyard, my ears tuned to the sound

of knitting needles, light footsteps and prayers, I could hear my

commanders argue loud and long about the prayers and their

meaning-their voices going by me and sometimes reaching the Women,

who often stopped and pondered, as if they were attempting to decide on

the number of our troops.

For weeks we expected an attack, just as the papers said our troops

were, at Khe Zhan.

In order to protect ourselves the General ordered us to evacuate all of

our positions in the house . Our hideouts in the kitchen, the bathroom and

the pantry were abandoned. From then on the General, Jackson and my

brother lived in the garage. My duties during this crisis were confined

again to the still reconnaissance of the courtyard from early afternoon up

to the moment when the Women called me inside to do my homework.

Although it was never properly a siege, when compared to what the

Leathernecks were facing in the East, the situation did become intolerable.

The Women came and went along the courtyard and I, in my sentinel

position, was helpless to stop them for fear of arousing their suspicions.

Most of the time I whistled; when under extreme pressure, I prayed. But

whenever they went as far as the garage they found no one but my

brother Dig in, we did.

And on the nights when the Women were not crossing into our Zone I,

alone in the jungle and far enough from the rumor of our troops, felt

more than once I'd rather watch the other war on television. But

whenever I presented my complaints to my brother, he pointed to the

General, who, crumpled in a chair, listened, attentively indeed, but

laconic soldier that he was, dismissed me every time without a word. This,

and other things, made me at times venture from my post, in the dark,

when my commanders could not see me, and like Spangler the Lurp,

break into the pantry and sabotage all the supplies.

IGHT

. amongst the Women, and

dons about knitting and

J lead all the Hails of Mary

, knees, sore from all that

that I understood as anything

mmanders I suggested more

that it had to be deciphered.

" my ears tuned to the sound

?[S, I could hear my

3 prayers and their metimes reaching the Women, r were attempting to decide on

the papers said our troops

~ ordered us to evacuate all of

the kitchen, the bathroom and

the General, Jackson and my

·.ng this crisis were confined

,tyard from early afternoon up

s inside to do my homework.

when compared to what the

situation did become intolerable.

lJ rtyard and I, in my sentinel

: of arousing their suspicions.

xtreme pressure, I prayed. But

:hey found no one but my

:;fe not crossing into our Zone L ~e rumor of our troops, felt

" war on television But ,,-y brother, he pointed to the

ed, attentively indeed, but every time without a word. This,

ire from my post, in the dark,

and like Spangler the Lurp,

e supplies.

One evening my brother went out on a mission to the streets and left

me in charge of all security in our base. At first he told me that Jackson

and the General were also going on the mission. But rrrinutes later I heard

the General relu e to budge from his post of command. It was one thing,

he said, to send one sol ier in search of relief. another to abandon the

miserable spot we were supposed to defend. After the customary briefing

(in case I was taken prIsoner) my brother disappeared into the Trail of Ho

elu Mhin, the intricate system of roofs, sewer pipes and window grates

that took you, if you could climb up to the Parris lsI nd window, from the

very jungles of the courtyard to the avenue outside that led to the center

of the capital

Out of respect I did not SIt with my commanders and yet I was close

enough to hide them in case of an attack. Tbey stared at the distance

from their chairs and did not say a word. Once I tried to start a

conversation, trying to answer with my voice what Timagined they might

say. But I could not come up with the voices of my brother. So as usuaL

to deal with the boredom of the guard , I started to imagine what my brother was doing outside: the gathering of forces, the saving of patrols,


the encounter and destruction of the Enemy,

It is my duty to report that in the pncess of daydreaming I fell asleep

that evening, When I woke up the General and Jackson were gone, My

first thought was that they had disappeared: meaning they had evacuated

the base: meaning ran away, A two-plus-two desertion, But my brother's

arrival and inspection of the area confirmed my worst suspicions: the

General and Jackson had been taken prisioner.

For the next few days I underwent hourly interrogations conducted by

my brother. He appeared calm at first. Together we went over my story a

hundred times; then, when at last he was certain that the Women had

taken them away, he summarily tried me and discharged me in complete

dishonor,

The war took another turn, this time invisible, noiseless, Purses were

displaced, money disappeared, the cross relic from Jerusalem vanished

from the living room, and reappeared nailed with knitting needles, to the

bathroom door. As a displaced civilian I watched the Women turn angry,

then nervous, They had to be constantly on guard, Unwilling to leave

their headquarters, they prayed as the house was methodically ransacked ,

They did punish the Enemy but my brother just kept going at them, In

the entire time of the counter-offensive that my brother launched in search

of the General and Jackson, he did not speak to the Women, Or to me, In

fact he did not say a word, He searched every room in the house and

destroyed all evidence of being there except that for every search in

which he fa iled, something-jewelry, letters, money-disappeared, Twice I

saw him while on one of his searches, It was as if I were not there, as if I

were an MIA no longer missed, In a span of days the house seemed

upside down: every walk-in closet, drawer and trunk was searched and

searched again, but the General and Jackson could not be found,

The Women trapped him one day- they had to-by breaking all

conventions, They stopped him at the entrance to the living room, when

coming back from school, and escorted him to the closet, where they

were prepared to keep him locked until he was penitent, until he

confessed,

He was there a long time, longer than ever I remember, The Women

sat in the liVing room praying and knitting until every so many hours one

of them, a different one at every turn, went upstairs to press for the

confession, Yet from the other side nothing seemed to come but silence,

75

. -a:· I was my duty.

':':.'1 brother's pen-and

hind the Viet Cong

: :-. ve known but could

" Jackson said

'-Der for there was silence -

.ha.., my brother and the

:::e war on more than

~

t:::e point of talking on -:''0 :nvalids?"

l1stened to the news my

-a;- was soon going to

'Ianted all of our _- c seemed to inspire

:ake care of the war at

!'d him say one night.

~ed the judgement of the

• lelf movements was the

- watched them from ... i· were trying to

-. J('nd of soldier, a lost

*******


for the Women came back and just kept on praying.

The war of nerves came suddenly to a halt. My brother's release had

more to do with school than with the war. I don't know if a truce was

negotiated because nobody was speaking to me. When he came out I

hied to give him the latest news about the war but he marched by me on

his way '0 the courtyard. I demanded a rehial. He was still shaking his

head no and talking to himself when he suddenly spoke. "I'm giving you

one last chance," he said. "But in a trial by deed."

That was the last time I heard his voice, I think. In silence he pointed at

the roof and ordered me to take the Trail. Just to look at it caused me to

shiver. I could not even say no. Then the voices started, voices shouting

at me, voices I had never heard before.

"You are not one of us," said one of the voices, "you are a girl"

"He isn't a so ier," said another. "He is one of the Women."

"Where are you r knitting needles, little girl?" said the first.

"Mariconl" the voices concluded.

The Women heard the voices and came out praying from the hallway.

One of them dropped her knitting needles and slapped my brother's face.

The droning sound of their prayers rose as my brother refused to combat.

Instead he clImbed up to the tile roof and then to the Parris Island

window-the only grate high enough to reach the upper roof-and

beneath where he hung nothing but a thirty foot drop. My brother clung

to the window, pulling the bars of the grates, trying to wrench out the

forty-year-old window, trying, it seemed, to tear down the house. My

head began to swirl. I tried to close my eyes but I could not stop Irom

watching. My brother was still clinging to the window but the voices had

turned to laughter and screams. I was so dizzy I thought I heard the

sounds of helicopters flying down to save him over the voices of the

prayers of the Women. Their knitting needles were pointed at the sky, like

bayonets. I could not understand why the ground of the courtyard

beneath me seemed to be turning so soft. 1 thought of rice fields and rian .

I thought my brother was about to fall and felt almost relieved knowing

he \",ould fall on the softness beneath me. But when he didn't I sensed that

the ground was coming apart and that I was the one who was falling.

I am not really sure when, or why for that matter, but not long after this

happened, and with the Paris Peace Talks getting under way, we went on

the trip to the volcano.

Contributors' Notes

T JUAN JULIAN CAICEDO is a Latin American writer who has lived in

New York City for 15 years and "Alicante" is one in a collection of poems

entitled Mythojogical Grafhti.

E.S. CREAMER's work has appeared in The Antioch Review and

riverrun and will soon appear in the Sonora Review, Cimarron Review

and The Louisvjjle Revjew.

ANN DARBY lives and works in New York City Her fiction has

appeared in the Northwest Review.

Born in Milan, Italy, ELISABETTA DI CAGNO is presently editor-in-chief

of Hermes magazine. She also teaches a writing seminar at the School of

Journalism at Columbia University, and is co-author of L~e book, How to

Turn Your MBA Into a CE~

JOSEPH FERRANDINO is a graduate of Columbia University's MFA

writing program. His first novel, Firelight, was released this September by

Soho Press.

CRAIG ANTON McDONALD was raised in Mexico City. He now lives

in New York.

REGINALD OLLEN enjoys water sports, motorcycles, cable, and the

color yellow (but not to wear). Born and raised in Thunder Bay, Ontario,

he writes fiction in New York and is the proud uncle of one Kenneth

William Mullane.

SUSAN OSBERG is a choreographer, dancer, teacher, and the artistic

director of the Workwith Dancers Company Inspired by her Sufi

practices in New Mexico, Earth Angel is part of a dance solo which has

been performed internationally.

::rr 'Nbo has lived in

.':' ::. collection of poems

1101""."".,..','"

~;, Review and

Cimorron Review

i-:er fiction has

p~ently editor·in·chief

mmar at the School of

of the book, How to

CCl:mbia- University's MFA

re!eased this September by

e:·:.:co City. He now lives

-cies, cable, and the

.. -:nunder Bay, Ontario,

e of one Kenneth

zacher, and the artistic

n:;;:ired by her Sufi

a dance solo which has

JOY PARKER is an eehlor, teacher, and writer living in New York. She

also has an interest in performing and has worked as a vocalist andior

dancer with choreographers Susan Osberg, Mark Mindek, and Paula

Deniro. She is presently teaching in the Experimental Writing Program at

New York University

STEPHEN RUTHERFORD is a free lance illustrator living in New York.

He is presently at work on an illustrated novel entitled Subcutaneous

Nationalism.

JAYNE WILLIAMS is known as a writer with an interest in the possible

world. A Boston area native, she is a graduate of Columbia University

and now resides in New York City.

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the war at home - craig anton mcdondald

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