A sort of book review and some other things
So, in this week I have off, I am going to attempt to post some of the various WWII book reviews I have sitting half-finsihed on my laptop. I need something to distract me from the massive amounts of cleaning I'm facing.
I will kick this all off with reviewing the books I've recently read related to the events presented in the HBO mini-series, The Pacific.
I shall start with Robert Leckie's Helmet For My Pillow.
Leckie, Robert. Helmet for My Pillow: From Parris Island to the Pacific. New York: Batman Books Trade Paperbacks, 2010.
This is a memoir which starts off with a poem written by the author. It sets the stage for all the words to follow. If this poem, “The Battle of Tenaru, August, 21, 1942” does not move something in you, I don’t know what will.
St. Michael, angel of battle,
We praise you to God on high.
The foe you gave was strong and brave
And unafraid to die.
Speak to The Lord for our comrades,
Killed when the battle seemed lost.
They went to meet a bright defeat-
The hero’s holocaust.
False is the vaunt of the victor,
Empty our living pride.
For those who fell there is no hell-
Nor for the brave who died.
Leckie’s Helmet for My Pillow was first published in 1957, which makes it not only a memoir but a primary, contemporary source of the time period. A little over ten years after he “got out of the shit,” Leckie released his memoir to the world and pretty much established his place in the “well written war memoir” Hall of Fame. Leckie’s memoir is different from those who have come before and after for many reasons, but the main one, perhaps the most significant one, was that this is not the war experience of an officer or of a media-darling “war hero.” This is story of a raggedy-ass Marine and his buddies, going through hell and back and losing everything, especially their sanity, along the way.
It doesn’t glorify war, and to be honest, it’s not so much about the Great War in the Pacific but about how one young Marine experienced war time. This is not the memoir for tank specs and battle tactics, but it is the one to find out what went on in the brig, the mental wards, the hospital ships. It doesn’t hold back on the horrifying aspects of war, it doesn’t sugar coat it, and while the whole story, the true story, isn’t there, couldn’t be here, will never be here, it is, unflinchingly, honest.
Still, most importantly, it’s significant. If Leckie didn’t bother telling his story, and that of Chuckler, Hoosier, Runner, and all the other Marines he met along the way, no one would. History has never been kind to the everyday soul. Tradition stated that you kept the memory of the “important people.” Of the peasants, the plebs, the cannon-fodder, they were relegated to the generalized mention of “brave men who lived, fought, and died.” Leckie and his friends were not perfect, in some cases, not even obedient, and Leckie never apologizes for that fact, nor does he shy away from it. The memoir doesn’t exist to preserve the ideals thrown about in Officer Training Schools but to preserve the memory of real men, with all their flaws, vices, and friendships.
Leckie’s work gives his version of the truth, his individual war story, and his unique perspective of things. The words he chooses, the way in which he writes, you almost don’t think you’re reading a war memoir, that you’re traveling through someone’s memories. Leckie is very adept at telling a story, and with every “character” in it addressed by a nickname, you almost forget these were real men, real events, real lives lived and lost. Leckie goes through all aspects of his war experiences, from his first days in the Marine Corps, to his relationships with the young women of Melbourne. There is very little Leckie doesn’t admit to, from getting mouthy with a superior officer, to stealing food from Army and Navy supply dumps. He even addresses, in great detail, his own tale of battle exhaustion, enuresis, and eventual breakdown. It’s honesty, tinged with humor, colored with brutality and all told in a lilting prose. Leckie does not lose this honesty, even upon his reflections of life back in the USA. He discusses his feelings toward the dropping of the atomic bombs and how to assimilate one’s self back into a society that could never understand just what he and his buddies endured.
Leckie’s memoir has a beauty to its language and an easy accessibility for any reader. It goes quickly and it doesn’t require that you know battle dates or Commander names, because it’s not about the black and white paper facts, but life experiences and emotions. I recommend it even for those who have no real interest in the subject, if only to see how engaging and moving a historical war memoir can be and how important it is as a historical document.
****
In other news:
I am determined to write and complete at least one story this year. I'm going to be out of work for some time after the move, so it's not like I'm going to be all busy or anything. I have started toying with a Band of Brothers/The Pacific modern-day AU takng place outside of Lafayette, LA b/c yes, I do so want the story where Snafu and Doc Roe grew-up right down a bayou from each other. Damn, tempting, part-Cajuns. I've already figured out how to get Spina, Renee, Babe and Anna in there (a small-town free clinic in Lafayette Parish), along with how to squeeze Sledge, Sid and Burgy in but I really do want to get Ack-Ack and Hillbilly in there somewhere. Right now, it takes place from Babe's pov, the poor displaced South Philly boy who pretty much gets mentally fucked with by Snafu on a regular basis, but we'll see if that keeps the more I get into it.
I've started the application process for UGW. I'm going to go for the Certification Program. I already have a Master's in History, I really don't need another one, and since I do still need to attain reading knowledge of French and Italian, I think I'll have a better chance of getting into the Certification program, not the Public History Master's. I am still applying to NC State's Public History MA, b/c if I can knock out another MA and BA at the same time for real cheap and get teaching experience, I might as well go all out. I already have all the gen eds for the BA and tech. met the Antho Minor when I was at State the first time around, but forgot to turn in the paperwork. Granted, I always used to say the Classics Minor did nothing for me, but then I end up translating Latin (badly) at work, so...
Lastly, I have found a bag that I think both red_ajah and myself both need in our lives. Good Ol' J.K.
I will kick this all off with reviewing the books I've recently read related to the events presented in the HBO mini-series, The Pacific.
I shall start with Robert Leckie's Helmet For My Pillow.
Leckie, Robert. Helmet for My Pillow: From Parris Island to the Pacific. New York: Batman Books Trade Paperbacks, 2010.
This is a memoir which starts off with a poem written by the author. It sets the stage for all the words to follow. If this poem, “The Battle of Tenaru, August, 21, 1942” does not move something in you, I don’t know what will.
St. Michael, angel of battle,
We praise you to God on high.
The foe you gave was strong and brave
And unafraid to die.
Speak to The Lord for our comrades,
Killed when the battle seemed lost.
They went to meet a bright defeat-
The hero’s holocaust.
False is the vaunt of the victor,
Empty our living pride.
For those who fell there is no hell-
Nor for the brave who died.
Leckie’s Helmet for My Pillow was first published in 1957, which makes it not only a memoir but a primary, contemporary source of the time period. A little over ten years after he “got out of the shit,” Leckie released his memoir to the world and pretty much established his place in the “well written war memoir” Hall of Fame. Leckie’s memoir is different from those who have come before and after for many reasons, but the main one, perhaps the most significant one, was that this is not the war experience of an officer or of a media-darling “war hero.” This is story of a raggedy-ass Marine and his buddies, going through hell and back and losing everything, especially their sanity, along the way.
It doesn’t glorify war, and to be honest, it’s not so much about the Great War in the Pacific but about how one young Marine experienced war time. This is not the memoir for tank specs and battle tactics, but it is the one to find out what went on in the brig, the mental wards, the hospital ships. It doesn’t hold back on the horrifying aspects of war, it doesn’t sugar coat it, and while the whole story, the true story, isn’t there, couldn’t be here, will never be here, it is, unflinchingly, honest.
Still, most importantly, it’s significant. If Leckie didn’t bother telling his story, and that of Chuckler, Hoosier, Runner, and all the other Marines he met along the way, no one would. History has never been kind to the everyday soul. Tradition stated that you kept the memory of the “important people.” Of the peasants, the plebs, the cannon-fodder, they were relegated to the generalized mention of “brave men who lived, fought, and died.” Leckie and his friends were not perfect, in some cases, not even obedient, and Leckie never apologizes for that fact, nor does he shy away from it. The memoir doesn’t exist to preserve the ideals thrown about in Officer Training Schools but to preserve the memory of real men, with all their flaws, vices, and friendships.
Leckie’s work gives his version of the truth, his individual war story, and his unique perspective of things. The words he chooses, the way in which he writes, you almost don’t think you’re reading a war memoir, that you’re traveling through someone’s memories. Leckie is very adept at telling a story, and with every “character” in it addressed by a nickname, you almost forget these were real men, real events, real lives lived and lost. Leckie goes through all aspects of his war experiences, from his first days in the Marine Corps, to his relationships with the young women of Melbourne. There is very little Leckie doesn’t admit to, from getting mouthy with a superior officer, to stealing food from Army and Navy supply dumps. He even addresses, in great detail, his own tale of battle exhaustion, enuresis, and eventual breakdown. It’s honesty, tinged with humor, colored with brutality and all told in a lilting prose. Leckie does not lose this honesty, even upon his reflections of life back in the USA. He discusses his feelings toward the dropping of the atomic bombs and how to assimilate one’s self back into a society that could never understand just what he and his buddies endured.
Leckie’s memoir has a beauty to its language and an easy accessibility for any reader. It goes quickly and it doesn’t require that you know battle dates or Commander names, because it’s not about the black and white paper facts, but life experiences and emotions. I recommend it even for those who have no real interest in the subject, if only to see how engaging and moving a historical war memoir can be and how important it is as a historical document.
****
In other news:
I am determined to write and complete at least one story this year. I'm going to be out of work for some time after the move, so it's not like I'm going to be all busy or anything. I have started toying with a Band of Brothers/The Pacific modern-day AU takng place outside of Lafayette, LA b/c yes, I do so want the story where Snafu and Doc Roe grew-up right down a bayou from each other. Damn, tempting, part-Cajuns. I've already figured out how to get Spina, Renee, Babe and Anna in there (a small-town free clinic in Lafayette Parish), along with how to squeeze Sledge, Sid and Burgy in but I really do want to get Ack-Ack and Hillbilly in there somewhere. Right now, it takes place from Babe's pov, the poor displaced South Philly boy who pretty much gets mentally fucked with by Snafu on a regular basis, but we'll see if that keeps the more I get into it.
I've started the application process for UGW. I'm going to go for the Certification Program. I already have a Master's in History, I really don't need another one, and since I do still need to attain reading knowledge of French and Italian, I think I'll have a better chance of getting into the Certification program, not the Public History Master's. I am still applying to NC State's Public History MA, b/c if I can knock out another MA and BA at the same time for real cheap and get teaching experience, I might as well go all out. I already have all the gen eds for the BA and tech. met the Antho Minor when I was at State the first time around, but forgot to turn in the paperwork. Granted, I always used to say the Classics Minor did nothing for me, but then I end up translating Latin (badly) at work, so...
Lastly, I have found a bag that I think both red_ajah and myself both need in our lives. Good Ol' J.K.