Ghosts and GloryMEDITATIONS ON JAMES WEBB'S FIELDS OFFIREWhen I first sat down, I thought I was going to write a paper on a novel.But as I started writing, all I could think about was myself. For likemany great works of art, the book triggered feeling, emotions andmemories that had been buried in my own consciousness for years andlong forgotten. So rather than review a novel, I am here to tell youabout the some of the images and memories that James Webb's VietNam war novel, Fields of Fire, illuminated in my past life—like a tripflare going off in the middle of the night. I found that many of Webb'simagined characters were real, and many of the real characters in mylife were actually imagined. As you'll soon discover, my existence isbased upon the death of someone I never knew. The characters inthe book also exist because someone has died. Dead soldiers arereplaced by those who are mentally dead. The fear of death numbs thesoul. The fear of life numbs the heart. Not until I read this brilliantnovel did I fully comprehend the battles I have been fighting, notbecause of the Vietnam War but because of the scars left behind byanother fierce enemy, alcoholism. Both of my parents were and arealcoholics. Life in an alcoholic family is like living in the "Arizona Valley"of Webb's book. Life becomes a series of survival tactics. Your souldies. Your desire to live is controlled by something outside yourself andyour rage becomes more a part of you than happiness. And with everystep you take, you constantly scan the tree line for signs of the enemy. I grew up with the Vietnam War. It was on television, in the movies,music and in my life. Vietnam was the first televised war. Every nightthe network news would show, in detail, the horrors of war. For years,America witnessed bodies sprawled onto stretchers, rushed toan awaiting helicopter. I remember the bandages. They looked as ifthey had been through the war, too. Soaked with blood, loosely fitted.There was no time for precision. Saving a life meant cutting corners.Just before sign off, the news broadcast would end with the body countfor the day. Black silhouettes of faceless soldiers were placed in a neatrow over the anchor's shoulder. Each silhouette represented thenumber of men killed or injured. I think the habit of turning offthe television during dinner came from the War. Dead and mangledbodies tend to spoil one's appetite. Each day the count rose, as did myfather's anxiety. My half-brother Larry was drafted, and like a goodsouthern boy, he didn't complain. I never knew Larry. I had only methim in old, torn photographs, but he was my brother, my father's firstborn and first son. I was the fourth born and second son. And, becauseI was much younger, I had a lot of catching up to do. My father was awidower early in life. In just a few minutes, fire had changed his lifeforever. I wasn't there that cool North Carolina morning, but somehow Ican see the tiny country home engulfed in flames. I can see may fatherrun frantically into the house to save his family. I see himrunning, frantic, fighting his way through the flames. I see him fightuntil the moment when one knows defeat is near. The time when bodyand mind surrender. The children had been saved, but their mother layquietly as the flames surround her body. Like a battle on an unnamed hill, the fire had won. My father's lifewould never be the same. Addictions would consume his everywaking moment. I never really though about it, but had my half brotherand sisters' mother survived, I may never have been born. Myexistence was determined by the death of someone I neverknew under circumstances I would never understand. After the fire, myfather dropped the children at their grandmother's house and droveoff, never to return. While I don't understand why he did many things, Ican honestly tell you I understand why he left them. After the fire, myfather waged his own war and battled his own addictions. Whether hisalcoholism was inherited as some medical experts suggest, or whetherit was a product of that fiery night, I don't know. And, he won't say. Talkof that night turns my father's skin gray. You can see the reflection ofthe flames in his eyes. Alcohol keeps the ghosts buried, at least forawhile. My mother fought the same addiction. However, I know thereasons for her torture. Each night, she would watch the man she loveddrink himself into forgetfulness. It became too much to bear. To saythat I lived in a dysfunctional family would be kind. Alcohol, like heroin,consumes the individual and the family. Eight-year-old children areforced to make parental decisions. There's no time for child's play;there are alcoholics to care for. Most of the time my parents were toodrunk to crawl to bed, so my little sister would put a blanketover them. And, when the morning arrived, nothing was mentioned.Every morning was a lesson in denial. While I never endured thehardships of poverty, and I was not physically beaten, there were manytimes I wish I were poor and battered. Instead, I was the child of analcoholic father and mother. Alcoholic families don't endure, they simply exist. Getting through eachday seems to be the only goal. Like the soldiers in the field, children inalcoholic families watch each small detail for the sign of trouble. Onewrong move and the enemy wins. In essence, from the time I was oldenough to realize the effects of alcoholism, I walked the trail, steppingcautiously, wanting not to trip the wire. I still refer to my parents as"Those People" and I haven't seen nor spoken to them for 15 years. Ihonestly do not know if they are physically dead or alive. To me, theyhave always been dead. There was one time when my parents weren'tdrunk. I knew something was wrong. My mother and father didn't toucha drop of alcohol for days. Both were stone cold sober. A typical rationfor these addicts was a bottle a day. I watched the same half-emptybottle for days. It just sat there in the secret hiding place in the chinacabinet, collecting dust, just wanting to be touched. I
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