An Honest Confession by an American Coward

The true things always ambush me on the road and take me by surprise when I am drifting down the light of placid days, careless about flanks and rearguard actions. I was not looking for a true thing to come upon me in the state of New Jersey. Nothing has ever happened to me in New Jersey. But came it did, and it came to stay.

In the past four years I have been interviewing my teammates on the 1966-67 basketball team at the Citadel for a book I'm writing. For the most part, this has been like buying back a part of my past that I had mislaid or shut out of my life. At first I thought I was writing about being young and frisky and able to run up and down a court all day long, but lately I realized I came to this book because I needed to come to grips with being middle-aged and having ripened into a gray-haired man you could not trust to handle the ball on a fast break.

When I visited my old teammate Al Kroboth's house in New Jersey, I spent the first hours quizzing him about his memories of games and practices and the screams of coaches that had echoed in field houses more than 30 years before. Al had been a splendid forward-center for the Citadel; at 6 feet 5 inches and carrying 220 pounds, he played with indefatigable energy and enthusiasm. For most of his senior year, he led the nation in field-goal percentage, with UCLA center Lew Alcindor hot on his trail. Al was a battler and a brawler and a scrapper from the day he first stepped in as a Green Weenie as a sophomore to the day he graduated. After we talked basketball, we came to a subject I dreaded to bring up with Al, but which lay between us and would not lie still.

"That's what I heard, Conroy," Al said. "I have nothing against what you did, but I did what I thought was right."

On his seventh mission as a navigator in an A-6 for Major Leonard Robertson, Al was getting ready to deliver their payload when the fighter-bomber was hit by enemy fire. Though Al has no memory of it, he punched out somewhere in the middle of the ill-fated dive and lost consciousness. He doesn't know if he was unconscious for six hours or six days, nor does he know what happened to Major Robertson (whose name is engraved on the Wall in Washington and on the MIA bracelet Al wears).

When Al awoke, he couldn't move. A Viet Cong soldier held an AK-47 to his head. His back and his neck were broken, and he had shattered his left scapula in the fall. When he was well enough to get to his feet (he still can't recall how much time had passed), two armed Viet Cong led Al from the jungles of South Vietnam to a prison in Hanoi. The journey took three months. Al Kroboth walked barefooted through the most impassable terrain in Vietnam, and he did it sometimes in the dead of night. He bathed when it rained, and he slept in bomb craters with his two Viet Cong captors. As they moved farther north, infections began to erupt on his body, and his legs were covered with leeches picked up while crossing the rice paddies.

At the very time of Al's walk, I had a small role in organizing the only antiwar demonstration ever held in Beaufort, South Carolina, the home of Parris Island and the Marine Corps Air Station. In a Marine Corps town at that time, it was difficult to come up with a quorum of people who had even minor disagreements about the Vietnam War. But my small group managed to attract a crowd of about 150 to Beaufort's waterfront. With my mother and my wife on either side of me, we listened to the featured speaker, Dr. Howard Levy, suggest to the very few young enlisted Marines present that if they get sent to Vietnam, here's how they can help end this war: Roll a grenade under your officer's bunk when he's asleep in his tent. It's called fragging and is becoming more and more popular with the ground troops who know this war is bullshit. I was enraged by the suggestion. At that very moment my father, a Marine officer, was asleep in Vietnam. But in 1972, at the age of 27, I thought I was serving America's interests by pointing out what massive flaws and miscalculations and corruptions had led her to conduct a ground war in Southeast Asia.

In the meantime, Al and his captors had finally arrived in the North, and the Viet Cong traded him to North Vietnamese soldiers for the final leg of the trip to Hanoi. Many times when they stopped to rest for the night, the local villagers tried to kill him. His captors wired his hands behind his back at night, so he trained himself to sleep in the center of huts when the villagers began sticking knives and bayonets into the thin walls.

Following the U.S. air raids, old women would come into the huts to excrete on him and yank out hunks of his hair. After the nightmare journey of his walk north, Al was relieved when his guards finally delivered him to the POW camp in Hanoi and the cell door locked behind him.

It was at the camp that Al began to die. He threw up every meal he ate and before long was misidentified as the oldest American soldier in the prison because his appearance was so gaunt and skeletal. But the extraordinary camaraderie among fellow prisoners that sprang up in all the POW camps caught fire in Al, and did so in time to save his life.

When I was demonstrating in America against Nixon and the Christmas bombings in Hanoi, Al and his fellow prisoners were holding hands under the full fury of those bombings, singing "God Bless America." It was those bombs that convinced Hanoi they would do well to release the American POWs, including my college teammate. When he told me about the C-141 landing in Hanoi to pick up the prisoners, Al said he felt no emotion, none at all, until he saw the giant American flag painted on the plane's tail. I stopped writing as Al wept over the memory of that flag on that plane, on that morning, during that time in the life of America.

It was that same long night, after listening to Al's story, that I began to make judgments about how I had conducted myself during the Vietnam War.

In the darkness of the sleeping Kroboth household, lying in the third-floor guest bedroom, I began to assess my role as a citizen in the '60s, when my country called my name and I shot her the bird. Unlike the stupid boys who wrapped themselves in Viet Cong flags and burned the American one, I knew how to demonstrate against the war without flirting with treason or astonishingly bad taste. I had come directly from the warrior culture of this country and I knew how to act.

But in the 25 years that have passed since South Vietnam fell, I have immersed myself in the study of totalitarianism during the unspeakable century we just left behind. I have questioned survivors of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, talked to Italians who told me tales of the Nazi occupation, French partisans who had counted German tanks in the forests of Normandy, and officers who survived the Bataan Death March. I quiz journalists returning from wars in Bosnia, the Sudan, the Congo, Angola, Indonesia, Guatemala, San Salvador, Chile, Northern Ireland, Algeria.

As I lay sleepless, I realized I'd done all this research to better understand my country. I now revere words like democracy, freedom, the right to vote, and the grandeur of the extraordinary vision of the founding fathers. Do I see America's flaws? Of course. But I now can honor her basic, incorruptible virtues, the ones that let me walk the streets screaming my ass off that my country had no idea what it was doing in South Vietnam. My country let me scream to my heart's content - the same country that produced both Al Kroboth and me.

Now, at this moment in New Jersey, I come to a conclusion about my actions as a young man when Vietnam was a dirty word to me. I wish I'd led a platoon of Marines in Vietnam. I would like to think I would have trained my troops well and that the Viet Cong would have had their hands full if they entered a firefight with us. From the day of my birth, I was programmed to enter the Marine Corps. I was the son of a Marine fighter pilot, and I had grown up on Marine bases where I had watched the men of the corps perform simulated war games in the forests of my childhood. That a novelist and poet bloomed darkly in the house of Santini strikes me as a remarkable irony. My mother and father had raised me to be an Al Kroboth, and during the Vietnam era they watched in horror as I metamorphosed into another breed of fanatic entirely. I understand now that I should have protested the war after my return from Vietnam, after I had done my duty for my country. I have come to a conclusion about my country that I knew then in my bones but lacked the courage to act on: America is good enough to die for even when she is wrong.

I looked for some conclusion, a summation of this trip to my teammate's house. I wanted to come to the single right thing, a true thing that I may not like but that I could live with. After hearing Al Kroboth's story of his walk across Vietnam and his brutal imprisonment in the North, I found myself passing harrowing, remorseless judgment on myself. I had not turned out to be the man I had once envisioned myself to be. I thought I would be the kind of man that America could point to and say, "There. That's the guy. That's the one who got it right. The whole package. The one I can depend on."

It had never once occurred to me that I would find myself in the position I did on that night in Al Kroboth's house in Roselle, New Jersey: an American coward spending the night with an American hero.

Pat Conroy's novels include The Prince of Tides, The Great Santini, The Lords of Discipline, and Beach Music. He lives on Fripp Island, South Carolina. This essay is from his forthcoming book, My Losing Season.

Note -- The opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions, views, and/or philosophy of The Family Security Foundation, Inc.

Source: This essay is from his book, My Losing Season.

Pat Conroy may think of himself as a coward for not fighting for America in Vietnam, but FSM thinks it's mighty brave of him to admit it now, in the autumn of his life. Better late than never, Pat. Let's hope your courage today serves as an inspiration to other young men yet to heed the call to defend our beloved country.

I disagree. Al Kobroth is by far the better man. Pat Conroy was a coward who demonstrated against his own country and never lifted a finger in her defense. He's 40 years too late and deathbed conversions are always suspect.

"Show me just what Mohammed brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached." -Manuel II Paleologus

"At first I thought I was writing about being young and frisky and able to run up and down a court all day long, but lately I realized I came to this book because I needed to come to grips with being middle-aged and having ripened into a gray-haired man you could not trust to handle the ball on a fast break. "

Actually, that is some humbling reality to come to grips with. He started the project only four years ago and is coming to grips (guilt) internally "lately." It's liberating to free your demons. He asking for forgiveness and making amends.

Let's hope your courage today serves as an inspiration to other young men yet to heed the call to defend our beloved country.

One would hope Pat will continue to act upon his regret/sorrow, maybe hit the talk show circuit, attend some anti-war rallies and speak (perhaps get booed as he booed Al and his brothers-in-arms decades ago), etc.

I like Pat's books and have corresponded with him, but I have very mixed feelings about his late 'come to Jesus' awareness of his own cowardice and bad behavior. I've known some of Pat's classmates and contemporaries from The Citadel and I went to VMI. For medical reasons (not my choice, they wouldn't give me a waiver) I couldn't go on active duty until after the Vietnam War ended, but when changes in the medical regulations permitted it, I served.

I'll take the support of our efforts from Pat now at face value, but in the back of my mind, I have a nagging feeling that by "confessing" now, he's looking for relatively cheap expiation. I think he crossed the line, though. Like many in and around the service, I opposed the way the war was being fought - either do it whole hog or don't bother was my view - and said so in letters to my congressman and senators, and I even went to some demonstrations with like-minded military types, but when the leaders shifted from protest to wanting the enemy to win, or counseling sedition, we said we thought that was bullshit and left. Even in Beaufort in 1972, Pat could have done that - stood up before that crowd and said something like: "I oppose the war and have urged our government against it, but saying we shouldn't be in the war is not the same as wanting the other side to win or telling soldiers to kill their officers - that's treason, children."

Powerful article, at least sound sincere, but wasn't The Lords of Discipline an extremely anti-military novel? Well, maybe he still was still a puke at that point in his life.

I served in Vietnam and have a 50% disability due to serious diseases associated with exposure to Agent Orange-I have never read any of Conroy's books-there's probably nothing harder for a writer than to admit their own cowardice -the fact that it still bothers him-maybe even more now reminds me how that war never goes away-when men of that generation meet there is always that question-what were you doing then?which lurks,often unasked in our minds.I know there are many who were glad to avoid serving and went on to academia or other careers and never looked back-and almost inexplicably there are those who invent histories for themselves which they never lived-they are both the most pitiful and lowest for what they do-I hope that soldiers in this war won't be having to deal with these questions fourty years on,but I'm afraid they will.The big difference is that there's no draft-and not likely to be one,considering the way things have been going in Iraq.

"He's not a coward now. It takes courage to confess his own cowardice."

I agree. None of us will ever know what's really in his heart but I can think of no financial reason for him to come clean; he'd of sold as many/more books if it was Bush bad, American bad, war bad and so on. I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

People can change and perhaps he's made those first steps to growing up, regardless of his age. If such is the case I wish him well on his journey.

I'd like to be forgiving but demostrations/movements have consequences. Who can honestly say just how much this anti-war demontrating re-energizes (or sustains) an enemy's fight. There were consequences then and there are consequences now. One of the purposes behind the Geneva Convention Code is to keep Armed Forces members from engaging in activities that will enrage the enemy and prolong the fighting. Imagine the message sent when your enemies know that the population that their adversaries come from do not have the stomach to win. Who knows how many more deaths there were (are) because of anti-war activism.

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