john kerry's diary - september
Dear Diary,
Christ, what a mess. This Swift boat thing. And over what? Something that happened over 30 years ago, in a weird time in a weird place, in the jungle for godsake, which take it from me feels spooky and dangerous even when you’re on a Swift boat with 50. caliber machine guns and a bunch of your buddies with you. Because you’re always on these little streams where you never know where you are or who’s waiting around the next bend in the river waiting to kill your ass.
I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t there.
I was there, godammit. I was over there in that shithole serving my country. And what was Dubya doing? Getting drunk at frat parties and skipping out on his duty in the air fucking reserves, for Chrissake, in Alabama. I was in that shithole putting my life on the line, because say what you want about the inconsistencies in the record about what actually happened, my life and the lives of my fellow crewmen were on the line. Over 56,000 of us gave the last measure in that crapheap, and while I didn’t want to be one of them, and I damn well didn’t plan to be one of them, and took every conceivable measure I could to protect myself (and of course, my men) I could have gotten killed. That’s a fact.
I wish people knew what it was like over there. Then maybe they’d understand. When I came back I said that we were the victims of a mistaken war. I still believe that. It wasn’t the war I’d hoped to find there. I wanted something more along the lines of WW II, where a man could do something brave and be a hero, and not feel like a piece of shit for shooting some poor kid in a loincloth in the back.
In Vietnam (I mean, the Nam) you didn’t know who the good guys were. There wasn’t any black and white, no noble purpose whatsoever except maybe saving people from Communism. Vietnam was just a lot of little rivers going off into nowhere, where teenagers fired at you from the goddam jungle. Who would want to risk their life for that?
Not me. Not George Bush either.
But that’s what people need to understand. I went and he didn’t. And if I became a little unbalanced over there, if I was always getting lost and putting my men at risk and slaughtering farmyard animals and burning those nasty hootches with my Zippo, if I found myself wondering how I was going to get out of there without getting my ass killed, and just happened to know that three purple hearts gets you out of there, well, anyone in their right mind would have thought about it.
Here’s what I wish I could tell the American people. I did what I did for my country. Not only my country back then, but my country today. Because I knew that one day I’d be President. A good President. Kind and fair. Wise. Troubled by the burdens of responsibility but stoically bearing them. It’s what I’ve always wanted for myself. I’ve never doubted for a moment I would achieve my goal… except on those foul-smelling backwater rivers drifting, possibly, into an ambush.
Ambush. I hate the word.
It’s what all of us dreaded. Fire out of nowhere, bullets whizzing around us, mortar rounds exploding. A future President could get himself killed in a place like that. And then what good would it do the country?
Another needless sacrifice?
That’s not the Boston Strangler’s way.
That's what I called myself back then. I chose the name as my "handle" over in Nam because I thought it made me seem tough, just like saying Nam makes me feel like a real genuine veteran. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be brave too. But there’s a fine line between being brave and being stupid, and it’s all relative anyway. There are nuances. There’s physical bravery and there’s moral courage. I chose the latter.
The problem with moral courage, from a PR standpoint, is that it’s so much harder to see. I stand up to Big Business and so on, but there’s a so-whatness about it I’ve always felt. On the other hand, run up a hill and get killed wiping out a machine gun emplacement, you’re a hero, no questions asked.
But you’re also a dead hero.
And that’s not the Boston Strangler had in mind.
The Boston strangler wanted to get out of that shithole. And he wanted to get out of it having seen a little action (but not too much) so he could get back to the states and say he’d been there, he’d seen the naked dead bodies and the burning napalm kids running around like torches and all the other rotten things everyone said was going on, and he’d change things. He’d talk some sense into the country. He’d tell them how fucked up it was and they’d believe him. Especially if he had some medals.
Medals would be very important. If he just manipulated his way home without at least couple of medals that established his bona fides, a real live soldier who'd seen action and performed heroically, the New York Times might simply dismiss him as just another sour vet with an ax to grind. And you wanted the Times on your side.
But that presents a problem, doesn’t it? Put yourself in his shoes. How do you get the damn medals without doing something that might get your ass killed?
Well, you report wounds that might only need a band-aid, that’s how. And you write up some after-action reports that make you look heroic. And you get out of the Nam as fast as you can.
It’s not the brave thing to do, maybe (it depends what your definition of bravery is) but it IS the smart thing to do. And that’s something you want in a President. A guy who does the smart thing. A guy who makes the move that everyone applauds. When I’m elected President, that’s what I plan to do.
For instance, I don’t plan to do something stupid and invade a foreign country like some people I know. Even if it is the so-called “right” thing to do. Because sometimes the right thing to do isn’t the smart thing to do. If Dubya hadn’t invaded Iraq, no Democrat could’ve touched him in this election. Sure, he and his consigliores (god, how I love that word!) got rid of a tyrant and probably made the world a lot safer… in the long term. Long term! That’s the key. In the short term, it’s a mess, just like all wars are. And politics is all about the short term. So I have to say I’m really surprised that he missed seeing the short term consequences of his little Iraq misadventure. Since he’s supposed to be so politically shrewd and all.
I won’t make that same mistake. If I ever have to invade anyone, I’ll make sure the short term political benefits outweigh the long term “visionary” kinds of things that can get a President in a whole lot of trouble.
That’s it for now. I have to go and prep for the debates and figure out what in God’s name I’ll do if I’m elected.
Christ, what a mess. This Swift boat thing. And over what? Something that happened over 30 years ago, in a weird time in a weird place, in the jungle for godsake, which take it from me feels spooky and dangerous even when you’re on a Swift boat with 50. caliber machine guns and a bunch of your buddies with you. Because you’re always on these little streams where you never know where you are or who’s waiting around the next bend in the river waiting to kill your ass.
I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t there.
I was there, godammit. I was over there in that shithole serving my country. And what was Dubya doing? Getting drunk at frat parties and skipping out on his duty in the air fucking reserves, for Chrissake, in Alabama. I was in that shithole putting my life on the line, because say what you want about the inconsistencies in the record about what actually happened, my life and the lives of my fellow crewmen were on the line. Over 56,000 of us gave the last measure in that crapheap, and while I didn’t want to be one of them, and I damn well didn’t plan to be one of them, and took every conceivable measure I could to protect myself (and of course, my men) I could have gotten killed. That’s a fact.
I wish people knew what it was like over there. Then maybe they’d understand. When I came back I said that we were the victims of a mistaken war. I still believe that. It wasn’t the war I’d hoped to find there. I wanted something more along the lines of WW II, where a man could do something brave and be a hero, and not feel like a piece of shit for shooting some poor kid in a loincloth in the back.
In Vietnam (I mean, the Nam) you didn’t know who the good guys were. There wasn’t any black and white, no noble purpose whatsoever except maybe saving people from Communism. Vietnam was just a lot of little rivers going off into nowhere, where teenagers fired at you from the goddam jungle. Who would want to risk their life for that?
Not me. Not George Bush either.
But that’s what people need to understand. I went and he didn’t. And if I became a little unbalanced over there, if I was always getting lost and putting my men at risk and slaughtering farmyard animals and burning those nasty hootches with my Zippo, if I found myself wondering how I was going to get out of there without getting my ass killed, and just happened to know that three purple hearts gets you out of there, well, anyone in their right mind would have thought about it.
Here’s what I wish I could tell the American people. I did what I did for my country. Not only my country back then, but my country today. Because I knew that one day I’d be President. A good President. Kind and fair. Wise. Troubled by the burdens of responsibility but stoically bearing them. It’s what I’ve always wanted for myself. I’ve never doubted for a moment I would achieve my goal… except on those foul-smelling backwater rivers drifting, possibly, into an ambush.
Ambush. I hate the word.
It’s what all of us dreaded. Fire out of nowhere, bullets whizzing around us, mortar rounds exploding. A future President could get himself killed in a place like that. And then what good would it do the country?
Another needless sacrifice?
That’s not the Boston Strangler’s way.
That's what I called myself back then. I chose the name as my "handle" over in Nam because I thought it made me seem tough, just like saying Nam makes me feel like a real genuine veteran. I wanted to be tough. I wanted to be brave too. But there’s a fine line between being brave and being stupid, and it’s all relative anyway. There are nuances. There’s physical bravery and there’s moral courage. I chose the latter.
The problem with moral courage, from a PR standpoint, is that it’s so much harder to see. I stand up to Big Business and so on, but there’s a so-whatness about it I’ve always felt. On the other hand, run up a hill and get killed wiping out a machine gun emplacement, you’re a hero, no questions asked.
But you’re also a dead hero.
And that’s not the Boston Strangler had in mind.
The Boston strangler wanted to get out of that shithole. And he wanted to get out of it having seen a little action (but not too much) so he could get back to the states and say he’d been there, he’d seen the naked dead bodies and the burning napalm kids running around like torches and all the other rotten things everyone said was going on, and he’d change things. He’d talk some sense into the country. He’d tell them how fucked up it was and they’d believe him. Especially if he had some medals.
Medals would be very important. If he just manipulated his way home without at least couple of medals that established his bona fides, a real live soldier who'd seen action and performed heroically, the New York Times might simply dismiss him as just another sour vet with an ax to grind. And you wanted the Times on your side.
But that presents a problem, doesn’t it? Put yourself in his shoes. How do you get the damn medals without doing something that might get your ass killed?
Well, you report wounds that might only need a band-aid, that’s how. And you write up some after-action reports that make you look heroic. And you get out of the Nam as fast as you can.
It’s not the brave thing to do, maybe (it depends what your definition of bravery is) but it IS the smart thing to do. And that’s something you want in a President. A guy who does the smart thing. A guy who makes the move that everyone applauds. When I’m elected President, that’s what I plan to do.
For instance, I don’t plan to do something stupid and invade a foreign country like some people I know. Even if it is the so-called “right” thing to do. Because sometimes the right thing to do isn’t the smart thing to do. If Dubya hadn’t invaded Iraq, no Democrat could’ve touched him in this election. Sure, he and his consigliores (god, how I love that word!) got rid of a tyrant and probably made the world a lot safer… in the long term. Long term! That’s the key. In the short term, it’s a mess, just like all wars are. And politics is all about the short term. So I have to say I’m really surprised that he missed seeing the short term consequences of his little Iraq misadventure. Since he’s supposed to be so politically shrewd and all.
I won’t make that same mistake. If I ever have to invade anyone, I’ll make sure the short term political benefits outweigh the long term “visionary” kinds of things that can get a President in a whole lot of trouble.
That’s it for now. I have to go and prep for the debates and figure out what in God’s name I’ll do if I’m elected.
posted by patrickhenry at 5:33 PM
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