Victims

In 1995, I took a class on the history of the Vietnam war. Week after week, as our teacher passed out hundreds of xeroxed articles from period magazines, I found myself gradually realizing the horror of what had happened, both to Vietnam and to the young men that the United States sent there. Ironically, Robert MacNamara's memoir In Retrospect came out while I was in this class. I remember being enraged at his claim that he had realized that the war was unwinnable, even as he continued to send Americans to fight it. It seemed, to me at least, that he was clearing his conscience for his craven complicity in the destruction of so many lives. I decided that this was something that MacNamara should have taken to his grave, as it made it clear, once and for all, just how meaningless the war actually was.

I was reminded of MacNamara a couple of months ago when Gunther Grass, a German writer and Nobel laureate, admitted that he had been drafted into the Waffen SS when he was sixteen. This caused a huge uproar, as Grass had been an outspoken critic of Germany's Nazi past, and had even condemned Ronald Reagan for his visit to Bitburg cemetery in 1985 because Waffen SS officers were buried there. Grass' critics accused him of hypocrisy and smugness, and declared that he should have admitted his membership years ago, as it would have helped heal Germany's emotional wounds.

I found myself thinking about victims. In a culture where victim status is increasingly becoming the basis of legitimacy, it's interesting to think about real victimization, and the people that it hits. As a Navy brat, I grew up surrounded by Vietnam vets. My father didn't go to Vietnam because he was in military intelligence, and was quick to admit that he had a low pain threshold. As he told his superiors, if he was captured by the Vietcong, he was pretty much guaranteed to spill the beans as soon as they pulled out the pliars. Recognizing his sincerity, the Navy sent him to Korea. Personally, I'm glad they did, as my mother followed him to Seoul, where she conceived me.

But, to return to the actual point, much of my childhood was spent in the company of men who had gone to Vietnam. This was something that we rarely spoke of, but it was clear that these men did not remember their wartime experiences fondly. Occasionally, after a few too many beers, they would discuss some of their memories, and the things that they regretted.

I imagine that it was the same for Gunther Grass. In 1942, he was drafted into the Reichsarbeitdienst, or Reich Labor Service, a group that provided support to the Wehrmacht. Two years later, in November 1944, he was drafted into the Waffen SS. He served in the military for the few months between February 1945 and the end of the war.

I don't know what sights Grass saw during his few months in uniform, and I don't know what things he did. I don't want to know.

I do know that many of my father's friends had memories that tortured them for the rest of their lives. I also know that many of them were unable to forgive themselves for the things they did.

Did they have a choice? Did Gunther Grass? I know that, like Grass, some of my father's friends were drafted, while others voluntarily joined the military. However, I don't think that those who chose to sign up really knew what they were getting themselves into. By the time they had figured it out, I imagine that it was too late.

I know what I was like at sixteen, and I have some small understanding of the things that I was capable of doing. I'm really glad that I was never put in a position to do things that I would later regret. Faced with a choice between a low-paying entry-level job and enlistment, I'm pretty sure that I'd choose enlistment. For that matter, given a choice between not going to college or signing up for the National Guard, I'd have to go for the National Guard. In the current climate, that would mean that I'd end up in Iraq or Afghanistan.

When we talk about victims, it's fashionable to focus on people who have to deal with sexual discrimination, or racism, or other forms of prejudice. These are legitimate concerns, but I think we have to broaden our understanding of victimization. It seems to me that anyone can be a victim, and that some of the hardest things to forgive are the ones that we, ourselves, have done.