On The Rainy River

lbrty-three years olcl, ano rne war occurls(t rrdr s r^ts

time ago, and yet the remembering makes it now' And

sometimes remembering will lead to a Story, which makes

it forever' That's what stories are for' Stories are for joining

the past to the future' Stories are for those late hours in the

night when you can't remember how you got from where

yo., were to where you are' Stories are for eternity' when

-"rnory is erased, when there is nothing to remember ex-

cept the story. (

|- to anyone. Not to my parents, not to my brother or sister, not even to my wife. To go into it, I,ve al_ ways thought, would only cause gmbarrassme,t for all of us, a sudden need to be elsewhere, whici is the riatural re- sponse to a confession. Even,now, I,ll admit, the story makesrn.-rgr.r/,t'ji'ho, -.,r. than twenty years l,ve had to live with it, feeling th^ shame, tryin^ to prisn ,t away, and.s9 pv thls aCt nt rernembrante,nbf Duttine the faits downoo.aaq"i mhqelB y"lrb; ; ;;,;-. "rfr" o;;*-$lt-e su')1QSgfl Stlrlts a hardsrrryr.r*A-Tr of ,r, I suppose, like to believe that iry.a rnoral emerggl@l,r0e will behave like the heroes of our youtF, -ur^r6'ffi forth_ rightly, without tiought of personal loss or discredit. Cer- tainly that was my conviction back in the summer of 196g. Tim O'Brien: a secret hero. The Lone Ranger. If the stakes ever became high enough_if the evil were evil enough, if lte Sood wele go.gd enoug.h-I would simply tap a secret 1 l f;i '. ' r.. .i..t. .;i l . , ,: {r 1.,

,i.:.,a,.,.

t 1 , r , . _ t

Rainy River

his is one story I've never told befor<?!Not

4 0 I r t u o ' B R I E N

the ac lffima.omfoffitho

reservoir of courage that had been accumulating inside me

over the r."r, finite quantities, like an inheritance'

and t- --a ,.,

e steadilY

ih{ry;il

, r rrngs p{ey Carr iea I q

it must have reasonable confidence in the justice and im_ perative of its cause. you can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can,t make them undead.

a modest st

l l l l r d v e ' v u r

{fnty-on$6rs oll'Young, yes' and pottuca

r r^ -^ even so the American war in Vetnam

seemed to me

@ bothersome little acts of

drily .o.r.rge; it offered hope and grace to the repetitive

coward; it5ustified the past while amortizing the future'

I,'r June of 1968, " -ot@"-

calester College, I *"@1 t l":

Gene McCarthy, composing a few tedious, uninspired edi_ torials for the campus newspaper. Oddly, though, it was al_ most entirely an intellectual activity. I brought some en_ ergy to it, of course, but it was the energy that accompanies almost any abstract endeavor; I felt no personal danger; I felt no sense of an impen&ng crisis in my life. Stupidly, with a kind of smug removal that I can,t begin to fathom. I assumed that the problems of killing and dying did not fall within my special province.

It was a hu_ mrd atternoon, I remembelil6ilf

"nd very quiet, and I,d

just come in from a round of golf. My mother and father were having lunch out in the kitchen. I remember opening up the letter, scanning the first few lines, feeling the blood go thick behind my eyes. I remember a sound in my head. It wasn't thinking, just a silent howl. A million things all at once-l was too sood for this war. Too smart, too compas_ ,io'"tffi, i"rr*., was above it. I had the world dicked-phi Beta Kapfa and summa cum laude and president of the student body and a full_ride scholarship for grad studies at Harvard. A mistake, maybe-a foul-up in the paperwork. I was no soldier. I hated Boy Scouts. I hated camping out. I hated dirt and tents and mosquitoes. The sight of blood made me queasy, and I couldn't tolerate authority, and I didn,t know a rifle

v e , l d , " , . , ,, - i : . , , ' i '

l , ' ' - :

wrong. Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons'

I saw no unity of purpose, no consensus on matters of phi

ioropt v or history or law' The very facts were shrouded in

uncertainty:Was it a civil war? A war of national liberation

or simple ugg.;;-t tarted it' and *}9,n'

":O *:t:

What really happened to Se tJSS Maddox'on that darK

nightlnthe Gulf of Tonki"? W"t Ho ChiMinhgComrnu-

nist stooge, or a natior-tplisl savior' or both' 'or neither?

What aboutthe Geneva nccoids? Wh"t qbouttfafo ""d

the Cold War? What about dominoes?'America was ctl-

vided on these and a thousand 6ther issues' and the debate

h"J ,pill"d out across the floor of the United States Senate

and into the streets, anb'smart men in pinstripes could not

agfee on even the most fundamental matters of public pol-

icy. The only certainty that summer was moral confusion"

It was rny view then, and still is' that you don't make war

without knowing why' Knowledge' of course' is always im-

perfect, but it seemed to me that wheq a':"riolt goes tQ wai

I .1

I spent the summer of I an

1 2 | T I M O ' B R I E N

from a slingshot. I was a liberal, for Christ sake: If they

needed fresh bodies, why not draft some back-to-the-

stone-age hawk? Or some dumb jingo in his hard hat

and Bomb Hanoi button, or one of LBJ's pretty daughters,

or Westmoreland's whole handsome family-nephews

and nieces and baby grandson. There should be a law, I

thought. If you support a war, if you think it's worth the

price, that's fine, but you have to put your own precious

fluids on the line. You have to head for the front and hook

up with an infantry unit and help spill the blood. And you

have to bring along your wife, or ycur kids, or your lover. A

law,Ithought.

I remember the rage in my stomach. Later it burned

down to a smoldering self-pity, then to numbness. At din-

ner that night my father asked what my plans were. "Noth-

ing," I said. "Wait."

8 working in

ant and for

The Th ings They Car r i ed ! E t machine was hea

:* j tj:::,f ,.'"',,, ;'Jtr ;::l:'Jff;*: iill: ;,: trick was to ,''"rr".

' an elastic up-and-d

tifting with the "Ju"'o' 9"' il;;nf;:?fi: i:;

work for you. At

-ms' just letting the rubber ."rd ;; ;: was a small norrl]..

end was a trigger; at the muzzf" "ra

passed by, you'd r", ""0

a steel roller brush' As a .".."r,

tr, " .r ot" ",, J; ; : J: fi ffi _H i,'ill-,lr e sun up "r;;;brush wo ur d wh irr an d _*

"r"i,,o ria ; ":il ""* ;::",1;you'd hear a quick splattering,";;;" clots dissolvedinto a fine red mist. t,.*.r rror"pl".r"l, _".U. Goggles werea necessity, and a rubber apron, b", .;"." so it was like

;:*:*:*ifl,l"*: a dav under " r,,k"*",.- br";- go away. Even after

go home smelling of pig' It wouldn't

was arways **"__,,11 j,i"*.:Ji?,::"*1;,1".,"T: greasy pig_stink that

*ffi k*:11 j i"i "fi :,:T" # :ff "_",":: alone. And there.^,oo ",f]r-i.t.:"d;

I spent a lot of time. eight hours a day I stood on a quarter-mile assembly line-

more properly, a disassembly line-removing blood clots

from the necks of dead pigs. My job title, t biiieve, was

Declotter. After slaughter, the hogs were decapitated, split

down the length of the belly, pried open, eviscerated, and

strung up by the hind hocks on a high conveyer belt. Then gravity took over. By the time a carcass reached my spot on

the line, the fluids had mostly drained out, everything ex-

cept for thick clots of blood in the neck and upper chest

cavity. To remove the stuff, I used a kind of water gun. The

arone And,h"." ;^ ;i; .#*?

;i,r,:Jl":_ij "i".1i:'=Wlet ,_ ^^, T-,rn. ;vlninSs

I,d sometimes borrow mv fo+t ̂ _,^ ̂fi1;ffi:ffi1*:::1.."*'{il::# ffil: ",1: seemed to be collaprrtt ""'thepig

factory and how -, m"

.1i,,,:; ; : ; ; :'"#:{+#;::T:: i,*il:niwere huftling down a huge bh.il;"r] *" *rr.r" worldsqueezing in tighr!-fh ernment had ended -%'

The gov- waiting lists f., ,r- ,.?f:t,*t"duate

school deferments; the

i*"n,n, lists f"i th" N"uond cil';;;T:,3.":.';:::

The Th ings They Car r i eu | +s

, , r i i

' t . i '

. l l . . . ' d

n

. ; i . l I

-riqffisfilt1ong; -y f,""f{i was solid; I didn't qualiti for

.ffi?^tus-no religious grounds, no history as a pacifist'

i6-."ou"r, I could not claim to be opposed to war as a mat-

ter of general principle. There were occasions, I believed,

when a nation was justified in using military force to

achieve its ends, to stop a Hitler or some comparable evil,

and I told myself that in such circumstances I would've

. willingly marched off to the battle. The problem, though,

, was that a draft board did not let you choose your war. i B.yond all this, or at the very center, was the raw fact

of terror. I did not want to die. Not ever. But certainly-^" ,ffing war. Driving up Main

Street, past the courthouse and the Ben Franklin store, I

sometimes felt the fear spreading inside me like weeds.

I imagined myself dead. I imagined myself doing things I

could not do-charging an enemy position, taking aim at

another human being.

At some ooint in mid-Julv I began thinking seriously

about Qgnada. The border lay a few hundred miles north, z--t4b--an

eight-hour drive. Both my conscience and my instincts

were telling me to make a break for it, just take off and run

like hell and neverTt6lTln the beginning the idea seemed

purely abstract, the word Canada printing itself out in my

head; but after a time I could see particular shapes and im-

ages, the sorry details of my own future-a hotel room in

Winnipeg, a battered old suitcase, my father's eyes as I

tried to explain niyself over the telephone. I could almost

hear his voice, and my mother's. Run, I'd think. Then I'd

think, Impossible. Then a second later I'd think, Run.

It was a kind of schizophrenia. A moral split. I couldn't

make up my mind. I feared the war, yes, but I also feared

exile. I was afraid of walking away from my own life, my

friends and my family, my whole history, eveqrthing thatmattered to me. I feared losing th" r"rp".t of my parents. ifeared the law. I feared ridic;le .rrd .";r".". My home_town was a conservative little spot on the pralrie, a place 1lle.tfaditior:_cgtrlte.dr. an d it *r, *r, _,m agine peoplesifting around a table JJ"r,

", the oli Gobbl., Cafe onMaih Street, coffee cups poised, the conversation slowlyzeroing in on the young O,Brien kid, how the damned sissyhad taken off for Canada. At night, ;"r;:""ldn,t sleep,I'd sometimes carry on fierce

"*;";,r;.n .nor" people.

li,l;*.:::3rnq "l ,h"T,. teiling th._ ho* much r de_

didn't want to understand. I hel; irl'_" '""rstand and

God, yes, r did. il"r,r,.;ffi "lJtndividualrv responsibre-th. p"r;;; Kiwanis boys,the merchants and f-armers, d";;;; :hurchgoers, the

_"l".qt housewives, the prA *a ii"i,.ns crub and theVeterans of Foreign lMrrs and ,h. ;;;rtanding gentryout at the country club. They didn,t t"._ n"o Dai fromthe man in the moon. They didn,t know history. Theydidn't know the first thing

"1"* O,"_;;;;."rr, or the na_ture of Vietnamese nth e Fren ch_th; ;;:Hi:TT;il }" I ffi i.'#fl ::quired some reading_but no matter, ,a*", a war to stopthe communists, prain and simple, whrch was how theyliked things, and you y"-.. , treasonous pussy if you had

:il;l""'ghts about killing .. avine rorllain and simpte

tested their blind, th oughtless, r;"_ ",;;

;:;#r.*. J;it all, their simplqdnded Datrinric,. *r^^,- - ., r , .,^_^- l;-gryRatriotism, their prideful ieno_

I was bitter, sure. But it was so much more than that.

4 6 | r t u o ' B R I E N

The emotions went from outrage to terror to bewilder-

ment to guilt to sorrow and then back again to outrage. I

felt a sickness inside me. Real disease.

Most of this I've told before, or at least hlnted at, but

nhat I have ne,rer told is the full truth. How I cracked'

How at worf one morning, staf,ding on the pig line, I felt

something break open in my chest. I don't know what it

was. I'll never know. But it was real, I know that much, it

was a physical rupture-a cracking-leaking-popping feel-

ing. I remember dropping my water gun. Quickly, almost

without thought, I took offmy apron and walked out of the

plant and drove home. It was midmorning, I remember,

and the house was empty. Down.inrny.chest there was still

that leaking sensation, soni.6thlngll"ry *^r- and precious

spilling out, and i *", .ou"r"d with blood irid liog-stiiki

and for a-l9ng while I just concentrated on holding myself

together. I remember taking a hot shower. I remember

packing a suitcase and carrying it out to the kitchen, stand-

ing very still for a few minutes, looking carefully at the fa-

miliar objects all around me. The old chrome toaster, the

telephone, the pink and white Formica on the kitchen

counters. The room was fulI of bright sunshine. Everything

sparkled. My house, I thought. My life. I'm not sure how

long I stood there, but later I scribbled out a short note to

my parents.

What it said, exactly, I don't recall now. Something

vague. Taking off, will call, love Tim.

I drove north.

It's a blur now, as it was then, and all I remember is a

The Th ings They Car r ied I n sense of high velocity and the feel of the steering wheel inmy hands. I was riding

", .dr*;;;". a giddy feeling in away, except the:

to it_rike,""J*T'j:;:TH:re or impossil;

;HX l,::ilto a h appv'*'i;,';;""'";::, H ff :;

flight, fast "rra

-r'was all I could think of to a.,' lt *", o"*

at high speed and ndless' I had no plan' Just hit the b-d.;

dusk r ;",,"J ;::T;1,_',f if:;',::#T:** ;ffiH:"ffi:al

Falls' I'o*t tt**"'*nt in the..,;;- rn th e -o_,,,g, ;::'_'i:J,T :yf fi::3}hTf"";along the Rainy River, _hi.h ;;"r;;", Minnesota fromcanada, and which forme,"o*;;;;;ll,r.

r.o.n another.The land was mostly *itd"_J;.;;;"a there Ipassed amotel or bait shop, but otherwi;;;;;r,ry unfolded ingreat sweeps of pine-and birch ,rrd ru_"". Though rt wasstill Augusg the air already h"d ;";J'of o.tob.., foot_ball season, piles of yellow_red d;o.;rything crisp andclean. I remember a hlse btu. rky. ;;r;;, right was the

ff3,}l:fiff - a rake in pr";"', ;;;"vond the Rainv

For a while I just drove, not aiming at anything then inthe late morning I be dav or two. I *", ."i::to]<ins

for a place to lie low for a

ili;J }:tln: * ::irr+i:n"ffi ;!'d;:t; tiny yellow cabins .,t

tot a lodge at all' just "itr'1 9' t';i"

northward into the ustered on 6 penins.rl" thri J,rtt"d

shape. ft;;;;;ut"t River' The place was in sorry

now tank, a nimsy ;ffi::ffi1;"r:ff:#*:.

4 8 | r t u o ' B R I E N

wasn't worth the bother'

The main building, which stood in a cluster of pines on

iigt, g-,rna, seemed to lean heavily t: "1" :t1"' t:O:, "

tll-,

ple, the roof sagging toward Canada' Briefly' t

:t:::11 ;il;;;;;;;;, just giving uP' but

then I got out or

ownSc l ls t ru r 6uu! , -

the@t""t@'heartor kid in trouble. iltf..a ftt aioo-m,

ElroY

ffiund with his tongue. He nodded,

the car and walked up to the front porch'

The m(an who opened the door that day is the hero of

my life. How do I say this without sounding sappy? Blurt it

out-the man saved me' He offered exactly what I needed'

without questions, without any words at all' He took me

in. He was there at the critical time-a silent' watchful

fr"r".,.". Six days later, when it ended' I was unable to frnd

a proper way to thank him' and I never have' and so' if

nothing else, this story represents a small gesture of grati-

tude twentY Years overdue'

Even after two decades I can close my eyes and return

to that porch at the Tip Top Lodge' I can see the old guy

staring "a

*". Elroy Berdahl: eighty-one years old' skinny

and shrunken and mostly bald' He wore a flannel shirt and

brown work pants. ln one hand' I remernber' he carried a

gr".n "ppl., ",m"11paring

knife in the other' His eyes had

the bluish gray color ol u '^to' blade' the same polished

shine, and as he peered up at me I felt a strange sharpness'

almost painful, a cutting sensation' as if his gaze were

somehow slicing me open' In part' no doubt' it was my

own sense of guilt, but even to l/L&gol"t"ly :"Yi" thX

The Th ings They Car r ied | +s

"Dinner at five-thirty,,, he said.,,you eat fish?,, "Anything,,,I said. Elroy grunted and said, ,,l,ll bet.,,

tp^"rt,${*Sjg!her at the Tip Top Lodge. Just the two of us. Tourist season was over/ and there were no boats on the river, and the wilderness seemed to withdraw into a great permanent stillness. Over those six days Elroy Berdahl and I took most of our meals together. In the mornings we sometimes went out on long hikes into the woods, and at night we played Scrabble or listened to records or sat reading in front of his big stone fireplace. At times I felt the awkwardness of an intruder, but Elroy ac_ cepted me into his quiet routine without fuss or ceremony. He took my presence for granted, the same way he might've sheltered a stray cat_no wasted sighs or pity_ and there was never any talk about it. Just the opposite. \tVhat I remember more than anything is the man,s willful, almost ferocious silence. In all that time together, all those hours, he never asked the obvious questions: Why was I thereT Why alone? \Mhy so preoccupied? If Elroy was curi_ ous about any of this, he was careful never to put it into words.

My hunch, though, is that he already knew. At least the basics. After all, it was 196g, and guys were burning draft cards, and Canada was just a boat ride away. Ehof Berdahl was no hick. His bedroom, I remember, was clut_ tered with books and newspapers. He killed me at the Scrabble board, barely concentrating, and on those occa_ sions when speech was necessary he had a way of com_ pressing large thoughts into small, cryptic packets of

led me out to one of the cabins' and dropped a key in my

hand. I remember smiling at him' I also remember wishing

I hadn't. The old man shook his head as if to tell me it

s o I T I M O ' ' J R I L N

language. One evening, just at sunset, he pointed ui, at an owl circling over the violetJighted forest to the west.

"Hey, O'Brien," he said. "There's Jesus." The man was sharp-he didn't miss much. Those razor

eyes. Now and then he'd catch me staring out at the river, at the far shope, and I could almost hear the tumblers click- ing in his head. Maybe I'm wrong, but t doubt tt.

One thing for certain, he knew I was in desperate trou- ble. And he knew I couldn't talk about it. The wrong word-or even the right word-and I would've disap- peared. I was wired and jittery. My skin felt too tight. After supper one evening I vomited and went back to my cabin and lay down for a few moments and then vomited again; another time, in the middle of the afternoon, I began sweating and couldn't shut it off. I went through whole days feeling dizzy with sorrow. I couldn't sleep; I couldn't lie still. At nlght I'd toss around in bed, half awake, half dreaming, imagining how I'd sneak down to the beach and quiedy push one of the old man's boats out into the river and start paddling my way toward Canada. There were times when I thought I'd gone off the psychic edge. I couldn't tell up from down, I was just falling, and late in the night I'd lie there watching weird pictures spin through my head. Getting chased by the Border Patrol-helicopters and searchlights and barking dogs-I'd be crashing through the woods, I'd be down on my hands and knees-people shouting out my name-the law closing in on all sides-my hometown draft board and the FBI and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. It all seemed crazy and impossible. Twenty-one years old, an ordinary kid with all the ordinary dreams and ambitions, and all I wanted was to live the life I

,.."4s.$0rrl to-a mainstream rife_I rovr

'ed I sr

b,,,g",,',nd .il;;"::::i''":, base!!1. ancllam - gir', of .*ilfffilllls-and now I was offo'thil'"r- impossibre

""0,:;,i,:l"T:Il forever, and it seemed so

. ^I,m not sure how I made it throrMostofitl."r,,,lur;"_;-:":: rt through those six days.

p ass s om e,*.,''Til;?;:n:;,,1"J;H*::j: ll.:l*"Xiii.tl, ,r" cabin; *a r,""r,", in the boats, rit_ and bright. m"

",f:J-u.ffr -oul18' The d"r''"".".;;

*nfn* :r:TilT JT "*i;ffi ffi :: ",*house o,,". o",Il i::::;lif:: iliT:: ffi:t:"jfliand looked at me {ing a difficur, n"oo.lfi ffiJili;Tl':i::fHTJf# ;:"i.?,1luol;'f- *' man's'"i-'"*"t was amazing. quired lies or denial

never put me in a position that re-

was rypical of that'* *

"l -"I*nt' I suppose, his reticence

held value, "no "u"ro"tt

of Minnesota' where ott*trl ii

I -"r, : ;;;;:ii:ff: ;iT}::TJ#::*::ithe old man would,ve talked *ri "r.*ning exceptthose extra arms and heads. ,r_rll"rilr,.r, _", part ofit. But even more th,ha, words ;#;Jl.l'Jllilffru i*n::yond discussion. During that long ,r__". I,d been overand over the various iit was no,.,r", " *"lffi ::lff .T:n:: ;.r? 1:of pure reason. Intelle

cons ci en ce tor d m e," ;::ff :n:T::i::H"rT:# tul force was resisting, lik"

";";;;#;;e toward the

s 2 I T I M O 1 B B . L E N . ,

war. What it came down to, stupidly, was a sense o{!bl!rl"'

Hot, ii rpid shame. I did not want people to think badly of

me. Not my parents, not my brother and sister' not even

the folls down at the Gobbler Cafe' I was ashamed to be

there at the Tip 1bp Lodge. i yar-attt"-"a "t tt t"g-

science, aShamed to be doing the right thing' ' Not the de-

tails, of course, but the plain fact of crisis'

Although the old man never confronted me about it'

there was one occasion when he came close to forcing the

whole thing out into the open' It was early evening' and

we'd just finished supper, and over coffee and dessert I

asked him about my bill, how much I owed so far' For a

long while the old man squinted down at the tablecloth'

"Well, the basic rate," he said, "is fifty bucks a night'

Not counting meals. This makes four nights, right?"

I nodded. I had three hundred and twelve dollars in my

wallet.

Elroy kept his eyes on the tablecloth' "Now that's an

on-season price' To be fair, I suppose we should knock it

down a peg or two." He leaned back in his chair' "What's a

reasonable number, You figure?"

"l don't know," I said. "FortY?"

"Forty's good. Forty a night' Then we tack on food-

sav another hundred? Two hundred sixty total?"

He raised his eYebrows. "Too much?"

"No, that's fair. It's fine. Tomorrow, though ' ' ' I think

I' d better take off tomorrow."

Elroy shrugged and began clearing the table' For a time

he fussed with the dishes, whistling to himself as if the sub-

The Th ings They Car r i ed I s :

ject had been settled. After a second he slapped his handstogether. "You know what we forgot?,, he said. ,,We forgot

,w?ci.$ TndU: r"*40 jobs you done. What we have to do, wehave t6 figure'oLt what your time:, .o.th. your last job_

how much did you pull in "r,

ho,r.Z,, "Not enough,,, I said. "A bad one?,, "Yes. pretty bad.,, Slowly then, without intending any long sermon, I toldhim about my days at the plg plant. tt bug"r, as a straightrecitation of the facts, but before I could stop myself I wastalking about the blood clots and the water gun and howthe smell had soaked into my skin and how I couldn,t washit away. I went on for a long time. I told him about wildhogs squealing in my dreams, the sounds of butchery,

slaughterhouse sounds, and how I,d sometimes wake upwith that greasy pig_stink in my throat. When I was finished, Elroy nodded at me. "We11, to be honest,,,he said, ,,when you first showed

up here, I wondered about all that. The aroma, I mean.Smelled like you was awful damned fond of pork chops.,,The old man almost smiled. He made a snuffling sound,then sat down with a pencil and a piece of paper. ,,So what'd this crud job payT Ten brr.k, an hour7 Fifteen7,,

"Less. ' ,

Elroy shook his head. ,,Let,s make it fifteen. you put intwenty-five hours here, easy, That,s three hundred sev_enty-five bucks total wages. we subtract the two hundredsixty for food and rodging, I stilr owe you a hundred and fif_r ' i r tegn. , ,

s 4 | r r u o ' B R t E N

He took four fifties out

them on the table. "Call it even," he said. "No."

The fnoney lay on the table for the rest of the evening.

It was still tlere when I went back to my cabin. In the

morning, though, I found an envelope tacked to my door.

Inside were the four fifties and a two-word note that said

EMERGENCY FUND.

The rnan knew.

Looking back after twenty years, I sometimes wonder

if the events of that summer didn't happen in some other

dimension, a place where your life exists before you've

lived it, and where it goes afterward. None of it ever

seemed real. During my time at the Tip Top Lodge I had

the feeling that I'd slipped out of my own skin, hovering a

few feet away while some poor yo-yo with my name and

face tried to make his way toward a future he didn't under-

stand and didn't want. Even now I can see myself as I was

then. It's like watching an old home movie: I'm young and

tan and fit. I've got hair-lots of it. I don't smoke or drink.

I'm wearing faded blue jeans and a white polo shirt. I can

see myself sitting on Elroy Berdahl's dock near dusk one

evening, the sky a bright shimmering pink, and I'm finish-

ing up a letter to my parents that tells what I'm about to do

and why I'm doing it and how sorry I am that I'd never

found the courage to talk to them about it. I ask them not

to be angry. I try to explain some of my feelings, but there

The Th ings They Car r i ed i ss of his shirt pocket and laid aren't enough words, and_so I just say that it,s a thing that

ffj:::::,::;il:r: ""a or*"r"tt.,ita; about the va-

lTr"HfllvtB,,,&&u".J ;;* ; .;ffi T:"fl "IT:JT:* :i:;"

again from winnipeg ', M"";J or wherever r

On my last full day, the sixth day, the old man took me:ffi"''*'*"-";ffi*and cold. R,tiff-EF ---! grlLruu,L)n w?s sullD! ;:il*:::: li "ll"'ffi'tln Ji:::* jJ i j ;rocking motions &s wp nrrclo, :;",""' uuaL maoe sharp rent was fast. All

"r.u"

Orrn"O offfrom the dock. th" ..rr_

ness to the world, "rr'"0

us' I remember' there -"' "'n"r,-the sky ""d il ;;":::i."f; i"J ;iliff;ilT:h:"":,fi :air had the brittle scent of October.

,""*: ;":;":Ten minutes Elrov held. a course up-

straight north and ;"# ffi::.j ffi';ffi"T #iil:bow llft beneath *.. I r"_._U*,lr","rra' sound of the old outboard Evinrude. ,".;;J"TLil:Jl; ;:::T:l |;il1t'l:Just

reering 'h' ';r;,p."v again,t mv filust'vc nasc6'.' :-r %int we

,l &trhorecom! as I looked,rp

"rrht.hed the*qj5.A$e at me. This wasn,i a daydream. It was tangi_

li:ffl.Ff" clne in toward land, Elroy cut the en_:gine, Ietting the boat fishtail lr*h;i;;;;:l;;r::

H i '

5 6 I T I M O ' B R I E N

shore. The old man didn't look at me or speak' Bending

down, he opened uo io t"tUf " Oox and busied himself

with

a bobber "rd u pi"." of wire leader, humming

to himself,

his eyes down' , r -' l ' l l never

be certainl ot courselbnt I thi"k h" meant to bring me

up

against the realities, tt"*tJ" *1 tt:o': tl:,ttver and to

take

rne to the edge "rra ao la"r,a a kind of vigil as

I chose a iife

*t T1**ber staring at the

old m1' then at mv hands'

then at Canada' fr't

-itt'"ti"e was dense with brush and

timber' I could '""';;;t; u""it' on tht-bushes' I

could

see a squirrel up in ot'" of tht birch trees' a big crow

look-

ing at me from a boulder along the river' That close-

twenty y"'d'-""di *"tO "" th" delicate latticework

of

the leaves, the texture of the soil' the browned needles

be-

neath the pi""', ti" tonfigurations of geology and human

history rwenty -* i:*:.i;:."I"'J# jumped.ndtt"@.

iu"" now, as I ?e?fiEft-t t t-tdbl e s q u

e e zin g pr e s su:

write this, I can still feeithat tightness' And I want

you to

feel it-the wind coming off the river' the waves'

the si-

lence, the *ood"dfro"ti""t' Yot'''" at the borv of a boat

on

t h e R a i n y R i v e r ' Y o u ' r e t w e n t y - o n e y e a r s o l d ' y o u ' r e

scared, and there,s a hard squeezing pfessure in your chest'

Wiratwouldyoudo? . , ,1 pity fo."yoiiiselp-Would

You jumP? Would You tet

Would you think about.youl f"m'iy and ybtir childhood

and your dt""-' u"a "tt'yo'tre leaving behind? Would

it

hurt? would i, r""ili"avrng? would y6u cry, as I did?

I tried to '-"tto* n Utttt' f tried to smile' except I was

crying.

T l re Th ings They Car r ied I sz

Now, perhaps, you can understand why I've never told

this story before. It's not just the embarrassment of tears.

That's part of it, no doubt, but wht embarrasses me much

more, and always will;!1the para]yS.lhaglook

moral freeze: I couldn't decide. I couldn't act. I couldn't *

comport myself with even a pretense of modest human

dignity.

could do was cry. Quietly, not bawling, just the

chest-chokes.

At the rear of the boat Elroy Berdahl pretended not to

notice. He held a fishlng rod in his hands, his head bowed

to hide his eyes. He kept humming a soft, monotonous lit-

de tune. Everywhere, it seemed, in the trees and water and

sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing down on me,

a crushing sorrow, sorrow like I had never known it before.

And what was so sad, I realized, was that Canada had be-

come a pitiful fantasy. Silly and hopeless. It was no longer a possibility. Right then, with the shore so close, I under-

stood that t -

swlm away rrom my nomerown ano my coiintry and my

life. I would not be brave. That old image of myself as a

hero, as a man of conscience and courage, all that was just a

threadbare pipe dream. Bobbing there on the Rainy River,

looking back at the Minnesota shore, I felt a sudden swell

of helplessness come over me, a drowning sensation, as if I

had toppled overboard and was being swept away by the

silver waves. Chunks of my own history flashed by. I saw a

seven-year-old boy in a white cowboy hat and a Lone

Ranger mask and a pair of holstered six-shooters; I saw a twelve-year-old Little League shortstop pivoting to turn a

double play; I saw a sixteen-year-old kid decked out for his

first prom, looking spiffy in a white tux and a black bow tie,

s B I r t u o ' B R I E N

his hair cut short and flat, his shoes freshly pohshed' My

whole life seemed to spill out into the river' swirling away

;;; ;", everytlrlng.l had ever been or ever wanted to be' I

.."iO;,;.. *t;ft;I S-"ll{33'-t-evafloat; I couldn't tell

which way to l*i1, A h"d;;il;"n' I-suppose' but it was

as real ad anything I would evet ft"i]i't"* my parents call-

ing to me from the far shoreline' I saw my brother and sis-

ter, all the townsfolk, the mayor and the 3ntirg tlu*l:l

:f Commerce and all my old teacheri and

girlfriends and high

school buddies. Like some weird sporting event: everybody

screaming from the sidelines, rooting me on-a loud sta-

dium roar. Hotdogs and popcorn*stadium smells' sta-

dium heat. A squad of cheerleaders did cartwheels along

thebanksof theRainy fuver ; theyhadmegaphonesand

pompoms and smooth brown thighs' The crowd swayed

left and right. A marching band played fight songs' All my

aunts and uncles were there, and Abraham Lincoln' and

Saint George, and a nine-year-old girl named Linda who

i"Ja.a oit br"i,, tumor t"t[ in fifth liale' and severai

members of the United States Senate' and a'blind pobt

scribbling notes, and LBJ, and Huck Finn' and Abbie Hoff-

man, and all the dead soldiers back from the grave' and the

many thousands who were later to die-villagers with ter-

rible burns, little kids without arms or legs-yes' and the

Joint Chiefs of Staffwere there, and a couple of popes' and

a first lieutenant named Jimmy cross, and the last surviv-

ing veteran of the American Civil War' and Jane Fonda

d..rr"d up as Barbarella, and an old man sprawled beside a

pigpen, and my grandfather, and Gary Cooper' and a kind-

faced woman carrying an umbrella and a copy of Plato's Re-

public, and a million ferocious citizens waving flags of all

The Th ings They Car r ied I ss

shapes and colors-people in hard hats, people in head_ bands-they were all whooping and chanting and urging me toward one shore or the other. I saw faces from my disl tant past and distant futrrre. My wife was there. My unborn daughter waved at me, and my two sons hopped up and down, and a drill sergeant named Blyton sneered and shot up a finger and shook his head. There was a choir in bright purple robes. There was a cabbie from the Bronx. There was . slm yorng man I would one day kill with a hand gre_ nade aiong a red clay trail outside the village of My Khei

The littli aluminum boat rocked softly beneath me. There was the wind and the sky.

I tried to will myself overboard. I gripped the edge of the boat and leaned forward and

thought, Nou. t 9gg

It justwasn,tpossible.

All those eyes on me_the town, the whole universe_ and I couldn't risk the embarrassment. It was as if there were an audience to my life, that swirl of faces along the river, and in my head I could hear people screaming at me. Tiaitorl they yelled. Turncoatl pussyl I felt myself blush. I couldn't tolerate it. I couldn,t endure the mockery, or the disgrace, or the patriotic ridicule. Even . l rthe shore just twenty yards away, r-ffirl?;

rahty. Embarrass_ -ffif,rt', all it was.

And right then I submitted.

@arrassednotto. That waiiE-eEd-tEilEllGfio I sat in the bow of the

boat and cried.

6 0 I T I M O ' B R I E N

It was loud now. Loud, hard crying.

Elroy Berdahl remained quiet. He kept fishing. He

worked his line with the tips of his fingers, patiently,

squinting out at his red and white bobber on the Rainy

River. His eyes were flat and impassive. He didn't speak.

He was simply there, like the river and the late-summer

sun. And yet by his presence, his mute watchfulness, he

made it real. He was the true au&ence. He was a witness,

like God. or like the eods, who look onffiii* r,."

-as we live our lives, as we make orrr.hor.-GElillffiLb-.. ,

T"'tbiting," hesaid.

Then after a time the old man pulled in his line and

tumed the boat back toward Minnesota.

I don't remember saying goodbye. That last ni[ht we

had dinner together, and I went to bed early, and in the

morning Elroy fixed breakfast for me. When I told him I'd

be leaving, the old man nodded as if he already knew. He

looked down at the table and smiled.

At some point later in the morning it's possible thatwe

shook hands-I just don't remember-but I do know that

by the time I'd finished packing the old man had disap-

peared. Around ,roon, wh"r, I took my suitcaie out to the

car, I noticed that his old black pickup truck was no longer

parked in front of the house. I went inside and waited for a

while, but I felt a bone certainty.that he wouldn't be b,ack.

In a way, I thought, it was appropriate. I washed pp the

breakfast dishes, left his two h.r.rd."d doilaffi th"

idtchen counter, got into tll-ftflafri'Iiove soq$.Joward

--,_______*.-

The Th ings They Car r ied I o r The day was cloudy. I passed tlrough towns with fa_millar nam-es, through the pine rul"*.r"a down to theprairie, and then to Vietnam, *h".. i-;;s a soldier, andthen home again. I survived, but it,s rrot

" huppy ending. Iwas a coward. I went to the war. -.