Part 5 (1/2)

One of G.o.dard's earliest essays, ”Towards a Political Cinema,” written in 1950, when he was nineteen, takes Bazin's theories a step further, and argues that cinema is part of the reality it is creating. To improve cinema, then, is to improve the world itself-a utopianism, it turns out, consistent with the doctrines of modern architecture.

Inherent in this view of filmmaking is the notion that the director is an artist, shaping the medium's most basic elements. With this vision, G.o.dard and Truffaut celebrated Howard Hawks, Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k, and other American directors, whom most French intellectuals rejected as ba.n.a.l. The directors' brilliance lay not in the genres they plied-horror, comedy, Westerns, etc.-but in the variations they worked on conventions, often quite subtly, through camera angles, editing, and lighting. As in a jazz improvisation, the style of the pictures became a commentary on the subject, and revealed the hand of an ”author.”

G.o.dard and Truffaut had the lucky support of intellectual comrades, and a fertile establishment within which to develop their ideas. In Houston, Don had to educate himself with whatever was there. What was there in 1952 was the Houston Post, Houston Post, a far cry from a far cry from Cahiers du Cinema. Cahiers du Cinema. If his movie reviews were restricted to plot summaries and evaluations of actors, he was nevertheless developing an eye for the visual language of film, so that, less than a decade later, when he If his movie reviews were restricted to plot summaries and evaluations of actors, he was nevertheless developing an eye for the visual language of film, so that, less than a decade later, when he did did become aware of Truffaut and G.o.dard, he was already their aesthetic brother. become aware of Truffaut and G.o.dard, he was already their aesthetic brother.

Occasionally, in Don's newspaper pieces, it's possible to glimpse him straining against his editor's strict standards. Mostly, he could only get away with prankishness-an unexpected climax to a sentence, say: The movie Painting the Clouds with Suns.h.i.+ne Painting the Clouds with Suns.h.i.+ne is ”packed with color, spectacle and glamour, and is a pretty dreary business,” he wrote. is ”packed with color, spectacle and glamour, and is a pretty dreary business,” he wrote. Take Care of My Little Girl Take Care of My Little Girl ”cracks the fraternity-sorority question wide open,” he quipped, ”with beautiful Jeanne Crain used as a maul.” It ends up ”more rhinestone than brimstone.” ”cracks the fraternity-sorority question wide open,” he quipped, ”with beautiful Jeanne Crain used as a maul.” It ends up ”more rhinestone than brimstone.”

On May 25, 1952, Don's colleague W. D. Bedell reviewed, for the Post, Post, Charles Mills's novel, Charles Mills's novel, The Alexandrians. The Alexandrians. The headline ran a deeply disturbing novel of the south. The headline ran a deeply disturbing novel of the south. The Alexandrians The Alexandrians traces the rise and fall of a small Georgia town, from its settlement in 1839 to the 1930s, and doc.u.ments the decline of the plantation economy, touching along the way on the social effects of slavery and religious intolerance. In the October 10, 1952, issue of the traces the rise and fall of a small Georgia town, from its settlement in 1839 to the 1930s, and doc.u.ments the decline of the plantation economy, touching along the way on the social effects of slavery and religious intolerance. In the October 10, 1952, issue of the Cougar, Cougar, Don, still in the first flush of his marriage, offered ”Chapter One” of Don, still in the first flush of his marriage, offered ”Chapter One” of Amanda Feverish, Amanda Feverish, ”a deeply disturbing novel of the South...[the] only fourchapter novel in the entire world.” Subsequent chapters, ent.i.tled ”Panic,” ”Visitation,” and ”Finale,” appeared throughout the month of October. ”a deeply disturbing novel of the South...[the] only fourchapter novel in the entire world.” Subsequent chapters, ent.i.tled ”Panic,” ”Visitation,” and ”Finale,” appeared throughout the month of October.

Don began his tenure with the Cougar Cougar with a review of Speed Lamkin's novel of the South, and now he would end it with a parody of a Southern novel...or was it a parody of Bedell's review, or, as the style suggests, of Faulkner, the granddaddy of Southern novelists? with a review of Speed Lamkin's novel of the South, and now he would end it with a parody of a Southern novel...or was it a parody of Bedell's review, or, as the style suggests, of Faulkner, the granddaddy of Southern novelists?

Amanda Feverish follows the protagonist's efforts to get a drink. She dispatches several suitors to fetch her a draught of ”Old Illusion.” The first, St. Clair Pitkin, a ”moody, star-crossed scion of a fine old Southern family,” overdoses on morphine and fails to return. The second, Pierre-Jean Louis Maurois Ennui, a ”handsome if decadent French poet living on love and peach brandy in a shack in the middle of Amanda's peach orchard,” falls victim to his own home brew, which is laced with insecticide. Amanda's disquiet grows. follows the protagonist's efforts to get a drink. She dispatches several suitors to fetch her a draught of ”Old Illusion.” The first, St. Clair Pitkin, a ”moody, star-crossed scion of a fine old Southern family,” overdoses on morphine and fails to return. The second, Pierre-Jean Louis Maurois Ennui, a ”handsome if decadent French poet living on love and peach brandy in a shack in the middle of Amanda's peach orchard,” falls victim to his own home brew, which is laced with insecticide. Amanda's disquiet grows.

A fine pink haze, composed of gin and magnolia blossoms in equal parts, hovered over the Feverish plantation. It was dusk, the magic hour when the overpowering fragrance of the old slave quarters suffused every part of the grounds, even the south forty, where Amanda Feverish, windblown, wildeyed, sat under a juniper bush, pulling the wings off a giant, greengold dragonfly.

Finally, Erskine Scaldwell, hoping to breathe the Old South's ”wine-like if decaying atmosphere,” calls on Amanda. She draws ”an immense hogleg from her garter,” shoots him, then herself. Old Josh, ”her aged, faithful Sioux butler,” is left emitting the ”soft patter of tears...peeling onions in the kitchen.” As Robert Murray Davis wryly noted, ”Less than three months after [Amanda Feverish] was published, [Don] was drafted, but there was probably no connection.”

PART TWO.

AFTER PAPA'S WAR.

10.

BASIC TRAINING.

Draftees were given one month to put their affairs in order before reporting for basic training. Don cleaned out his desk at the Post, Post, probably in the sad light of dawn after one of his nightly s.h.i.+fts. Naked of his things, the desktop showed its scars, the ones Don had left as well as the ones that didn't quite date to O. Henry. Maggie decided to remain at Rice to pursue her French degree. His friends threw him a farewell party; Helen Moore sought him out to wish him luck. probably in the sad light of dawn after one of his nightly s.h.i.+fts. Naked of his things, the desktop showed its scars, the ones Don had left as well as the ones that didn't quite date to O. Henry. Maggie decided to remain at Rice to pursue her French degree. His friends threw him a farewell party; Helen Moore sought him out to wish him luck.

One morning at the beginning of April 1953, Don boarded a bus to Louisiana. At a military reception center at Camp Polk, he and the other recruits were told to shuck their clothes for a medical inspection. They were each handed two cardboard tags with a letter and a number, designating their company and position. One tag stayed with the men; the other was tied to their suitcases. Eventually, the recruits were fingerprinted, fitted for shoes, given mess kits, canteens, and khaki and denim uniforms.

Don was a.s.signed to Company M, 145th Infantry Regiment, 37th Infantry Division-the ”Buckeye Division,” mostly composed of members of the Ohio National Guard. Camp Polk, established in 1941, covers over 198,000 acres of the Kisatchie National Forest, eight miles southwest of Leesville. During World War II, Louisiana was one of the busiest sites of domestic military training; all around Camp Polk, truckloads of soldiers pitched tents in the woods and conducted maneuvers. Kids crowded the roads near the camp, selling candy and c.o.kes to the young recruits. Gen. Mark Clark, whose name figures prominently in one of Don's best stories, ”The Indian Uprising,” spent time at Camp Polk.

After the war, the camp served as a POW holding station. Eventually, it was inactivated and put on a standby basis. It came back to life in September 1950, just three months after North Korean troops moved south past the thirty-eighth parallel with the goal of uniting the Korean peninsula.

After his initial round of medical tests, Don and his fellow recruits shuffled into a dark room for the first of several film screenings-a grim parody of Don's civilian moviegoing: short films on administering first aid, removing wounded soldiers from a battle zone, and treating frostbite. Afterward, at the rec center, Don drank weak beer and wrote postcards to his family. He made arrangements to send his civilian clothes home.

The next morning, reveille came at 5:30. The wooden barracks were drafty and cold, so it was a relief to step into the suns.h.i.+ne. Many young soldiers, including Don, got their first taste of domesticity in the army. They each took a turn at KP duty, twelve uninterrupted hours of gouging the eyes out of potatoes and taking out the trash. The men worked, ate, slept, and marched in alphabetical order.

Don was a.s.signed a rifle, a .03, weighing about nine pounds. He was told to memorize its serial number and to treat it as part of his body. Rifle drills were aimed at getting the men comfortable with their weapons, s.h.i.+fting the rifles from shoulder to shoulder, lifting them into the air, placing their b.u.t.ts on the ground, all in precise order. a.s.sembly, disa.s.sembly.

The cry of ”Let's go, let's go!” started each day as a bugle brayed in the background. The men lined up for roll call in front of the barracks, breakfasted at 6:15 (cereal, a half-pint bottle of milk): 250 soldiers in a vast room, 10 to a table, none talking. Afterward came calisthenics, then close-order marching in formation, 120 steps per minute while gripping the rifle. Extended order drill followed the march: learning to ”drop,” hitting the rifle b.u.t.t on the ground, then your knees, then your left side. Roll over, and you're ready to shoot. On some days, the officers required that the enlisted men take a five-mile hike. Lunch, called ”dinner,” was at 12:30, then more films. The movies were produced by the Army Signal Corps and featured army actors demonstrating training procedures. Occasionally, a B-grade Hollywood actor would show up in one of the films (Don knew every one of these hacks) playing a stern doctor concerned about s.e.xually transmitted diseases. The men would recognize him from the movies screened on base as evening entertainment and whoop with derision.

Bayonet practice followed the training films. At 5:25 p.m., the camp colors were lowered and the men would retreat in formation to their barracks.

They would shower and shave, then meet for supper. After that, they were free to hang out at the PX, go to a movie (for which they had to pay-usually a dumb war drama), write letters, clean their rifles, do their laundry. Lightsout was at nine o'clock. With a pa.s.s, they could catch a bus to a small Greyhound station on Third Street in Leesville and drink in the nearby bars.

On April 6, Don wrote to Joe Maranto, explaining that he had planned to return to Houston on Easter break, but a ”lieutenant [or] some other higher animal inspected the barracks and said everything was filthy you could have eaten off the floor actually had you anything to eat but he wore some special gla.s.ses with built-in dirt and the whole outfit was restricted....”

Don went on to say that ”Geeters,” his nickname for Pat Goeters, had written to him, expressing his disgust with the difficulties of architecture school. ”i maintain i could teach him a few things about disgust,” Don wrote. He ended: two guys from this company are awol right now and if they don't start feeding me and letting me have a little sleep say fifteen minutes every other day i might very well join them except for the fact that after this couple of years is up i'll never join anything again....bardley Like all draftees, Don received several pounds of junk mail at the camp, solicitations from Democratic and Republican fund-raisers (who apparently hoped that a boy's induction would have sparked a growing political conscience), subscription ads from book clubs, as well as from Time, Life, Look, Time, Life, Look, and other magazines. Since World War I, the military had boasted that soldiers were more bookish than the average American citizen. A former chairman of the War and Navy Department's Commission on Training Camp Activities wrote, ”In the number of books circulated [among recruits], fiction holds the first place. That is natural. A good story helps tide over the unoccupied moments, when the stoutest heart is apt to sink.” and other magazines. Since World War I, the military had boasted that soldiers were more bookish than the average American citizen. A former chairman of the War and Navy Department's Commission on Training Camp Activities wrote, ”In the number of books circulated [among recruits], fiction holds the first place. That is natural. A good story helps tide over the unoccupied moments, when the stoutest heart is apt to sink.”

Don asked his wife, Maggie, to mail him the latest issues of The New Yorker. The New Yorker.

During the latter half of his training at Camp Polk, he gained slow and rapid-fire skills on the rifle range, experience with ”snooping and p.o.o.ping,” the soldiers' terms for scouting and patrolling, hiding in the bushes while insects crawled all over him, and dry-run experience, going on maneuvers fully equipped with automatic and semiautomatic rifles, pistols, and machine guns, but without ammunition.

He learned to handle ”night problems.” He was ordered to practice walking silently in the dark, without smoking or eating, to pitch a pup tent without light, and to stay alert for suspicious sounds. Members of another platoon circled Don's group, clicking rifle bolts, sneezing, striking matches, and making all sorts of racket to steel everyone's nerves. Don was supposed to sit quietly, undetected. Suddenly, a flare would fill the sky; the recruits had been trained to flatten themselves or freeze, so the enemy couldn't see them in the flare light. Anyone who startled was ”dead.”

On certain ”route step marches” during the day, officers told the soldiers they could move in any rhythm they wanted so long as they stayed reasonably together. They could talk and even sing. Don always loved to sing, and he knew a lot of show tunes from the performances he had covered for the Post. Post. On many a long trek, his deep, sonorous voice carried throughout the Kisatchie National Forest. On many a long trek, his deep, sonorous voice carried throughout the Kisatchie National Forest.

Just before lights-out each night, or on Sat.u.r.day and Sunday afternoons when he didn't have KP duty, he wrote, sitting on his bed, balancing paper on his knees, without benefit of a light. He had to learn to concentrate as several radios droned in the bunks around him.

In June, he finished his basic training. He turned in his rifle and bayonet: an amputation. He returned to Houston for a while; during this hiatus, he spent most of his time explaining to family and friends the various insignia on his uniform-the bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and lapel ornaments, the crossed-rifle pin, indicating infantry, the blue piping on his cap, and the regimental colors. He had had to buy the insignia (army regulations), and he purchased an extra as a gift for Maggie, the way frat boys pinned their girls or couples exchanged rings. He gave Maggie a list of the books and magazines he'd need in the coming months. She told him how happy she was in graduate school.

At the end of training, he received no diploma, no mark of completion or achievement, just the certainty that he'd have to do it all again. He had no idea where he'd be s.h.i.+pped. His physical physical location did not match the army's sense of his place. He was leading alternate lives; though the bureaucratic one lacked immediacy, it controlled his future. location did not match the army's sense of his place. He was leading alternate lives; though the bureaucratic one lacked immediacy, it controlled his future.

Within a few weeks, he got a.s.signed to Fort Lewis, near Tacoma, Was.h.i.+ngton, and the cycle started again. In July and August of 1950, the Second Division was the first to embark from the United States for fighting in Korea. It was to this division, as a member of its Second Replacement Company, that Don was a.s.signed.

He found the terrain more amenable than the sweltering Louisiana forests. The temperatures ranged from the low eighties during the days to the forties at night, which made long marches, and sleeping outside, more pleasant, though new arrivals were told to watch for poison ivy. Scotch broom sweetened the air. Ivy and sumac rioted over low-rolling hills. The barracks buildings, two-story wooden structures painted white, with dark green trim, seemed more solid than their Southern counterparts, less weathered and bug-eaten.

Don had plenty of time to write and read. Fighting in Korea ebbed and flowed during June and July, and the military's plans kept changing. For now, Don's division stayed put. Kim Il Sung, the North Korean leader, and Syngman Rhee, the right-wing U.S. ally who controlled South Korea, jockeyed for advantage while conducting armistice talks. One day, North Korea (shaken by the recent death of Stalin) appeared to agree to the United States' terms; the next, Rhee had forced all non-Korean prisoners of war into hard labor or into service in the South Korean army, angering the Chinese, who had hoped to extradite their former POWs.

One day, the war appeared to be ending; the next, the conflict flared again.

In his free time, Don learned about America's nuclear West: the Hanford Reach, with its growing atomic research; the tricity area of Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick, Was.h.i.+ngton, where the army employed much of the local population to work at Hanford or at nearby weapons storage bunkers, underground facilities in the high desert. Don's short story ”Game” (1965) would draw on this knowledge.

Finally, in mid-July, he was sent on what he called the ”grand cruise” across the Pacific, precise destination still unknown. On the troops.h.i.+p, he must have been mindful of Hemingway's war reporting, the battle pa.s.sages in A Farewell to Arms A Farewell to Arms and and For Whom the Bell Tolls. For Whom the Bell Tolls. ”You could write for a week and not give everyone credit for what he did on [the] front,” Hemingway had written about D day. ”The beach had been defended as stubbornly and intelligently as any troops could defend it.” ”You could write for a week and not give everyone credit for what he did on [the] front,” Hemingway had written about D day. ”The beach had been defended as stubbornly and intelligently as any troops could defend it.”

Don hoped to record similar heroics, but it wasn't to be. He soon realized that Korea was not like Papa's wars.