Scars of war: central Bagdhad ten years on, 2013. Photo: Getty
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Opening the hurt locker: three new books on Iraq

There are many echoes of the literary lineage to which these books must belong. Owen’s old lie is in all of them, as is Whitman’s precious blood.

My Life as a Foreign Country
Brian Turner
Jonathan Cape, 240pp, £16.99

Letter Composed During a Lull in the Fighting
Kevin Powers
Sceptre, 96pp, £12.99

Redeployment
Phil Klay
Canongate, 291pp, £15

 

“We knew our prelude would be different from the trenches of the First World War or the front lines of Korea,” Brian Turner writes in his fever dream of a memoir, My Life as a Foreign Country. Turner joined the US army in 1998 when he was almost 31 – old, for a soldier – and served with Nato forces in Bosnia and Herzegovina at the close of the 20th century. From the end of 2003, he served in Iraq for a year with the 3rd Stryker Brigade.

The difference Turner alludes to, in this context, is a difference in the conduct of war. There would be no front line, but instead “a 360-degree, three-dimensional environment . . . Anything was possible. A dead farm animal on the shoulder of the road could harbour an improvised bomb sewn into its belly. A bullet might ride the cool currents of air between one human being or another. A Hellcat missile or a wire-guided Tow missile might rend the moment open.”

There is also another difference, made explicit by Phil Klay in one of the stories in his debut collection, Redeployment. Klay joined the US marine corps after graduating from Dartmouth; in 2007, he served in Anbar Province, Iraq, as a public affairs officer. “Success was a matter of perspective. In Iraq it had to be,” he writes in “Money as a Weapons System”. “There was no Omaha Beach, no Vicksburg Campaign, not even an Alamo to signal a clear defeat.”

Over a decade has passed since the invasion of Iraq by US forces in March 2003. In the years since, that conflict – as depicted by some of the soldiers who served there – has become one in which the terror of war is unrelieved, even for an instant, by the idea of a cause, of a larger morality. As Kevin Powers wrote in his acclaimed first novel, The Yellow Birds, published in 2012: “I’d been trained to think war was the great unifier, that it brought people closer together than any other activity on earth. Bullshit. War is the great maker of solipsists: how are you going to save my life today?”

Powers’s new book is a volume of poems, Letter Composed During a Lull in the Fighting, and his voice, released from the constraints of narrative structure so finely exhibited in The Yellow Birds, seems angrier, more raw. Powers, unlike Turner, joined the army as a very young man – he was not out of his teens – and served as a machine-gunner in Iraq in 2004 and 2005. What all three of these books have in common, for all that they are written in different forms by very different men in different circumstances, is the way in which they are haunted by the terrible and mythic landscape of Iraq – by the names Nineveh, Tigris, Euphrates – and by the shadowy presence of history’s old wars, from the American civil war to the First World War, the Second World War, Korea and Vietnam.

Powers was born and raised in Richmond, Virginia, the seat of the Confederate capital during the American civil war. These poems, which move between a war zone and civilian life transformed by the experience of war, hook back into older injustices. “Nominally” is a poem that seems to speak purely of America and yet does not: “. . . down in the valley where I’m from there is/a parking lot, which covers up a grave,/a name we give in singular for the hundred slaves/they buried there back then”. This mass grave can’t help but recall for the reader more recent brutality. “Nothing/was counted. Order is a myth.” This is a fine, harrowing collection and yet one that ends on a redemptive note:

. . . The thing I can’t recall
was what I had been waiting for.
It likely won’t come back again.
And I know better than to hope,
but one might wait
and pay attention
and rest awhile,
for we are more than figuring the odds.

Turner’s hallucinatory memoir bears the mark of his work as a poet: in his first collection, Here, Bullet, published in 2005, is found the poem “The Hurt Locker”, which inspired the Kathryn Bigelow film of the same name. Broken up into well over 100 sections, this new book is a kind of collection, too, wrathful, wry and incantatory. “How does anyone leave a war behind them, no matter what war it is, and somehow walk into the rest of their life?” There is no answer to such a question: there is simply a collage of experience and memory that drops the reader fully into this writer’s life. Turner played at being a soldier as a kid and made Super 8 war movies with his pals – and he mixed home-made napalm with his dad and his uncle Jon in their California yard. Uncle Jon was in Vietnam; Turner’s dad chased MiGs over the Kamchatka Peninsula in 1965; his grandfather was a marine in the Pacific theatre during the Second World War. He grew up with war all around him and yet what he found in his own war didn’t answer his question. “In Mosul, the war became routine,” he writes simply. Some routines bring comfort; some bring just the opposite.

Of these three books, Phil Klay’s is the most unprocessed and perhaps the least satisfying. All the stories are told in the first person by a sequence of narrators: a chaplain in “Prayer in the Furnace”, a member of Mortuary Affairs in “Bodies”, a foreign service officer whose job is to spearhead efforts at reconstruction in “Money as a Weapons System”. The last of these is a sharp satire reminiscent of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 but too many of the stories are overburdened either by a heavy-handed use of military acronyms (“EOD handled the bombs. SSTP treated the wounds. PRP processed the bodies. The 08s fired DPICM. The MAW provided CAS. The 03s patrolled the MSRs. Me and PFC handled the money”) or by too-obvious rhetoric. A story such as “Psychological Operations”, in which a former soldier now enlisted at Amherst confronts a recent convert to Islam, has the feel of a creative-writing exercise. That said, Klay’s writing is often both powerful and courageous.

It’s sometimes eerie the way these books echo each other. All three writers have an eye for how the awful becomes ordinary, how what is unacceptable in civilian life becomes the norm in a combat zone. “We shot dogs. Not by accident. We did it on purpose, and we called it Operation Scooby. I’m a dog person, so I thought about that a lot,” begins the title story of Redeployment. What that means for the story’s narrator is played out in the course of the tale; as for what the shooting was actually like, you can turn to Kevin Powers and his poem “Field Manual”. “Think quick pop, yelp, then puckered fur./Think skinny ribs. Think smell.”

There are many echoes of the literary lineage to which these books must belong. Owen’s old lie is in all of them, as is Whitman’s precious blood, but most particularly one can sense the influence of Tim O’Brien. His memoir of the Vietnam war, If I Die in a Combat Zone, and his short-story collection The Things They Carried (now available as an audiobook, read perfectly by Bryan Cranston) helped redefine the way Americans thought about the wars in which they were called to fight. I thought of O’Brien and the equipment and baggage carried by the soldiers in his stories as Turner described a group of men entering the house of an Iraqi civilian: “The soldiers enter the house with only nine credits earned toward an associate’s degree in history from the University of Maryland. They kick in the door and enter the house with the memory of backyard barbecues on their minds.”

I thought of O’Brien, too, in Klay’s “War Stories”, in which a pair of vets, one very badly wounded, consider conflict and awful injury in the context of picking up women. The narrator hears his wounded friend Jenks tell the story of what happened to him; when Jenks says, “I feel more sorry for the guys who had to rush in and treat me than for myself,” the narrator remarks, “This is Jenks’s standard line. It’s utter bullshit.” For the true war stories, as O’Brien knew, can never be told, though the need to keep trying to tell them never goes away. The reader of these books can’t help but be a voyeur, always asking, silently, secretly, “But is that what it was really like?” We cannot know. “A true war story is never moral,” Tim O’Brien wrote. “It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behaviour, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie.”

Erica Wagner is an Eccles British Library writer in residence and a judge of this year’s Man Booker Prize

Erica Wagner is a New Statesman contributing writer and a judge of the 2014 Man Booker Prize. A former literary editor of the Times, her books include Ariel's Gift: Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and the Story of “Birthday Letters” and Seizure.

This article first appeared in the 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

Home Alone 2: Lost in New York
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The best film soundtracks to help you pretend you live in a magical Christmas world

It’s December. You no longer have an excuse.

It’s December, which means it’s officially time to crack out the Christmas music. But while Mariah Carey and Slade have their everlasting charms, I find the best way to slip into the seasonal spirit is to use a film score to soundtrack your boring daily activities: sitting at your desk at work, doing some Christmas shopping, getting the tube. So here are the best soundtracks and scores to get you feeling festive this month.

A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965)

Although this is a children’s film, it’s the most grown-up soundtrack on the list. Think smooth jazz with a Christmas twist, the kind of tunes Ryan Gosling is playing at the fancy restaurant in La La Land, plus the occasional choir of precocious kids. Imagine yourself sat in a cocktail chair. You’re drinking an elaborate cocktail. Perhaps there is a cocktail sausage involved also. Either way, you’re dressed head-to-toe in silk and half-heartedly unwrapping Christmas presents as though you’ve already received every gift under the sun. You are so luxurious you are bored to tears of luxury – until a tiny voice comes along and reminds you of the true meaning of Christmas. This is the kind of life the A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack can give you. Take it with both hands.

Elf (2003)

There is a moment in Elf when Buddy pours maple syrup over his spaghetti, washing it all down with a bottle of Coca Cola. “We elves like to stick to the four main food groups,” he explains, “candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup.” This soundtrack is the audio equivalent – sickly sweet, sugary to an almost cloying degree, as it comes peppered with cute little flutes, squeaky elf voices and sleigh bells. The album Elf: Music from the Motion Picture offers a more durable selection of classics used in the movie, including some of the greatest 1950s Christmas songs – from Louis Prima’s 1957 recording of “Pennies from Heaven”, two versions of “Sleigh Ride”, Eddy Arnold’s “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and Eartha Kitt’s 1953 “Santa Baby”. But if a sweet orchestral score is more your thing, the Elf OST of course finishes things off with the track “Spaghetti and Syrup”. Just watch out for the sugar-rush headache.

Harry Potter (2001-2011)

There are some Christmas-specific songs hidden in each of the iconic Harry Potter scores, from “Christmas at Hogwarts” to “The Whomping Willow and The Snowball Fight” to “The Kiss” (“Mistletoe!” “Probably full of knargles”), but all the magical tinkling music from these films has a Christmassy vibe. Specifically concentrate on the first three films, when John Williams was still on board and things were still mostly wonderful and mystical for Harry, Ron and Hermione. Perfect listening for that moment just before the snow starts to fall, and you can pretend you’re as magical as the Hogwarts enchanted ceiling (or Ron, that one time).

Carol (2015)

Perhaps you’re just a little too sophisticated for the commercial terror of Christmas, but, like Cate Blanchett, you still want to feel gorgeously seasonal when buying that perfect wooden train set. Then the subtly festive leanings of the Carol soundtrack is for you. Let your eyes meet a stranger’s across the department store floor, or stare longingly out of the window as your lover buys the perfect Christmas tree from the side of the road. Just do it while listening to this score, which is pleasingly interspersed with songs of longing like “Smoke Rings” and “No Other Love”.

Holiday Inn (1942)

There’s more to this soundtrack than just “White Christmas”, from Bing Crosby singing “Let’s Start The New Year Off Right” to Fred Astaire’s “You’re Easy To Dance With” to the pair’s duet on “I’ll Capture Your Heart”. The score is perfect frosty walk music, too: nostalgic, dreamy, unapologetically merry all at once.

The Tailor of Gloucester (1993)

Okay, I’m being a little self-indulgent here, but bear with me. “The Tailor of Gloucester”, adapted from the Beatrix Potter story, was an episode of the BBC series The World of Peter Rabbit and Friends and aired in 1993. A Christmastime story set in Gloucester, the place I was born, was always going to be right up my street, and our tatty VHS came out at least once a year throughout my childhood. But the music from this is something special: songs “The Tailor of Gloucester”, “Songs From Gloucester” and “Silent Falls the Winter Snow” are melancholy and very strange, and feature the singing voices of drunk rats, smug mice and a very bitter cat. It also showcases what is in my view one of the best Christmas carols, “Sussex Carol.” If you’re the kind of person who likes traditional wreaths and period dramas, and plans to watch Victorian Baking at Christmas when it airs this December 25th, this is the soundtrack for you.

Home Alone (1990-1992)

The greatest, the original, the godfather of all Christmas film soundtracks is, of course, John William’s Home Alone score. This is for everyone who likes or even merely tolerates Christmas, no exceptions. It’s simply not Christmas until you’ve listened to “Somewhere in My Memory” 80,000 times whilst staring enviously into the perfect Christmassy homes of strangers or sung “White Christmas” to the mirror. I’m sorry, I don’t make the rules. Go listen to it now—and don't forget Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, which is as good as the first.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.