Friday, January 04, 2013
VIETNAM MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY
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Thursday, January 03, 2013
Letter to U.S. Customs Office, 1987
January 2, 1987
Letter to U.S. Customs Office
From Gustav Hasford, Australia
To: U.S. CUSTOMS OFFICE, LOS ANGELES and Leaseway International Corporation, Carson, California
SUBJECT: Shipment from London, England, 124 pieces, 120 Royal Mail mailing cartons and four blue metal trunks
This letter is intended to be both an official customs declaration (as per form 3299) and my authorization to the U.S. Customs and to Leaseway Corporation for the purpose of naming my friend Robert M. Bayer my representative in the matter of clearing my shipment through customs.
Actually, I do not understand why this procedure cannot be delayed until my return to the United States, but since it is necessary for me to remain in Australia until the end of March, I see no alternative but to inconvenience my friend Bob, who has kindly agreed to deal with the paperwork.
CONTENTS OF THE SHIPMENT: First, I will tell you what it does NOT contain. There are no plants, animals, fur, bone, weapons (with the exception of a replica German officer's dagger), no explosives, liquors, perfumes, diamonds, counterfeit money, chemicals, food, or midgets. I've been through customs inspections in a lot of countries (Australian customs is the most strict, by far) and I can't think of anything in the shipment that anybody would object to.
What is in the shipment, primarily, are books. Books shipped to England from the U.S. by myself, and books purchased in England. There are several boxes of stationary supplies--pens, paper, index cards. In one box there is a plaster bust of John Keats, the English poet. I don't know what else. Just junk and papers. Newspaper clippings. Piles of notes and manuscripts and papers. And, of course, souvenirs of the usual tourist type, a brass Eiffel Tower, things like that.
I spent a year in London writing the screenplay for the upcoming Stanley Kubrick film, FULL METAL JACKET (see article attached) and I needed this ton of books and papers (600 pounds?) so that I might steal my ideas from the widest possible range of sources, the secret of good writing. If any additional information is required, please feel free to call me collect.
Cordially,
Gustav Hasford
Letter to U.S. Customs Office
From Gustav Hasford, Australia
To: U.S. CUSTOMS OFFICE, LOS ANGELES and Leaseway International Corporation, Carson, California
SUBJECT: Shipment from London, England, 124 pieces, 120 Royal Mail mailing cartons and four blue metal trunks
This letter is intended to be both an official customs declaration (as per form 3299) and my authorization to the U.S. Customs and to Leaseway Corporation for the purpose of naming my friend Robert M. Bayer my representative in the matter of clearing my shipment through customs.
Actually, I do not understand why this procedure cannot be delayed until my return to the United States, but since it is necessary for me to remain in Australia until the end of March, I see no alternative but to inconvenience my friend Bob, who has kindly agreed to deal with the paperwork.
CONTENTS OF THE SHIPMENT: First, I will tell you what it does NOT contain. There are no plants, animals, fur, bone, weapons (with the exception of a replica German officer's dagger), no explosives, liquors, perfumes, diamonds, counterfeit money, chemicals, food, or midgets. I've been through customs inspections in a lot of countries (Australian customs is the most strict, by far) and I can't think of anything in the shipment that anybody would object to.
What is in the shipment, primarily, are books. Books shipped to England from the U.S. by myself, and books purchased in England. There are several boxes of stationary supplies--pens, paper, index cards. In one box there is a plaster bust of John Keats, the English poet. I don't know what else. Just junk and papers. Newspaper clippings. Piles of notes and manuscripts and papers. And, of course, souvenirs of the usual tourist type, a brass Eiffel Tower, things like that.
I spent a year in London writing the screenplay for the upcoming Stanley Kubrick film, FULL METAL JACKET (see article attached) and I needed this ton of books and papers (600 pounds?) so that I might steal my ideas from the widest possible range of sources, the secret of good writing. If any additional information is required, please feel free to call me collect.
Cordially,
Gustav Hasford
The Short-Timers hardcover first edition
Dust jacket copy:
From its opening pages in Marine boot camp on Parris Island to the excruciating suspense of its climatic finale during the jungle battle for Khe Sanh, The Short-Timers is a brilliant and savage reenactment of the descent into barbarism that formed the bottom line of the American intervention in Viet Nam.
Terse and brief as a scream, The Short-Timers traces the career of a sardonic narrator ("Joker") through the organized sadism of basic training, into a distasteful assignment as a combat reporter, and finally to the command of a platoon of "grunts" in the chaos that followed the Tet offensive. It is a story about some of the most harrowing experiences Americans have ever been made to endure, the story of a gallery of young Americans who are turned into violence freaks while still remaining individuals--comic, pathetic, repellent, proud and caring.
Sometimes surreal, sometimes all too realistic, and, without warning, funny, here is a novel that is--like its subject--as incongruous and undeniable as an exploding booby trap. It is a brutal novel because it is about the brutality of men trained to violence; but it is a book filled with the very rare and great compassion available to men who have survived the loss of their humanity in combat. This is a truly remarkable accomplishment for a first novel--which it is--or a tenth.
 |
| Dust jacket photo of Gus. |
From the back cover:
Advance comments about The Short-Timers:
"Gustav Hasford has managed to capture the Viet Nam War's gritty realities without trying to deliberately shock, and its aura of unreality without degenerating into surrealism. Most of us who fought there will never put it behind us, and Mr. Hasford is obviously among those who cannot forget. It is a beautiful story, and it is true, and as he himself has said, 'The truth can be ugly.'"
--Philip Caputo, author of A Rumor of War
"Many are already forgetting the Viet Nam War. Actually, it is only now being discovered. Americans (except for the few who were in it) are only now learning what Americans did in that war--and what they will be doing in any other war that may 'break out' in the near future. To those who refuse to forget, who, instead, wish to know, I recommend Gustav Hasford's The Short-Timers.
--Eric Bentley, critic
Wednesday, January 02, 2013
About This Site
My name is Jason Aaron. I write comic books. Gus Hasford was my cousin. My mom's nephew. I only met him two or three times in my life, and he died in 1993, when I was just out of high school, but nevertheless he had a tremendous influence on me.
A few years after Gus died, I started to put together a website devoted to him, compiling what little I knew about Gus and whatever articles I could track down online. That site grew and grew over the years, to include dozens of short stories, interviews, remembrances, photos and more. Through that website I met Gus Hasford fans from all over the world, and ultimately even got invited to the reunion of Gus' fellow Vietnam War era Marine Combat Correspondents.
Eventually though the site became terribly neglected and dated. This is me trying to dust it off and give it a new face. I'll be reposting most everything from the old site here and maybe even including some other stuff that never made it online.
Please join me in continuing to celebrate the life and work of Gus Hasford. Thanks.
A few years after Gus died, I started to put together a website devoted to him, compiling what little I knew about Gus and whatever articles I could track down online. That site grew and grew over the years, to include dozens of short stories, interviews, remembrances, photos and more. Through that website I met Gus Hasford fans from all over the world, and ultimately even got invited to the reunion of Gus' fellow Vietnam War era Marine Combat Correspondents.
Eventually though the site became terribly neglected and dated. This is me trying to dust it off and give it a new face. I'll be reposting most everything from the old site here and maybe even including some other stuff that never made it online.
Please join me in continuing to celebrate the life and work of Gus Hasford. Thanks.
IS THAT YOU, JOHN WAYNE? IS THIS ME?
By GUSTAV HASFORD
"MARINE!"
"Yes, SIR!" I snapped to attention and saluted a granite-jawed Marine major whose immaculately green razor-creased jungle utilities must have looked splendid in snapshots taken in the tall grass behind the CP and sent home to his wife.
The major executed a flawless Short-Pause--a favorite device of Leaders-of-Men, designed to give its victim a case of terminal insecurity. Not wishing to shatter his blatant self-confidence, I gave him my Parris Island rendition of I Am But a Humble Enlisted Person.
"Marine..." The major was ramrod straight--Fists-on-Hips. This stance, coupled with a deep, masculine Leader-of-Men voice, gave him that certain air of command, despite that fact that I was a good foot taller and he was looking at the bottom of my chin. "Marine..." he repeated. He seemed to like the word. "What is that you're wearing?"
For a brief, horrible moment I thought he meant the Be My Valentine's Day underwear my girl had sent me from San Francisco. But he was looking at my chest. The button!
The major stood on tiptoes as though he wanted to kiss me, but he only wanted to breathe in my face. I'd just returned from two weeks in the field and hadn't been breathed on by a CP officer in all that time.
"Marine! Speak up! I asked you a question!"
"You mean the button, SIR?"
"What the hell is that thing, Marine?"
"It's a peace symbol, SIR!"
He paused and pondered. I waited patiently, knowing that the major was obviously trying to remember his O.C.S. classes in "Maintaining Interpersonal Relationships With Subordinate Personnel." The other possibility was that he was going to hit me and couldn't decide between kicking my shins or slapping my face.
His breath smelled of mint. Marine officers never had bad breath, B.O., acne, or dirty underwear. Marine officers didn't have anything until it was issued to them.
The major jabbed the button with a green forefinger, and cut loose with a really admirable Polished Glare. Green eyes sparkled as he opened his red, white and blue teeth and growled, "That's right, corporal. Act innocent. But I know what that is, and I also know what it means!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"It's one of those damned Ban-the-Bomb things--Admit it!"
"No, SIR!" I was getting stiff from being at attention so long. Shifting weight--right leg, left leg, right leg...
"Then what is it?"
"It's a peace symbol, SIR!"
"Oh, yeah?" He breathed some more--up close--as though he could smell lies.
"Yes, SIR, it's..."
"MARINE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
The major moved around me, stalking me, craning his neck to toss little "kill!" glances. He smirked and bared green fangs, "Do you call yourself a Marine?"
I crossed my fingers. Kings-X. "Yes, SIR!"
"Now look, corporal," he began to magnificent Fatherly Approach. "Just tell me why you're wearing that Ban-the-Bomb thing. You can level with me. I want to help you."
His plastic smile told me that in exchange for finking on my fellow conspirators I'd receive a cookie and would not be shot by the CIA for my un-American Activities.
"Where'd you get it. Marine? Don't you know that Charlie Cong, the Dreaded Laundryman, has been distributing those things all over the base? Why, they're made in Hanoi!"
"My girl sent it to me, SIR! On a postcard, SIR!"
"From the states?"
"From California, SIR!" Pause. "San Francisco, SIR!"
The major's eyes grew big at my confessing of consorting with demons, communists, intellectuals, or worse.
"California. I see. A hippie?"
"Yes, SIR!" I smiled proudly. "An art student, SIR!"
He sneered. "Do you think we should ban the bomb, Marine?"
I was solemn as hell. My back was screaming. "No, SIR! We should bomb them back to the Stone Age, SIR! But this is a peace button, SIR!"
"HA! So you admit it! You advocate peace!"
"Yes, SIR!" Pause. "Doesn't the major believe in peace, SIR!"
Long, long pause. "You can't wear that button, Marine. If you don't remove it you'll be standing tall before the Man."
We stood nose-to-chin on the side of the road near the entrance to Phu Bai Combat Base. Ghostly scenes from The Sands of Iwo Jima starring John Wayne flickered around us. Somewhere in Never-Never Land Jim Nabors was singing: "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli..."
A huge white question mark hovered over a green world...
"MARINE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"This is a combat zone, Marine. Remember that. And you are a junior non-commissioned officer in the finest military machine in the world--our beloved Corps. We're here to defend Freedom and Justice so that all men may have the right to express themselves without fear of reprisal. That's why I'm telling you--you can't wear that button!"
"Yes, SIR!" I screamed. "Kill the dirty rotten gooks, SIR! We can lick 'um all, SIR! A good gook is a dead gook and three cheers for the VFW, SIR!"
"That's more like it, leatherneck. You're going to be okay."
"But can't I kill for peace and still believe in peace, SIR!"
The major suddenly became fascinated by his wristwatch. "I...uh...I've no time for this nonsense." He had Big Problems to solve--Big Decisions--papers to initial, a big desk to sit behind and drink coffee, Real Guts magazines to read, a chest toupee to comb. Besides, I knew there was no answer to my question, at least not for the major. It was like asking a hangman how he felt about capital punishment.
I saluted. The major saluted. We both held the salute awkwardly while he added: "Someday, when you've grown up a little, Marine, you'll see how childish you are."
His voice--that beautiful strong deep voice--had broken into a squeak on the word "childish."
I grinned. His eyes fell. Both salutes cut away nicely.
"Good day, Marine," he said, and hurried away without looking back.
"Yes, SIR!" I called out after him, "A beautiful day SIR!" And it really was.
Published in MIRROR NORTHWEST, vol. 3, 1972.
"Mirror Northwest is a magazine of literature and art by students and instructors of Washington State's community colleges."
from CONTRIBUTORS:
Gustav Hasford is a free lance writer presently a student at Lower Columbia College.
"MARINE!"
"Yes, SIR!" I snapped to attention and saluted a granite-jawed Marine major whose immaculately green razor-creased jungle utilities must have looked splendid in snapshots taken in the tall grass behind the CP and sent home to his wife.
The major executed a flawless Short-Pause--a favorite device of Leaders-of-Men, designed to give its victim a case of terminal insecurity. Not wishing to shatter his blatant self-confidence, I gave him my Parris Island rendition of I Am But a Humble Enlisted Person.
"Marine..." The major was ramrod straight--Fists-on-Hips. This stance, coupled with a deep, masculine Leader-of-Men voice, gave him that certain air of command, despite that fact that I was a good foot taller and he was looking at the bottom of my chin. "Marine..." he repeated. He seemed to like the word. "What is that you're wearing?"
For a brief, horrible moment I thought he meant the Be My Valentine's Day underwear my girl had sent me from San Francisco. But he was looking at my chest. The button!
The major stood on tiptoes as though he wanted to kiss me, but he only wanted to breathe in my face. I'd just returned from two weeks in the field and hadn't been breathed on by a CP officer in all that time.
"Marine! Speak up! I asked you a question!"
"You mean the button, SIR?"
"What the hell is that thing, Marine?"
"It's a peace symbol, SIR!"
He paused and pondered. I waited patiently, knowing that the major was obviously trying to remember his O.C.S. classes in "Maintaining Interpersonal Relationships With Subordinate Personnel." The other possibility was that he was going to hit me and couldn't decide between kicking my shins or slapping my face.
His breath smelled of mint. Marine officers never had bad breath, B.O., acne, or dirty underwear. Marine officers didn't have anything until it was issued to them.
The major jabbed the button with a green forefinger, and cut loose with a really admirable Polished Glare. Green eyes sparkled as he opened his red, white and blue teeth and growled, "That's right, corporal. Act innocent. But I know what that is, and I also know what it means!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"It's one of those damned Ban-the-Bomb things--Admit it!"
"No, SIR!" I was getting stiff from being at attention so long. Shifting weight--right leg, left leg, right leg...
"Then what is it?"
"It's a peace symbol, SIR!"
"Oh, yeah?" He breathed some more--up close--as though he could smell lies.
"Yes, SIR, it's..."
"MARINE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
The major moved around me, stalking me, craning his neck to toss little "kill!" glances. He smirked and bared green fangs, "Do you call yourself a Marine?"
I crossed my fingers. Kings-X. "Yes, SIR!"
"Now look, corporal," he began to magnificent Fatherly Approach. "Just tell me why you're wearing that Ban-the-Bomb thing. You can level with me. I want to help you."
His plastic smile told me that in exchange for finking on my fellow conspirators I'd receive a cookie and would not be shot by the CIA for my un-American Activities.
"Where'd you get it. Marine? Don't you know that Charlie Cong, the Dreaded Laundryman, has been distributing those things all over the base? Why, they're made in Hanoi!"
"My girl sent it to me, SIR! On a postcard, SIR!"
"From the states?"
"From California, SIR!" Pause. "San Francisco, SIR!"
The major's eyes grew big at my confessing of consorting with demons, communists, intellectuals, or worse.
"California. I see. A hippie?"
"Yes, SIR!" I smiled proudly. "An art student, SIR!"
He sneered. "Do you think we should ban the bomb, Marine?"
I was solemn as hell. My back was screaming. "No, SIR! We should bomb them back to the Stone Age, SIR! But this is a peace button, SIR!"
"HA! So you admit it! You advocate peace!"
"Yes, SIR!" Pause. "Doesn't the major believe in peace, SIR!"
Long, long pause. "You can't wear that button, Marine. If you don't remove it you'll be standing tall before the Man."
We stood nose-to-chin on the side of the road near the entrance to Phu Bai Combat Base. Ghostly scenes from The Sands of Iwo Jima starring John Wayne flickered around us. Somewhere in Never-Never Land Jim Nabors was singing: "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli..."
A huge white question mark hovered over a green world...
"MARINE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"Yes, SIR!"
"This is a combat zone, Marine. Remember that. And you are a junior non-commissioned officer in the finest military machine in the world--our beloved Corps. We're here to defend Freedom and Justice so that all men may have the right to express themselves without fear of reprisal. That's why I'm telling you--you can't wear that button!"
"Yes, SIR!" I screamed. "Kill the dirty rotten gooks, SIR! We can lick 'um all, SIR! A good gook is a dead gook and three cheers for the VFW, SIR!"
"That's more like it, leatherneck. You're going to be okay."
"But can't I kill for peace and still believe in peace, SIR!"
The major suddenly became fascinated by his wristwatch. "I...uh...I've no time for this nonsense." He had Big Problems to solve--Big Decisions--papers to initial, a big desk to sit behind and drink coffee, Real Guts magazines to read, a chest toupee to comb. Besides, I knew there was no answer to my question, at least not for the major. It was like asking a hangman how he felt about capital punishment.
I saluted. The major saluted. We both held the salute awkwardly while he added: "Someday, when you've grown up a little, Marine, you'll see how childish you are."
His voice--that beautiful strong deep voice--had broken into a squeak on the word "childish."
I grinned. His eyes fell. Both salutes cut away nicely.
"Good day, Marine," he said, and hurried away without looking back.
"Yes, SIR!" I called out after him, "A beautiful day SIR!" And it really was.
Published in MIRROR NORTHWEST, vol. 3, 1972.
"Mirror Northwest is a magazine of literature and art by students and instructors of Washington State's community colleges."
from CONTRIBUTORS:
Gustav Hasford is a free lance writer presently a student at Lower Columbia College.
I THINK I'M GOING TO HATE THIS MOVIE
You join the Marines, and in 1967, you go to Vietnam...
"It was exciting," Hasford continues. "It was a foreign country, even if you didn't exactly know where it was. I didn't have the slightest clue of where Vietnam was. People say, 'Weren't you afraid you'd get killed?' Nah. When you're 18, you don't have any fear that you're going to get killed. You think you're immortal."
--from the Birmingham News, 1987
Interview with Gus from SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY TELEGRAM-TRIBUNE, January 31, 1979
"You can't ignore" Vietnam
by Steve Churm
SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTY TELEGRAM-TRIBUNE, January 31, 1979
Gustav Hasford laughs a lot.
It's an infectious laugh that wells up deep inside his imposing frame and bursts forth with the staccato impact of a machine gun. The roar of his rapid-fire chuckle is followed by a wide grin that splits his long, round face. The grin is commonplace these days.
Tuesday was no exception.
Staring at the bleak, gray day from the living room of his Morro Bay home, he erupted again.
"Look at it," Hasford said, as the driving rain pelted his slick, concrete patio slab. "It was like this almost every day in Vietnam. Hell of a place to vacation. Ever been there?"
Most who have, went on orders--not by choice.
Those who haven't, should feel lucky, Hasford said.
Richard Nixon was president in 1969. Student riots at Kent State University had split the soft, vulnerable underbelly of American society. Out poured bitterness and anger. Vietnam was an undeclared war, fast escalating into the bloodiest and costliest conflict in history.
Gustav "Gus" Hasford was a raw, untested 18-year-old.
He was a high school dropout, the son of a German aluminum factory worker. He was also one of 30 boys in the deep South village of Russellville, Alabama, eligible for the draft.
Like so many, Hasford was faced with a no-win proposition: Enlist or be drafted.
"In a sudden wave of patriotism I enlisted," Hasford said. "Did I really have a choice?"
Six months later he was in Vietnam filing news reports as a frontline combat correspondent with the First Marine Division. Sometimes he'd write 10 stories a day with such battlefield datelines as Hue, Da Nang and Quang Tri.
Each story was meticulous, composed to strengthen and promote the Marine image--all guts and no fear. Fact became fiction; the truth was lost in the translation.
The tour of duty lasted 10 months for Hasford. Then it was over.
He lived to come home and write his side of the story.
 |
| Gustav Hasford in 1979. |
The Short-Timers by Gustav Hasford, published by Harper And Row, is a fast-paced novel about a sarcastic two-bit Marine combat reporter, whto rises to command a platoon in the wake of the 1968 Tet offensive in Vietnam.
In the end, the reporter kills his earliest friend from boot camp in order to survive.
"It's not autobiographical," Hasford explained.
"Those that read it and know me, swear the main character, Joker, is me. They're wrong. Sure, the story is based on my experiences to a degree, but I've changed the names, places and times.
"No, Joker is a kind of vague character--by design. The book is written in first-person, present tense to lure the reader into the character. I want them to feel, taste and sense the experience. He is like most of the young boys who fought in Vietnam. They're all lost, undeveloped and downright scared.
"I want the readers to work. They must make up their own mind about the book, and more importantly this brief excerpt from the war. I can't hand them the answers."
Once discharged, and back in the States, Hasford started his own search for the answers. One solution was to write The Short-Timers.
It took 10 years to finish and another three years to get published.
To bankroll the book, Hasford worked six-month stints as an editor and copyreader for a rack-full of so-called slick, girlie magazines in Los Angeles.
That something else was The Short-Timers.
"After the war I was angry," Hasford said, sipping a beer and tilting backward in a swivel chair. "The book proved to be therapeutic.
"I wrote for all those veterans who wanted to express themselves, but just couldn't. Nobody seems to listen to them, but they know the real story.
"Veterans have either been ignored or made scapegoats for the war. But they didn't want to go. And when they lived to come home they were hassled and abused. People asked them why they did all those horrible things.
"Particularly older folks are resentful of veterans. It was those people who felt the war here at home--the loss of lives and limbs. And it was those folks who pressed hardest for answers from veterans."
But Hasford admits peoples' attitude toward the war, its atrocities and its apparent failures and futility is slowly changing from bitterness to lukewarm acceptance.
"Three years ago you couldn't get a book like this published anywhere," he said, resting his chin on his long, boney fingers atop an electric typewriter.
Once Hasford's wife Charlene turns in at night, he writes till dawn. Since his first story on coin identification appeared in Boy's Life for $5 when he was 14, Hasford has been a writer.
Now, at 31, his subject is Vietnam.
"The topic has mass appeal. There's a natural curiosity with the war now. It's become more of a historical event, something to study and draw conclusions from.
"At one time the word Vietnam could split a cocktail party faster than a brush fire. On one side would be the bleeding hawks, the other the soft-stroking doves.
"Now people realize you just can't ignore the war. It will always be something to scream, cry or laugh about."
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