A Temporary Sort of Peace: A Memoir of Vietnam

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This was one of the best memoirs I’ve read yet. Memoir is not my first pick among reads because, in general, I find them tedious and long-winded—what will do in 100 pages is instead done in 300 or 350. I’d rather read a novel and be entertained. However, McGarrah’s memoir not only reads like a novel and jaunts along quickly to its end (there are many page-turning stories in this book), but it has the added benefit of a real-life-narrator admitting vulnerabilities and sharing hard-won wisdom with his reader throughout. McGarrah begins his story in the present moment, as a Vietnam veteran arriving at the VA Clinic. The reader is quickly introduced to the lasting effects of the narrator’s experience as a soldier in Vietnam. McGarrah juxtaposes the realities of physical and psychological treatment for war veterans in America with visceral flashbacks of combat. It is a little unnerving but McGarrah swiftly brings the reader back in time to his childhood in Indiana, where we get the beginnings of her story but also a healthy dose of humor. In this way McGarrah balances the horrors of his story with laughter and a sense of shared experienced between reader and writer. This is a hallmark of the entire book and one of the reasons why it was so enjoyable to read. The first quarter of the book highlights the main developments in the writer’s life prior to Vietnam. The mid-section is life in Vietnam—a well-plotted string of stories about the smells and tastes of a new culture, life at camp, frightfully real action scenes of combat, and the psychological tolls that were taken upon the men and women struggling to survive on both sides. Here McGarrah shows his prowess as a poet as well as a man of humor. Describing his mess hall food as “some kind of roasted pseudo-beef with huge globs of mashed potatoes drowned in a dark brown gelatinous substance labeled gravy” offers a necessary respite from the terror of combat and violent death. But even in these scenes, McGarrah manages to make his prose beautiful, as if to contain the gore and violence in a digestible format for the reader: “The trees dipped and swirled with the monsoon breeze. The bamboo played a tango so hypnotic and hallow I hardly noticed another whistle, the harsh hiss of a RPG ripping through the melody like off-key fusion jazz. Sheep must have heard it, though, because he opened his arms wide and embraced the rocket. It entered him and became him, sending all unnecessary attachments in different directions. Arms flew east and west and his head shot skyward as if it were a basketball some referee had tossed for the opening jump. Damp grit splattered my fatigues and face.” In the final quarter of the book, McGarrah relates his experience in the Tet Offensive and his resulting wounds. He also shares his time in the hospital with other wounded vets, exploring the psychological impact of war, and his return to American life. What is so striking about the last part of the book, though, is when McGarrah returns to Vietnam in 2005. Here he meets the honored Vietnamese poet Vo Que, and together they create a new relationship based on peace, respect, and understanding. The photographs in this book are outstanding, and the last scene in the book will make you gasp.