Jeff Edwards is a retired U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer, and an Anti-Submarine Warfare Specialist. He is currently working as a civilian expert consultant to the Fleet Anti-Submarine Warfare Command, the Navy's think tank for high-tech undersea warfare. His naval career spanned more than two decades and half the globe -- from chasing Soviet nuclear attack submarines during the Cold War, to launching cruise missiles in the Persian Gulf.
He puts his extensive experience as a Surface
Warfare specialist to work in his new novel,
TORPEDO.
In a plot that could easily be ripped from
today's headlines, TORPEDO combines an accident
at a nuclear power plant, an illegal arms
deal, and a biological warfare attack, to
ignite a crisis that could draw Western Europe,
the Middle East, and the United States into
all-out war. TORPEDO mixes the elements of
a classic sea chase novel with state-of-the-art
technology to create a cutting-edge Surface
Warfare Thriller.
Sound Off! Got an opinion about this article? Make your voice heard on the Jeff Edwards discussion forum.
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May 13, 2005
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Forum to sound off.]
One of my recent columns dealt with what I call the 'No Right Answer' game: the common assumption by politicians and journalists that America's armed forces are doing the wrong thing, no matter what they happen to be doing. Since that column hit the street, my inbox has been flooded with emails. The overwhelming majority of responses have been from military personnel who are tired of being criticized by anyone who can grab two minutes of cable air time. A few emails were from Soldiers who didn't recognize the intended irony in my words, and who wanted to assure me -- in no uncertain terms -- that America most certainly does not have the wrong Army. Several messages were from readers who think I'm totally out to lunch, and a couple of the responses were from service members who are either stationed in Iraq, or have recently returned from there.
Of this last group, a particular email stands out in my mind. One Soldier just back from the sandbox reminded me gently that sometimes there are no right answers. Sometimes our troops encounter situations so far from sanity that there are no good or reasonable choices.
I know this, of course. I try not to think about it, and the optimist in me doesn't like to believe that it's true, but I've known it most of my adult life. I learned it from one of my mentors: an ex-Army chopper pilot whom I'll refer to as Jack, although that's not his real name.
Jack had recurring nightmares about Vietnam. I realize that's not exactly uncommon among Vietnam veterans, but the dream that tortured my friend wasn't the sort you usually hear about. It wasn't about combat, or the Viet Cong, or even the Vietnamese jungle. It was about something that happened during an R&R visit to Saigon.
It's been more than twenty years since he told me the story, and I have to confess that neither of us were entirely sober at the time. Had it been someone else, I might have discounted the story entirely. People say all sorts of things when they drink. But this story sounded real. It felt real. And in all the long years since, I've never forgotten the pain on that man's face the night he told me about Saigon.
Jack and three buddies from his squadron had managed to scam their way into a visit to Saigon. They weren't due for R&R, but the squadron needed some repair parts, and Jack and his friends managed to wrangle an overnight trip to pick them up.
They got business out of the way first, picking up the parts shortly after arrival so they could concentrate their attention on partying. They were on the way to one of their favorite clubs when Jack realized that he was out of cigarettes. He spotted an old Mama-san selling black market Marlboros from a cart across the street.
Jack told his buddies to wait for him as he crossed the street to score some smokes. He was busy haggling over the price when he happened to glance across the street at his buddies. A young Vietnamese girl, about 12 years old, had stopped to offer them shoeshines. She had a wooden shoeshine kit, and judging from her animated manner, Jack decided that the girl was really pouring on the salesmanship. He was about to turn his attention back to the Mama-san when he spotted something in the girl's shoeshine kit. It was a bomb.
Cigarettes instantly forgotten, Jack started running across the street, shouting to his friends and waving to get their attention. They couldn't understand him, but one of them spotted him and waved back, apparently deciding that good old Jack was just acting the fool.
Jack was half way across the street when his friends started to catch the gist of his shouts. One of them pointed to the girl's shoeshine box. The young girl, apparently sensing that her opportunity was passing, reached into the box toward the bomb. Jack knew what was coming next.
To hear Jack tell it, he doesn't remember drawing his sidearm. He doesn't remember reaching for it, or even deciding to reach for it. But he remembers pulling the trigger. And he remembers standing in the middle of a Saigon street with a smoking 45 in his hand. He remembers watching his bullet slam into the back of that little girl's head, and the sight of her tiny body crumpling to the sidewalk. He remembers the surprise and horror on the faces of his squadron mates, and those few blessed seconds of emotional numbness before it hit him like a hammer blow ... He had killed a child.
