Charlie [Paperback]

THE CHILDREN WE FOUGHT(reviewer Stan Sirmans) How many Vietnam Veterans saw dead or captured Vietcong and thought they were just children? Many of them were. In her insightful and beautifully written first novel, Charlie and the Children, (Black Heron Press, 235 pp., $22.95), Joanna C. Scott has captured the essence of an enemy a French general referred to with disdain as "these little people." She has also portrayed the physical and mental deterioration of an American captive of the Vietcong. During the 1980's, on the Bataan Peninsula, refugees from Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos were infused with hope as they waited acceptance by the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service for an American visa. It was in these camps that Scott interviewed many refugees and published their stories in Indochina's Refugee: Oral Histories from Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam (McFarland, 1989). Touched by the account of an Amerasian teenager abandoned by his U.S. Navy officer father, Scott conceived the story of Charlie. Drafted soon after he is married, Charlie Lucas arrives in Vietnam and is befriended by a second-tour veteran who teaches him how to survive. One afternoon, as Charlie and his new friend sit drinking at a sidewalk cafe, an enemy grenade explodes. Charlie rescues a young woman named Minh from the rush of the crowd and promptly falls in love with her. Although he continues to write home faithfully to his wife, Charlie marries Minh, and soon a son is born.Torn by love for his wife in the States and for Minh and his son, Charlie begins to feel trapped in a hopeless situation. He channels his emotional distress into merciless assaults against the enemy. While on patrol, his platoon is wiped out, and Charlie is captured by children in black pajamas. His captors march him deep into the jungle and place him in a dark hole inside one of their tunnels. Left alone and fed little, Charlie's body and mind deteriorate. His world becomes a series of hallucinations as he descends into despair and death approaches. The singing lilt of Scott's clear narrative reflects her background as an accomplished poet. She has peppered the story with metaphors and similes that are stunning. A medevac helicopter, carrying one of Charlie's dead platoon-mates, for example, goes ^Qsobbing its way across the treetops.' Her meticulous research is reflected in the conversations of her soldiers. They talk the language of the war. The combat scenes, too, ring true. Unlike other authors with no military background who attempt to write about war, Scott is believable. She doesn't stumble. She has crafted an unusually graceful war story that depicts the experiences of young soldiers in Vietnam. It is a prodigious feat for a writer who is not a Vietnam War veteran, and it is a reflection of her enormous talent.

Joanna C. Scott was born in London during an air raid, was raised in Australia, is a widely published poet and author of a book about refugees in Indochina, and now lives in Hunt Valley, Baltimore County, with six children - all or part (or none) of which may explain her powerful descriptions of pain and injury and suffering in her new (and second) novel, a tale of the Vietnam War, Charlie and the Children. The protagonist is a young Texan, Charlie Lucas, who is drafted into the Army infantry after graduating from law school in D.C. and marrying the sophisticated daughter of a U.S. [sic] diplomat. In Vietnam he kills a lot of "dinks" (or "gooks") and cuts off their ears. He also marries one and has a son by her - without informing either wife of the other. Then, while out on a search-and-destroy mission, every soldier in his squad except Charlie is blown to bits by a booby trap, and he's captured by two Viet Cong "children" - as he perceives them - and imprisoned alone in a narrow tunnel. He also thinks of his captors as VCs or "Victor Charlie," which is sort of hideously ironic (since his own first name, remember, is Charlie).
In the tunnel, apparently for a long time, Charlie is tormented by fear of torture, chiggers, an injured toe, rotten food, primitive hygienic facilities, flashbacks of a dead buddy's recitation of distractingly pornographic letters from home, thoughts of his American wife, hallucinations about his Vietnamese wife and son and - almost as nauseating to the reader as to the prisoner - a constant stink of blood, guts, sweat, tears, human waste, cordite, wet fungi, etc. Scott is especially good at describing odors.
Charlie and the Children is a strong novel, very strong, probably too strong for the squeamish.THE STAR Democrat
by John Goodspeed
Friday, August 1997

Joanna C. Scott was born in London during an air raid, was raised in Australia, is a widely published poet and author of a book about refugees in Indochina, and now lives in Hunt Valley, Baltimore County, with six children - all or part (or none) of which may explain her powerful descriptions of pain and injury and suffering in her new (and second) novel, a tale of the Vietnam War, Charlie and the Children.
The protagonist is a young Texan, Charlie Lucas, who is drafted into the Army infantry after graduating from law school in D.C. and marrying the sophisticated daughter of a U.S. [sic] diplomat. In Vietnam he kills a lot of "dinks" (or "gooks") and cuts off their ears. He also marries one and has a son by her - without informing either wife of the other.
Then, while out on a search-and-destroy mission, every soldier in his squad except Charlie is blown to bits by a booby trap, and he's captured by two Viet Cong "children" - as he perceives them - and imprisoned alone in a narrow tunnel. He also thinks of his captors as VCs or "Victor Charlie," which is sort of hideously ironic (since his own first name, remember, is Charlie). In the tunnel, apparently for a long time, Charlie is tormented by fear of torture, chiggers, an injured toe, rotten food, primitive hygienic facilities, flashbacks of a dead buddy's recitation of distractingly pornographic letters from home, thoughts of his American wife, hallucinations about his Vietnamese wife and son and - almost as nauseating to the reader as to the prisoner - a constant stink of blood, guts, sweat, tears, human waste, cordite, wet fungi, etc. Scott is especially good at describing odors. Charlie and the Children is a strong novel, very strong, probably too strong for the squeamish.

Riveting . . . a heartstopper . . . yet more than just another story about war. In taking on the issue of the children soldiers leave behind, `Charlie and the Children' transforms itself into a fable for our time. I was astonished to find myself in tears

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