UK Edition
The Vietnam War polarised people in America – so why are they so apathetic about the Middle East?
America has been at war now, one way or another, for 18 of the 19 years of the current century. The battlefields stretch from the Mediterranean to the Hindu Kush – and, with the stand-off between the Trump White House and Tehran, US military involvement in the region feels open-ended. American troops have been engaged in the Middle East for twice as long as they were in Indo-China.
But whereas Vietnam riveted and fractured the nation, public interest in the wars waged since 9/11 has been intermittent and limited. No one seems to care too much about what the men and women in uniform get up to. After a brief spurt of curiosity as to what might motivate America’s enemies, the insurgents and jihadists have been categorised as a motley collection of nut jobs, beyond comprehension. As for the civilian populations who are overwhelmingly the victims of the violence, they are invisible.
Elliot Ackerman describes one of these conflicts, Afghanistan, as “a war… largely deserted by the American people”. The same could be said of Iraq, and of the semi-detached participation in Syria. One purpose of Places and Names, Ackerman’s collection of jumbled reminiscences, anecdotes and analyses, is to try to generate some interest in these faraway conflicts, of which most Americans are content to know little.
Ackerman knows parts of the story well, having served for eight years as an officer in the US Marine Corps in Iraq and Afghanistan and worked as a journalist in Turkey, Syria and Iraq. He is also a novelist, and brings a fiction writer’s touch to his reportage.
The soldier-scribe is a familiar figure in British narratives of the region, from TE Lawrence to Rory Stewart. Ackerman fits easily into this tradition. His American identity is less important to his outlook than his status as a former Marine (not that they are ever really “former”: once a jarhead, always a jarhead). The Marines I have encountered have often come across as rather cerebral and serene – the opposite of the blowhard Yank.
Ackerman’s approach is discursive and elliptical, sometimes so much so that you wonder what point he is trying to make. The format is episodic and the action jumps all over the place, from Turkey in 2013 to Iraq in 2004. Sometimes the prose gets self-consciously writerly, straining for effect, such as when Ackerman describes a row of buildings as “motionless” (it would be surprising if they weren't).
Overall, however, his approach works. Some soldiers (and war reporters), when describing their experiences, employ a specious modesty that is really designed to let you know how brave they are. While Ackerman is not shy about telling his stories – one of the best bits of the book comes at the end, when he reproduces an official report on his leadership during a hellish action in Fallujah for which he won a medal, interspersed with his reflections – there is an underlying modesty. His descriptions of battle itself are all the more effective for their matter-of-factness. Nor does he claim to have been overly affected psychologically by his experiences. The stiff upper lip makes a refreshing change from current literary fashion.
Out of these shifting scenes a picture emerges. Ackerman is not offering strategic, political or social insights into the bloody mess that outsiders and occupants have made of the Middle East. There are no apologies for America’s actions, but nor are there any justifications. Rather, the book shows what it is like to be in the middle of it all – particularly for a young, open-minded and quietly idealistic American.
For many a fighter, and indeed for some reporters, war was the happy time. According to Ackerman, purpose is the prerequisite of happiness. A soldier fights for a specific military objective as well as to protect the comrades next to him and to win their respect. “That is a very potent type of purpose,” he says. “If purpose is the drug that induces happiness, there are few stronger doses than the wartime experience.” The downside is that possibly nothing afterwards will match it in intensity, and there is a strong risk that the rest of life will simply be a search for a substitute high. For those who wage war, nostalgia for it is a real condition. (It is a different matter, of course, for those who endure it.)
The book makes some attempt to chart the feelings of other players in these multidimensional cataclysms. Ackerman meets an unrepentant on-the-run former jihadist from Syria called Abu Hassar. He is the same age as the author and was active in the same theatres (though at different times). During a long afternoon they discuss their experiences and outlook. Neither speaks the other’s language, and the translator-conducted encounter leaves no one much the wiser.
The interpreter is called Abed. He is also a Syrian, an educated, thoughtful and sophisticated pro-democracy activist who was forced to flee his home and family or face imprisonment, torture or worse. He and Abu Hassar are poles apart in their aspirations and ideals, yet they are attracted to each other and have the mutual understanding that comes from the shared experience of exile.
The problem is that, while Ackerman is a gifted and thoughtful witness, in the end he can only tell one side of the story. Real understanding of what has been going on will only come when the Abeds and the Abu Hassars are able to tell theirs.
As a Telegraph foreign correspondent, Patrick Bishop covered wars in the Middle East from 1988 to 2008. To order Places and Names for £16.99, call 0844 871 1514 or visit the Telegraph Bookshop