Moveable Forts and Magazines: A Novel of Vietnam

Moveable Forts and Magazines explores the sibling themes of conscience and responsibility. The thoughts and feelings of two men -- one young, innocent and practical; the other, older, experienced, and idealistic -- are examined.

In the frame of the present, the main story deals with Senior Chief Journalist Dan Levin, his relationship with the Navy, his doubts about his leadership abilities, and the handling of a public relations crisis over the apparent desertion of the admiral’s son. Dan is an idealistic and conscientious career Navyman trying to adjust to an environment that is frequently hostile and always alien to him. He is concerned about his obligations to the Navy, to his family, to his friend (the admiral’s son), and to his conscience.

Interwoven with Dan’s scenes are those showing Lieutenant (junior grade) Fred Hetherington, Annapolis graduate, attack helicopter pilot, and product of generations of in-breeding within the Navy’s aristocracy. He, too, is attempting to reconcile his conscience with his duty. He has refused to return to his unit in Vietnam and has taken sanctuary with a peace activist group. There, he begins to question the correctness of his action, while he seeks someone who will understand him and his action.

Connecting the two men are past conversations and letters, alluded to and shown in flashback, in which they have discussed the meaning of obligation and the apparent irrationality and lack of purpose of the American involvement in Vietnam.

Death is present as the reader meets, in flashback, Lieutenant Pete Rogers, who, the reader knows from present action, will be killed in combat. Facing death daily, Pete is unaware of its certainty for him in the immediate future. Both Pete’s life and his death influence the actions of Fred Hetherington.

The two parallel lines develop as Fred matures and makes certain basic discoveries about himself, his sense of obligation and duty, and his need for understanding. Fred’s increasing awareness has its counterpoint in Dan Levin’s dilemma as he ponders his responsibility for Fred’s actions, while attempting to avoid making any decision.

Natalie Levin’s timely intervention brings all of the points together, focusing the problems and forcing the decisions.

At the novel’s end, the two men have switched positions, and each has reacted in his own personal way -- Fred Hetherington gains awareness, Dan Levin suppressing reality.

The story purposely has no moral, although the reader is indirectly invited to extract his own theme as he chooses the character -- Dan Levin, Natalie Levin, Fred Hetherington, the Admiral, Pete Rogers, or one of the observer participants -- with whom he wishes to identify.

Dick Rose was born in Chicago, IL. August 16, 1931. He attended school in Chicago through the tenth grade before moving to Los Angeles, Cal., in 1947. He finished high school in 1949 and graduated from Los Angeles City College June 14, 1951, one day before entering the Navy.

Though he had tried to enlist in the Army in August 1950, at the outbreak of the Korean War, he was classified as 4-F. By June 1951, as the Korean War entered its sixth month of stalemate, he was re-classified 1-A. His patriotic ardor somewhat dimmed, he opted for Naval Service.

He entered naval service as a radioman and was assigned to the USS Pollux, a supply ship homeported in Yokosuka, Japan in March 1952. A year later, he found out about the recently formed Journalist rating. He applied for the Class A Journalism school and was selected to attend. Following graduation in September 1953, he found himself back in Yokosuka, on the staff of Commander Naval Forces, Far East in the History & Awards section, preparing a month-to-month history of the Navy’s participation in Korea.

He left the Navy in May 1955, attended UCLA, and married Barbara Feder. Bored with the study of 17^th century English writers, he re-entered the Navy in February, 1956. He was assigned to the News Department of Armed Forces Radio, Taiwan, in Taipei. He was the news director, newscaster three times a day, and hosted a couple of musical shows.

In November 1956, his daughter, Debbi, was born in Taipei.

Successive tours of duty from 1959-1965 found him advancing in rate, serving in Seattle, Washington; Hollywood, California; and Pt Mugu, California.

In 1965, he returned to Japan and Armed Forces Radio to head the news bureau at Far East Network, Tokyo. A promotion to Senior Chief Petty Officer brought a sooner-than expected transfer to Saigon, Vietnam, on the staff of Commander US Naval Forces, Vietnam.

In Vietnam, he was the senior enlisted man and officer supervisor for a 12-man contingent of navy journalists and photographers. He supervised their assignments to Navy detachments throughout the country, primarily in the Mekong Delta, south of Saigon. During his one-year tour, he participated in fourteen combat missions on attack helicopters, river patrol boats, and with the U.S. Marine Corps-trained Vietnamese commandos, service which earned him the Navy Commendation Medal with combat V.

It was during this service, as he personally observed the progress of the war, attended press briefings for news medial correspondents, read situation and action reports, read the English language version of Saigon newspapers, and listened to his fellow servicemen of all four services, that his disillusion began.

He finished his Navy career in Coronado, California, on the staff of Commander Amphibious Force, US Pacific Fleet. Further contact with returning servicemen as well as conscientious objectors who were assigned to the commander’s staff while awaiting their processing out, sharpened his concern over the war. His return to the United States in October, 1968, after a 3-1/2 year absence had introduced him to the increasing opposition to war.

Following his retirement as a Master Chief Journalist in 1971, he entered San Diego State University, earning a BA with honors in English in 1972, and an MA in 1975. While in school, he realized that he had to tell his story, his view as a participant, as a disillusioned career navyman.

The story became his Masters Thesis, Moveable Forts and Magazines, a novel about the Vietnam experience. In it, he was able to dramatize the contradictions and doubts faced by a dedicated and loyal Navyman. It also allowed him to explore an alienation, the outsider status he had always felt as a Jewish second generation American in a WASP-oriented society.

In 1997, he and Barbara retired from the IRS. They moved to Las Vegas, Nevada in January, 2000, where he continues to write, tend his rose bushes and new koi pond waterfall, and prepare occasional tax returns.

Though he had many news stories and feature articles published in military and civilian newspapers and magazines, and wrote an award-winning radio drama in 1966 saluting the Hungarian Freedom Fighter, he remains focused on Vietnam. He was active in Vietnam Veterans of America, where he served in various chapter offices, and edited a newsletter, Frontlines. He was also a contributing editor to the VVA California State newspaper, The California Zephyr.

Throughout his post-Navy career, he wrote humorous newspaper columns for various VA and community newspapers, under the title Through Rose-colored Glasses.

He has compiled a collection of articles, stories and poems about Vietnam, written while there, and afterward, entitled "Vietnam: Through Rose-colored Glasses." He hopes to have it published, soon.

The room was plain and exotic, drab and colorful, at the same time. The only piece of furniture -- real furniture In Fred Hetherington’s opinion -- was the card table across the room, near the corner. There were no chairs. Even the bed on which he had spent the previous night was only a gaudily covered foam rubber mat; though, he had to admit, it had been comfortable. That he hadn’t slept well the previous night was due to other factors.

He looked around. Faces stared down at him from the four-walled posters -- Che, someone named Chavez, Steinem, Laurel and Hardy, the President with a Hitlerian mustache, Fidel, someone else with a beard, and Alfred E. Neuman. The door, itself, was covered with leaflets announcing various OPEN meetings.

For probably the dozenth time that morning -- and it was still early -- he wondered what he was doing there. He looked at his watch, 0945. His plane had left almost two hours earlier. He wasn’t on it. He wasn’t on his way back to Long Duc, wasn’t on his way back to those "defensive" routine patrols over the Mekong Delta, wasn’t on his way back to playing God twice a day -- and three times when someone got sick -- wasn’t on his way to anywhere.

Or was he? He was on his way to a meeting with his own conscience. Hetherington cringed inwardly at the cliché. Also at the timing. He probably should have met his conscience before making his decision not to return. But he hadn’t had time. So now the decision had to be right because he’d already taken the action. Just as the people he killed had to be VC because he’d killed them.

He raised his six-foot frame from the foam mattress, stretched his arms, stood up and walked around. Instead of being cramped into a crowded chartered 707, winging his way across the blue Pacific, he was cramped in a small, windowless room, his wings temporarily clipped.

Fred didn’t know how long he could stay there in the workroom of the Organization for Peace Efforts Now. OPEN? Right now he felt closed in. But he couldn’t stay there for long. Mac had told him as much last night.

"Alfie, old buddy," the former fighter pilot had said, "we’ll be glad to help you out. In fact, this is the best thing you could do. Show them all where your head is. Make your stand. Tell them to shove their war. We’ll work out a statement for the press, later."

Fred had interrupted, "Press? Look, this is a personal decision. I think. I’m still not sure. I need more time to think. Before I go back. But why the press?"

"I repeat. You’ve got to show them, let them know where you stand. Broadcast your feelings to the world. Let the establishment know that you won’t slaughter the peasants any longer because they stand in the way of dollar imperialism. The Movement is behind you. We’ll help you."

Fred felt a twinge of doubt, again. The way Mac had said movement. "You don’t understand, Mac," he had tried to explain. "This isn’t a political decision. I don’t really know about ‘dollar imperialism’ or your Movement. It’s a very personal decision. A moral decision. But I don’t know about the press. I don’t want to embarrass my father."

"Aw, come on, pal." the ex-pilot had laughed, "It’s a bit late for that now. You came to us for advice and for help. We’ve given you the advice and we’ve even offered you a place to stay. Here. The only thing is, you can’t stay very long. Today is Sunday, and no one’s here. Tomorrow, though, we’ll have a lot of workers -- students, ex-GI’s, Farm Labor organizers -- all over the place. Undoubtedly, at least one of them is Fuzz, either local, FBI or Navy Intelligence. We shouldn’t have any problem with your presence for a few days. Only Mickey and I know your real identity. To everyone else, you’ll be just plain Fred.

"Once the word gets out, though, that you’re missing, someone will get suspicious. Your haircut will set you apart from the rest of us. Anyway, welcome to ‘The OPEN House.’ And Peace. Brother, Peace."

That was last night. This morning, someone -- Mickey, he guessed -- had brought him some tacos and coffee for breakfast. It was a new experience. So was Mickey, She was short, demure, her red hair closely cropped; she had worn a tropical green combat jacket with the sleeves chopped off. She had a cute little smile and the foulest mouth he’d ever come across in a female. It was disconcerting. He couldn’t quite picture her as being of the same sex as Gloria. But he didn’t want to think of Gloria now. Or of his father. Or of his fellow Navymen.

He walked over to the table and picked up a copy of Peace Pipeline. The front page had a picture story of some police clubbing a group of protesters. He leafed through it. There were stories about the Farmworkers, about some political prisoners known as "The Sing Sing Six," and about the Palestinian guerrillas. He read the last story with interest and surprise. It was blatantly anti-Israel, with a picture of the swastika superimposed over the Star of David. He wondered if Dan Levin knew about this. Dan, he recalled, had spoken of the growing Peace movement with interest, although he didn’t think Dan had much to do with it. Dan didn’t even know where the OPEN house was when they had discussed it last week.

Dan, he thought, had a lot of theories about Peace, and conscience and justice, but not much experience with the people who claimed it as their sole activity. Although neither did he, until yesterday afternoon when he had wandered into the-nearly deserted two-story converted residence.

The morning had begun with bacon, eggs and a story in the paper reporting Pete Rogers’ death. He had spent the rest of the morning walking around town.

His father, still immersed in grief over the death of his wife, had already left the house. Fred didn’t even know why he had flown home. It had been for his mother’s funeral, of course; but he had also thought he could comfort his father; that hadn’t happened. It wasn’t that his father was inconsolable; he was just unapproachable. He had thought of calling Gloria yesterday, but she was just as uncommunicative. In the two weeks held been back, she’d been sympathetic, talkative, concerned and distant. She’d suggested they postpone their marriage for six months, allowing a one-year mourning period. It was the only proper thing to do, she had said.

When he tried to discuss his experiences, she wouldn’t listen. "Oh, Alfred," she kept saying, "I know you’re doing the right thing. Besides, Daddy writes me so much of what his task force is doing off the coast, that I’m really tired of hearing about Vietnam. It’s such a tiresome little war. The social life is really quite dull at the club, with everyone really interesting deployed overseas."

He was in love with Gloria, and she loved him, but she wasn’t much help to him in solving his problem.