Reviews:
"For those who didn't live it, it's a window into what was our Vietnam. For those who did, it's a ticket back." --Dennis Foley, author of three Vietnam War novels.
"There is much emotion within the pages of this novel. I admit, in the end I was almost in tears. I actually reread the entire manuscript and have to admit, Murphy definitely has one of the better books I have read in a long time. I give cudos to the author and look forward to reading more of his work. Class of 68 is one of those must reads." Booksville Literary Reviews.
This book is about a difficult period in our history. Many of our young men and women were overseas, fighting an unwinable war in a place that some of them had never heard of before. It was difficult enough for the soldiers. They faced an enemy that, at most times was indistinguishable from the common population, and therefore was able to strike at our troops at times when they were least likely to expect an attack. Times were difficult enough for the troops, it was also difficult for their families and loved ones. Those on the home front could only wait, not knowing if their husbands, sons, and boyfriends would come home in one piece, with pieces missing, or in body bags. Most Americans did not protest the war, but kept an uneasy silence, afraid to seem unpatriotic or to anger a resolute President, intent on foreign adventures. A few mounted an organized protest, but their activities were discredited by their government, and so were largely ineffectual, Sound familiar? No, it isn’t he war in Iraq that we are talking about here, although the two conflicts have much in common. It is the war in Vietnam, that earlier quagmire of failed American foreign policy.
SYNOPSIS:
Summary of Class of '68:
Kevin Cooper’s high school senior year plans of sex, drugs and rock and roll are shattered by the arrival of his brother Tim’s first letter from Vietnam. In Vietnam, Tim struggles to survive and to forget his love for anti-war activist Sarah Johnson. The three people’s lives, and the lives of their families are forever changed by war, student unrest and political assassination.
READ AN EXCERPT:
Ten
The air cooled while the stars blinked away the gray evening sky. Tim adjusted his helmet as a trickle of sweat dripped from his temple and circled behind one ear. He’d crammed his body between two boulders, and every muscle ached in protest.
Ten yards to the left, Lieutenant Crandall licked his lips then took a swig of water from a canteen. The lieutenant had devised the operation, but at least he’d allowed Sergeant Harris to position the men.
The sergeant had positioned the platoon in a horseshoe pattern at the mouth of a narrow canyon to spring a trap on a suspected North Vietnamese patrol that had infiltrated from Laos. Tim wondered whether the lieutenant had secured enough intelligence about the North Vietnamese to pull off the surprise. How large was the enemy patrol? Still, he’d agreed to play ball. While others grumbled, Tim kept his questions to himself.
Tim gulped water from his canteen and rotated his neck to loosen cramped neck muscles. He strained to make out the rest of the camouflaged platoon across the clearing.
Tim clutched his M-16 when a shrub moved. It must be Sergeant Harris. The sergeant moved from man to man, probably checking equipment and offering final encouragements. When he reached Tim, he checked his equipment and Tim checked the sergeant’s.
Sergeant Harris gestured toward Lieutenant Crandall. Tim nodded his understanding. His main responsibility was to keep himself alive, but Tim also owed a responsibility to those in the platoon, even the lieutenant. The man might be an arrogant self-promoter, but he didn’t deserve to die.
When the sergeant circled back toward his position, Tim watched the clean-shaven lieutenant with the starched uniform. Don’t get us killed so you can earn a medal you bastard.
Tim wished he had Jesse at his flank instead of the lieutenant. With the sky darkening, he could no longer see his friend who no doubt was double checking his gear and worrying about his dog, Crocket.
Tim checked his weapon at least a dozen times in the next few hours. He surveyed the probable field of fire where the North Vietnamese would enter the horseshoe.
Looking up, Tim saw a thousand stars so bright they reminded him of the camping trip he’d taken with his family to Lake Shasta. He and Kevin had laid awake and tried to remember the constellations. Tim swallowed hard. This was no campout.
Tim wanted a cigarette but the glow from the butt would be a target in the middle of his face. The smoke would flow across the night air like a stream of water, alerting a cautious enemy.
The night grew colder, but sweat soaked Tim’s fatigues. He feared the battle that surely awaited. Minutes and hours dragged. He checked his watch then noticed that lavender hinted of dawn in the eastern sky. Maybe the North Vietnamese wouldn’t cooperate.
Tim sensed movement at the entrance to the canyon. Holding his breath, he followed a line of shadows that moved toward the platoon’s hidden positions. Tim’s eyes centered on a figure, his finger caressed the M-16’s trigger. He licked dry lips and waited.
With his heart hammering, a starburst lit up the night sky. Tim pulled the trigger and the figure in his sights fell backward. He found another. A second figure fell before Tim’s sights. The North Vietnamese hit the ground, trapped in the open.
The blast from dozens of automatic weapons ripped the night.
The North Vietnamese fired in all directions with automatic fire and grenades. Even through the roar of the exchange, he could hear screams. The smell of smoke and sulfur rose above the canyon floor.
An explosion struck to the left. Tim flattened himself against the boulder. Debris and metal shot overhead. Spitting dirt from his mouth, he brushed off his uniform, surprised to find he hadn’t been injured.
Through the dust and smoke, Tim couldn’t see any moving targets. The deafening noise subsided to sporadic bursts. He heard a groan on his left, the lieutenant.
Tim burrowed down in the grass and crawled. When he reached the lieutenant, he heard a wet sucking sound coming from the man’s chest. Blood flowed from a dark shredded hole in the front of the lieutenant’s uniform. The sonofabitch had taken the brunt of the grenade.
When Tim shouted for the medic, Lieutenant Crandall’s eyes fluttered open revealing the pain and the man’s fear. Gone was the arrogance.
Tim feared the lieutenant would die before he could comfort him. “Help is on the way.” Tim lied. He told the lieutenant he could hear choppers. “You’re going home, Lieutenant.” This time Tim spoke the truth.
The lieutenant’s eyes struggled open and blood bubbled from his mouth. His head trembled and sweat poured down his face. He squeezed Tim’s arm with a bloody hand. “It burns,” he hissed. The sound from his chest grew louder then stopped. The hand relaxed its grip and slipped away.
“Hold on.” Tim squeezed the lieutenant’s lifeless hand and said a quick prayer.
Sergeant Harris ran up and knelt. “Oh shit.” He pressed against the lieutenant’s neck and shook his head. “You okay, Coop?”
Tim felt numb as he stared at the lieutenant’s lifeless body. “I’m fine, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Harris clapped Tim on the shoulder. He slunk away in a crouch.
Within minutes, the fighting ended. Tim stayed by the lieutenant until a helicopter airlifted the body away. Then he watched Sergeant Harris, Jesse and Taylor conduct the body count and search North Vietnamese bodies. The ambush was a success, the enemy patrol wiped out, just one American casualty.
The platoon returned to camp and Tim slumped down on his bunk. He spent the day drifting through bouts of interrupted sleep. When night fell, he sat alone in the mess tent and picked at a meal then wandered around the camp trying to sort out his feelings.
His mind flashed back to the lieutenant’s confrontation in the village with Van and her grandfather. He recalled his argument over Jesse’s dog. He had despised the man, but hadn’t hated him.
In the middle of the night, Tim returned to the mess tent and sat by himself, sipping burnt coffee. In four months, he’d seen a half dozen Americans die, those he liked and those he’d barely known. He’d accepted their deaths as part of war.
Tim had despised Lieutenant Crandall for the uncaring way he treated the platoon and the brutality he’d shown the Vietnamese. Why did this death bother him so?
Tim swirled the coffee around the cup. Did the loss of Lieutenant Crandall remind him that death discriminated against no one? Good and bad died in combat. That was the truth and there was nothing he could do about it.
Since he had arrived in Phu Bai, he’d clung to his values rationalizing that, by doing the right thing, he’d somehow earn the right to live. Now, alone in the mess tent, he realized how crazy that notion had been.
Tim couldn’t do anything about himself, but he could stop others from making a deadly mistake. He pulled out a paper and pen from his uniform pocket. He waited until the trembling in his hand stopped then wrote his brother.
~ * ~
Perched on the chair outside the principal’s office, Kevin reread his brother’s letter describing the death of Lieutenant Crandall and Tim’s anguish about his own mortality. He scanned the office and wondered how any of this mattered.
Kevin stuffed the letter in his pocket and glanced at Principal Skinnard’s secretary, who watched him from her desk with a disapproving scowl.
Mr. Payton took a chair next to him. “Called into the principal’s office again?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Don’t really know. I just got a note to meet with you and the principal at two-thirty, so here I am.”
The secretary informed them Principal Skinnard would see them. Kevin followed his teacher inside the office and sat beside him in front of the principal’s desk.
Mr. Skinnard ignored them and wrote on a note pad. No one spoke. The incessant tick of the clock was the only sound.
Heat rose up Kevin’s neck as he watched the principal’s calculated performance.
Principal Skinnard finally stopped writing and tapped the notepad with a pencil.
“Good afternoon, Kevin, Mr. Payton.”
“Good afternoon,” Mr. Payton answered.
When the principal thrust his jaw out, Kevin remembered a similar pose from a film about Mussolini. “I have never interfered in the content of the school newspaper,” the principal said. “Both faculty and parents have criticized me for this hands-off policy. I’m sure you recall last year, the heat I took about the substandard health rating of the cafeteria.”
Kevin glanced down at his brother’s letter in his shirt pocket then rubbed his temple. Did this conversation really matter?
“Did you want to say something about that, Kevin?” The principal’s eyes narrowed.
Kevin checked the clock. Twenty minutes until the end of the school day. He knew he should keep quiet, let the principal speak his mind. That would be the smart thing to do.
“Well?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Skinnard, I think any embarrassment on your part wasn’t because the school newspaper wrote about the health rating, but the rating itself.”
A vein on the side of the principal’s neck throbbed and his face blanched. “I didn’t call you in to discuss last year’s newspaper. Earlier this year, I found your column to be witty and entertaining.” He picked up the newspaper and thumped Kevin’s column with one finger. “This anti-war piece is inappropriate, disrespectful, and, frankly repulsive.” He slammed the paper onto the desk and smoothed both hands over his bald head.
Kevin’s heart pounded as he fought to control his temper. His mind shouted to let this go and not respond at all.
Mr. Payton leaned forward in the chair. “I take responsibility for the column, Mr. Skinnard. I discussed this with Kevin before it went to press. The student editors reviewed and approved it. Kevin has a brother in Vietnam, and has the ability to use that perspective in a satirical manner. Satire is a talent that should be encouraged and developed. I may not agree with what Kevin said, but I respect his right to express his opinion.”
“He can express it, just not in my paper.” The principal picked up the pencil and resumed tapping, his glare shifting to the teacher. “Your decision-making will be discussed in private with me later. I wanted you here, so there would be no misunderstanding about what this school requires from students who are granted the privilege of writing in our school newspaper.”
His eyes narrowed and returned to Kevin. “Your column was disrespectful for what I represent, young man, this school, our country and its leaders. This trash has no place in a newspaper for high school students.”
Appearing to recapture his composure, the principal even forced a smile. “I don’t wish to censor your creativity in any way, Kevin, just to counsel you on the wisdom of decisions you make.”
As the principal appeared ready to dismiss them both, Kevin glanced at the airman on the credenza. He bit his lip, but the words tumbled out. “It’s important for seventeen and eighteen-year-olds today, who may be fighting in Vietnam next year and--”
“If you write about controversial topics again, you will be suspended from the newspaper.” The principal slammed his palm on the glass desktop.
Kevin squeezed the arms of the chair.
“Do I make myself clear?” It looked as if the principal’s gleaming head might explode.
Kevin longed to leave but wanted the principal to listen. “This is not just about what should be in a high school newspaper. It’s about journalism itself. Mr. Payton taught us about journalistic integrity. That’s not just a theory, it should be a principle.”
Mr. Skinnard pointed a finger but Kevin wouldn’t let him interrupt. “Young people are fighting and dying in the war, not you, or the leaders of the institutions you want to protect. Our school newspaper should be about more than the football team and the chess club’s car wash fund raiser.”
Kevin had had enough. He walked to the door. “Suspend me. Do what you have to do.”
“Just a minute... young man,” Principal Skinnard waved his hand, clearly flustered by Kevin’s action. “You can’t talk to me that way.”
Kevin swallowed hard, looked at Mr. Payton, and then left the office.
~ * ~
“Then you said what?” Byron polished a red apple on the front of his shirt while he and Kevin stood at the edge of the teachers’ parking lot waiting for Mr. Payton.
“I didn’t say anything, just walked out.”
Byron’s eyes widened as he bit into the apple then tossed it back and forth. “Far out! Hey, my man, give me five!”
Kevin slapped Byron’s wet palm, then wiped sticky apple juice on Byron’s shoulder.
Sarah would have been proud, Kevin thought, but what had he accomplished, besides getting the principal to threaten to take away his writing privileges? Whatever happened to the plan to coast during his senior year?
“So, now you’re going to write a column calling for the violent overthrow of the federal government or something?” Byron sat in the shade of a tree at the edge of the lot.
“I already wrote my next column. It’s about Christmas, a satire about Christmas carols and Vietnam, but Skinnard’s so thick-skulled, he won’t get it.”
“Skinnard’s an idiot because he’s bald, like the sun bakes his scalp or something. Are you going to have your parents call him?”
Kevin’s parents had enough to worry about with Tim in Vietnam. They didn’t need him to complicate their lives.
“Man, my dad would be up at school in a heartbeat.” Byron took another bite of apple.
“Yes, and spanking your little butt.” Billie approached, threw her arms around Kevin’s neck and kissed him.
“Hey, gross!” Byron yelled. “We were talking here. How can Kevin talk with your tongue in his mouth?”
“I’m proud of you, you big stud.” Billie gazed into Kevin’s eyes. “Your fame has spread all over school.”
“Hey, Mr. P!” Byron jumped to his feet and nodded a greeting as the journalism teacher approached. “Kevin was just telling us how he slapped the snot out of the principal.”
Mr. Payton ignored Byron and pulled his keys from his pocket. He stopped beside a green Volkswagen Beetle with a folded stroller in the backseat.
Kevin looked at the car and for the first time, his teacher seemed like a real person, a person who needed his job. “So what did he say after I left, Mr. Payton?”
The teacher unlocked the door to the car. “A lot of fatherly advice.”
“Skinnard’s more of a ‘mother’ than a father.” Byron gobbled two more bites of the apple.
Mr. Payton wrinkled his forehead and gazed at Byron. “Who are you?”
“What about my column?” Kevin asked.
“The Christmas one is fine as far as I’m concerned. It’s the best you’ve written. I told Mr. Skinnard you had written about Christmas carols and that calmed him down a little. I left the satirical part out, but by the time he reads the paper, it will be Christmas break. I heard his son is due back from Vietnam any day now. But he can stop you from writing the column if he wants to.”
“A son in Vietnam?” Kevin recalled the airman’s picture on the credenza.
Mr. Payton nodded.
“Stop you from writing? That’s not fair,” Billie said.
“That’s not fair!” Byron mimicked. “This is serious shit, Billie.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble.” Kevin noticed the stroller in the backseat of the teacher’s car.
“I’ll support you if I can, but you have some difficult decisions coming up.” Mr. Payton smiled. “By the way, that was quite a speech about journalistic integrity. I guess you have paid attention in class.” Mr. Payton took a final quizzical look at Byron then climbed into the Volkswagen.
Kevin watched him drive away hoping he hadn’t complicated his teacher’s life. He slipped an arm around Billie’s shoulder and walked her and Byron to the student parking lot.
“So what are you going to do, Kev?’ Byron reached through the open window of someone’s Chevy, laid the apple core on the dash then hurried after Billie and Kevin.
“I won’t make decisions about anything right now,” Kevin said. “We have three days until Christmas break. The only plans I have is to take your sister to a drive-in movie tonight, make out and fog up the windows a little.”
Billie flashed a smile and grabbed Kevin’s hand, holding it tight.
Byron groaned. “You two make me want to puke.”
~ * ~
Seated beside Ray on the top step of the Administration Building, Sarah clutched her three by five card. She watched Father John rally the crowd as a cold wind whipped the two flags at the podium, the American and the blue and red flag of North Vietnam. The two flags snapped against each other in the stiff wind.
“...rallies such as this. Four years ago, less than twenty-three thousand American soldiers were in Vietnam. Now there are more than half a million. In 1964, one hundred twelve Americans were killed in action. So far this year... more than seven thousand.”
Although many students had left for the Christmas break, more than a thousand stood before the steps of the polished steel and glass building.
Sarah peered over her shoulder at the twenty uniformed university patrolmen who stood defiantly, blocking any attempt at entry to the building. A dozen Costa Leandro police cars had parked a block away waiting with reinforcements Sarah hoped wouldn’t be necessary.
Father John shook his head. “We were called fanatics and extremists for our views. The Democratic Party in 1964 nominated someone named Lyndon Johnson as President,” at the mention of the president’s name the crowd jeered, “and adopted a platform for committing America to no expansion of the war.”
Father John clenched his fist. “Today we’re still called fanatics and extremists by people who want to give our government the authority to further expand this war, this abomination against humanity. We are fanatical about our opposition to this war, and we will go to extremes to stop it!”
The crowd cheered Father John’s last remarks and they took up the chant
“Peace now.” He joined the chant then held up one hand. “For the past two years, Cal State has been fortunate to have Sarah Johnson help limit the government’s ability to wage this war through the draft.”
After the introduction, Sarah strode confidently to the podium. This was her time to seize a leadership role in the anti-war movement and reestablish her reputation for championing non-violence.
Looking over a sea of long hair and enthusiastic faces, Sarah spoke in a strong voice. “During the past two years, the Cal State Draft Counseling Service has--”
“Sit the bitch down.” A tall man with red hair and a goatee shouted from the front row of students.
Sarah felt her cheeks redden and hated that reaction. She clutched the edge of the lectern and tried to ignore the taunt. “Draft Counseling Service has helped dozens of students at Cal State and the surrounding community--”
“No one’s going to draft a chick.” A man in a leather vest at the edge of the crowd laughed at Sarah.
For a moment, Sarah glared at the two men then took a deep breath. “Dozens of young men would have gone to Vietnam and perhaps never returned.”
“Let’s hear from guys who might have to fight this war,” the red-headed man called.
A thin student with wire-rimmed glasses approached the heckler with the red hair. “Let her talk.” The two men began to push and shove.
“Don’t talk, honey, just stand there lookin’ pretty.” The man in the leather vest blew her a kiss.
Sarah paused, stunned at the taunts in the crowd and the potential violence. What was happening? Why? She glanced over her shoulder at the university police who stood by with expressions of amusement or disinterest.
Grabbing the microphone, Sarah walked to the edge of the steps and glared at the man with red hair. “This war destroys men and so much more. Families are ripped apart, wives and lovers.” She pointed her finger at the man in the vest. “Don’t tell me I don’t have a right to speak against the war. Every one of us does and should.”
The crowd cheered and the two men turned and left. Sarah returned to the podium and replaced the microphone. “In the past few weeks, we’ve seen a growth of violence on the streets of America. Violence won’t end a violent war.” She pointed to the two hecklers walking away. “Neither will intolerance.”
Sarah talked about draft avoidance and the services offered draft-eligible men at the Shack. When she finished, she left the podium to thunderous cheers. She glanced at Ray who winked and approached the podium. Sarah descended the stairs, and made her way through the crowd while Ray began his speech.
After searching for Brad, Sarah headed across campus. She reached the Shack, slammed the door and dropped into the chair at her desk. She felt good about standing up to the two men who’d shouted taunts, but what had prompted their actions? Where was Brad?
An hour later, Brad walked in and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I heard what happened.”
“Where the hell were you?”
Brad crouched beside her at the desk. “I’m sorry. Ray asked me to monitor the police. Just as Father John finished, someone came up and said the police were getting out of their cars. It turned out to be a false alarm. I didn’t want to miss your speech for the world. I heard some creeps gave you a hard time.”
“I’m a big girl.”
“Who were they?”
“I’d never seen them around campus before.”
Brad rubbed his forehead. “Sorry I couldn’t be there for you. Let’s--”
“I need to be by myself tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
Sarah nodded.
Brad touched her arm. “You’re not like Ray and the extremists in the anti-war movement. I don’t know why someone wouldn’t want to hear you speak. I really don’t.”
“Thanks for caring, Brad.” Sarah walked to the door. Before leaving, she stopped and smiled at him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.
