In the early 1960s, Jerry Rose, a writer and artist, travels to Vietnam to teach English and gather material for his writing. Almost accidentally, he becomes one of America’s most important war correspondents. He interviews Vietnamese villagers in a countryside riddled by a war of terror and embeds himself with soldiers on the ground—the start of a dramatic and dangerous career. Through his stories and photographs, he exposes the secret beginnings of America’s Vietnam War at a time when most Americans have not yet heard of Vietnam. His writing is described as “war reporting that ranks with the best of Ernest Hemingway and Ernie Pyle.”
In spring 1965, Jerry agrees to serve as an advisor to the Vietnamese government at the invitation of his friend and former doctor, who is the new Prime Minister. He hopes to use his deep knowledge of the country to help Vietnam. In September 1965, while on a trip to investigate corruption in the provinces of Vietnam, Jerry dies in a plane crash in Vietnam.
Now, more than half a century later, his sister, Lucy Rose Fischer, has drawn on her late brother’s journals, letters, and other writings to craft his story. She has written this memoir in “collaboration” with her late brother—giving the term “ghostwritten” a whole new meaning
Excerpt
A Sleeping Child
Today is hot with heavy rainstorms in the afternoon and then a deluge of sun, and then another rainstorm. By the time I get home in the evening, I feel begrimed with sweat, and slightly claustrophobic from the low-cloud sky and enclosing heat. I shower immediately and the cold water helps; and the cool tiles on my bare feet helps; and drying myself in the wind of the ceiling fan helps. For a moment, then, naked under the ceiling fan, I feel clean, utterly clean, uncluttered and fresh.
Then I hear the first explosion, like an angry uplifting and falling of a stack of lumber. I begin to dress rapidly. Then comes a second explosion. Exactly one minute later. In another minute I’m dressed and on my way out. My heart is galloping and I’m thinking, Oh no… oh no… another attack in the city…
As I run out into the street, I find people rushing toward the river front. I stop an American, walking in the opposite direction, and ask “What happened?”
“A bomb…two bombs…” He has a look of horror in his eyes.
“Where?”
“It was at the My Canh Floating Restaurant.”
Something inside me gasps. Oh my god, my god, I was there with Kay and Thorina just a few days ago. It was so lovely, so peaceful, that evening, under the night sky, enjoying our meal, moored along the river at the elegant My Canh Floating Restaurant. And now…
I hurry on, wending my way among throngs of people, bicycles and motor bikes. The evening air is hot and heavy. Though I’ve just showered, my shirt is already damp with sweat. Sirens begin to lift their voices like mourners' wails. A hysteria of sirens.
As I come near to the river, I find a tight line of police and soldiers in crisp uniforms encircling the My Canh. They try to keep the crowd back. All around me, people are yelling and shoving. The scent of smoke, blood and sweat shimmers in the hot air. I have a crushing sense of déjà vu—it was just a couple of months ago when I stood outside the American Embassy witnessing another scene of horror.
I’m on the opposite side of the street from the My Canh. Headlights from the ambulances illuminate bodies, heaped like mounds of wet red pulp on the gangplank leading up to the floating restaurant. I can barely breathe, and bile rises in my throat as I recognize a waiter from the restaurant—Phuong is his name. He’s being hefted into an ambulance. His body is raw and red, as if his skin has been ripped off. Just the other day, Phuong had a bright smile as he sauntered over to our table, holding a small glass of ginger ale with a cherry floating inside and handing it to our little Thorina.
Horst Faas, the German photographer, is taking pictures. His strobe light flashes, flashes, adding to the panic of the scene. It’s as if there’s a haze in front of my eyes, blurring my vision—my eyes are welling with tears.
On the side of the street where I’m standing, a tall Caucasian man lies on his back, badly blooded on the left side of his body. One leg is drawn up and he keeps moving it back and forth like a rhythmic groan.
And then there’s the child.
She’s in the shadows, lying on the pavement. She’s about ten years old. She wears black silky pants and a flowered blouse. She lies face down. Her right arm is neatly by her side. Her left arm is extended outward, palm up. She’s a sleeping child. She looks like she’s sleeping. Except for the already-coagulated streak of blood that has trickled out of her mouth, she seems untouched by the ravage of the explosion.
Perhaps she's just unconscious, I think. I squat next to her and lift her left arm. My hand is trembling. My whole body is quivering. She’s not moving. I try her pulse. There is none. I put her arm back into the same position, palm up.
With tears streaming down my face, I stand up. Light, laughter cut short; all the child's glee gone. The girl continues to sleep at my feet. She lies dead in the street.
And the picture continues to burn and hurt. I think she will always remain with me, a sleeping child somewhere within me.
Excerpt from THE JOURNALIST: Life and Loss in America’s Secret War by Jerry A. Rose and Lucy Rose Fischer, Spark Press, 2020
About the Authors
