Once There Was a War
By: John Steinbeck / Edited By: Mark Bowden / Narrated By: Lloyd James
Length: 7 hrs and 20 mins
A look at the details of war—often humorous, sometimes touching, always oh so human…
I dunno, I s’pose I went into Once There Was a War expecting a touching, gritty look at the horrors of war. I mean, it’s John Steinbeck’s journalistic essays he wrote whilst with troops in 1943. He was with the men, he was with the officers, he was with other reporters, he was in London, North Africa, Italy.
And while it is good, I think I was expecting more in the vein of Travels with Charley, as in: Fraught with insight and heavy on humor. This has the humor, indeed it’s wryly observed, and it has the heart (How can Steinbeck NOT be Steinbeck?!?), but it’s totally light on grit. Plus, each essay is riddled with things like: Next line censored; next four lines censored… and such all.
So that kinda breaks up the flow as pacing is picked up in these essays. Plus, while I’m usually a fan of Lloyd James, I think there have been other celebrated voice actors who have done Steinbeck’s work for audio over the years, and James just comes off as a bit flat. He’s AWEsome with dialogue, with switching back and forth between accents, with giving exhaustion, courage, bewilderment, and those doses of humor I’ve already mentioned, but the overall narrative was kinda sorta lacking.
Okay, so that’s where the book misses; now on to where it hits.
Steinbeck can do nothing so well as observe that which is all around us, all we see but never think to comment on. It’s all in the details. Whether it’s how a barracks is set up, with beds being left unmade (Cuz the one time a radioman made his bed, his bomber was shot down), or it’s young women working many, many hours straight, firing the big guns at enemy planes flying over the city, Steinbeck has it covered. Indeed, as he tells someone: Young journalists haaaaate him, cuz they’ve been working the same stories over and over and over, and here he comes and spins everything they’ve been working on around, shines up what’s been there all along but they’ve never had the imagination to notice… and that has them reeeeeally peeved and resentful. But Steinbeck’s already a seasoned master of his craft at that point, and what are you gonna do amongst young and oblivious pups like that?
Naturally, my favorite stories are ones like how each bomber crew has their own dog, and each dog knows their own plane. There’s the one anxious dog who whines and trembles, shivering on his haunches, even before the ground crews can see planes returning from their bombing runs: Such love and devotion! So well-written, so short, that I didn’t even have time to worry about the fate of the animals at the end of the war (Or at the end of their crews…).
These are short pieces, just about the right length for Steinbeck to wax poetic, say something tragic (If you can get it in past the censors), and/or funny, then it’s off to the next essay, the next day as he journeys in the war as it unfolded. He notes the blueness of eyes, the gratitude of Italian peasants throwing grapes at the liberation forces, an elf (And many people will vouch that it’s true!) who leaves Scotch and ale as gifts for rabble rousing reporters in the dead of night. He notes torpedo boats as they dodge enemy forces on the water, a destroyer at sea as a sitting duck, all listening to enemy aircraft saying they’re gunning for it, and he notes the wonder of five men taking command of over a hundred surrendering troops, fearful their small numbers will be noticed and the vanquished will rearm and annihilate these intrepid and outnumbered five. And it all ends rather abruptly but on a high and funny note as small numbers outweigh greater numbers, bluffing, bluffing, bluffing.
Steinbeck can’t be completely somber, so you’ll find yourself chuckling throughout. It’s just that I was sorta hoping for somber with a Steinbeck-twist. Alas, there are only a few lines of the horrors that a person “might” have seen. It’s said that he avoided grit to avoid the wrath of the censors and the higher-ups who wanted to keep morale high at home and on the front.
But Ernie Pyle managed it, so I was hoping Steinbeck would too.
If you’re not of the Pyle camp, don’t want to see/p’raps have seen too much horror, these essays are sure to be your thing. Well-written, of COURSE; more wry than sorrowful.
It’s just that, me? I think the next time I’ll be looking for war reporting, I’ll be checking out Ernie Pyle’s Brave Men.
Cuz if it’s war? Well, I SHOULD be crying…
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