When first published in 1994, Dennis Kitchin’s War in Aquarius (McFarland, 216 pp.; $19.99, paper) carried the subtitle Memoir of an American Infantryman in Action along the Cambodian Border during the Vietnam War, which perfectly describes the book’s content. During 1968-69, Kitchen served with the 25th Infantry Division’s 27th Infantry Regiment—the Wolfhounds—headquartered at Cu Chi. He spent all of his year in the field.
The book was republished in 2015, which is a good thing because it rings true. Kitchin examines the Vietnam War through the lens of a man who hates war but accepts the obligation of serving his country. Classified 1A, he volunteered for the draft after graduating from college. Kitchin’s attitude is not unique, but the way he expresses his thoughts in this book stands above the norm.
He often internalizes his perspective to the point that what goes on in his head transcends what occurs around him. Yet he physically performs all that is demanded. This sense of detachment helps Kitchin maintain his rationality, especially as the months unfold and he grows more convinced that the war is wrong. He particularly deplores the injuries—both accidental and deliberate—inflicted on civilians.
As his tour unfolds, Kitchen morphs from being a babe in the woods into a hardened combat veteran. His depictions of helicopter and World War II landing craft river assaults; of enemy ambushes and booby traps; unproductive patrols; and U.S. casualty numbers greater than those of the V.C. create a mood of dejection throughout the book. As he remains unhurt while friends die alongside him, Kitchin deeply contemplates death and serious injury. He blames most of his unit’s losses on bad decisions made by incompetent leaders. At one point, his platoon’s strength was reduced to fourteen.
Kitchen writes with clarity and purpose. He finds relationships between events and more than once turns a creative phrase. For example, on patrol in “rugged, uninhabited terrain,” he describes the locale as “enough woods to excite John Muir.” The story line never lags.
“Pseudonyms have been used for all persons named in this account, excepting the author himself,” Kitchin writes. Considering the high degree to which he praises and criticizes leaders and peers, I understand why he chose this style. I used a similar approach in my 1987 Vietnam War memoir, Gunship: Spectre of Death, because I did not want to intrude on anyone’s life.
Now, however, I feel otherwise. Using fictitious names diminished the historical value of my work; I feel the same about Kitchin’s book.
More recently, Kitchin has published humor-laced books about his Philadelphia childhood and travels to New Zealand and Ireland.