Nothing gets held back in "Soft Spots," Clint Van Winkle's account of his two years of duty as a Marine sergeant in Iraq. He describes the exhilaration of being in a place where he was authorized to kill and where freedom was, in a sense, absolute -- precisely because he could die at any moment. We hear about attacks on Iraqis who may or may not have been civilians, and later of the ignorance he finds on a college campus at home.
Yet despite the author's lacerating honesty, the narrative is dreamlike and surreal. Van Winkle seems to have killed a little girl, and her image haunts him, but we never learn exactly how this happened or why. He once turned the massive firepower of his armored assault vehicle on a stone wall, demolishing it and massacring a group of men hiding behind it; but again we get no real context.
This ambiguity stems from the nature of the war he fought. The soldiers lived in an almost hermetically sealed society and in a state of near-constant fear and rage. And they had unmatched lethal firepower at their command. "My war," writes Van Winkle, "was an impersonal war full of indiscriminate firing and long-distance death."
But the ambiguity is also stylistic, an expression of the author's hallucinatory state of mind in the months following combat. He moves without warning from the streets of Phoenix to the sands of Iraq and back again. He finds himself full of unreasoning anger; he fights with his wife. Having finally realized that he's suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, he struggles to get help. Van Winkle's unseen dead have followed him home.
-- Juliet Wittman
