"I Care"

Joe Jacobs was a student of drama. At California's Stanford University, he majored in journalism, was also a football fan, a moviegoer, and had ambitions toward the theater. In October 1965, he enlisted in the Army; before he went to Viet Nam last September, he sent a form letter to 100 of his friends, telling where he was headed. After his twin brother, mother and father got home from a European vacation, Jacobs began a gargantuan literary task: he wrote some 300 letters to his family, more to his Stateside friends, telling what the war was like and what it was about. Because of his interests and talents, Specialist Fourth Class Jacobs was tapped as a combat correspondent, a job that took him to the ever-changing front lines and gave him a chance to see more of the war than most of his rank. To his family and friends, he wrote what he saw and felt.

August 1966: "Dear Mom & Dad, I am, really, looking forward to going to Viet Nam. Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Oct. 3, 1966: "I only know it's unlike anything I've ever known and that it's exciting and, in a strange way I can't expect you to understand, because I don't either, really it's fun."

Oct. 4, 1966: "Thanks for the cake. I appreciated the clippings, although of course Stanford's score [losing to Southern California 21-7] upset me. Oh well, maybe next year."

Oct. 21, 1966: "Occasionally we would see a wildflower, usually a sort of purple thistle thing, although I saw some interesting red ones with small leaves, and a white flower that looked like a morning glory, and one brilliant red torch ginger."

Nov. 11, 1966: "You said people wanted to know what I think about the war. I think the U.S. had no business getting involved in Viet Nam in the first place, when the French pulled out. But we are here now in a position of commitment so great that we could not simply pull out. As for the consensus, I would say that most of the guys here think it's a hot, dirty, stinking war and cannot wait to get home. But they feel that they have a job to do and must do it as well as they can. Does that help any?"

Nov. 29, 1966: "It's rough. You try to be brave--not brave as the absence of fear, but brave as the courage to keep up and go on. You want to scream and run and hide, but there's nowhere to go. You try to look ahead and see nothing but an unending, unchanging series of days--boring, frustrating, futile. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow--a tale told by an idiot, and you're the idiot. It's 10:30 and I'm tired. I'll just have to write Aunt Jean and Aunt Helen and Aunt Charlotte tomorrow."

Jan. 6, 1967 (after a U.S.O. show): "I've never been enormously fond of Martha Raye, but her show is fun, and when she sings I Left My Heart in San Francisco, it's really touching because, as she says, for most men here San Francisco is the last city they see when they leave. I guess the real reason that she keeps coming back [to Viet Nam] is a line from Sidney Brustein: 'I care, I care about it all. It takes too much energy not to care.' "

Jan. 11, 1967 (to brother Carl): "Last night we were mortared [and] this event has made me much more conscious of the possibility of my dying over here. If I am killed in Viet Nam, my death would make you the sole surviving son in the family, and as such you would be entitled to a 1-Y draft classification and therefore, for all practical purposes, you'd be draft exempt. Don't tell anyone about this letter--most especially Mom and Dad. And what the hell are we going to get them for their anniversary?"

Feb. 13, 1967 (on operations near the Cambodian border): "We moved forward to where the lead track [armored personnel carrier] was and I saw two guys who had been hit by the Claymore [a type of shrapnel-throwing mine]. They were bleeding like crazy. I took a couple of pictures and moved on. The captain told me to stay there. I didn't say anything, but said to myself, 'The hell with you, buddy,' and moved into the jungle with the men of the patrol. All commanding officers have the idea that if a PIO man or civilian correspondent is out with them, it is their special duty to see that these men stay away from the action and any possible harm. What they do not realize is that to do that would mean not getting the real story . . . [Later] I realized that my glasses had been knocked off. Since I'm really pretty hopeless without my glasses, I can't focus a camera."

Feb. 14, 1967: "As you are aware from my past few letters, I have very narrowly escaped being wounded or possibly killed. I could of course not tell you when such incidents happen. Dad mentioned that you 'feel honored' that I write with the candor that I do, and I think you should realize that I write of such incidents not to worry you, but because I think you have this right. When I was moving toward the Claymore, I did not know exactly what lay ahead. I was frightened, but I knew that I could not do my job by staying back where the captain told me to stay. I could not go back when fighting started. I knew that I could not throw up when I saw men whose bodies were covered with blood. I knew that no matter what I wanted to do, I would not run, would not hide, would not cry."

On Feb. 16, 1967, Joe Jacobs rode "shotgun" on an ambulance headed for the field hospital at Tay Ninh in order to get a new pair of glasses. Inside the ambulance were two wounded G.I.s. Along the way, the ambulance hit a Communist land mine. The litter patients and the ambulance driver were killed outright. Joe Jacobs hung on, and he was evacuated to a surgical ward in Saigon; there, aged 22, he died.

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