He is everyone and no one. A man of mystery, never to be pigeonholed or defined, yet so real, so tangible, he all but stands in for every G-man who ever lived. Soldier, bureaucrat, and yes, “civilian” (as he’s so named in the credits), he’s the empty vessel you crave when you’re trying to rewrite history, yet, ultimately, the simultaneous roadblock to any alternative but the truth. He says little because his presence is enough. If he’s at the table – and he is, whether sawing way at his food with purpose or partaking of a cigarette – it’s a meeting you can’t afford to miss. He’s akin to The Godfather Part II’s Vincenzo Pentangeli, staring intently from the gallery; wordlessly, effortlessly reminding Frankie Five Angels of the stakes. He’s comfortable, casual – the ultimate enigma – and the only reason we’re even here. And whether we leave, or don’t, or wrap up with a hasty retreat, he’ll be the explanation for it all. He’s everything the Vietnam War was, is, and ever will be, for better or worse. Given the ultimate result, we’ll stick with the worst.
He utters but one line: “Terminate…with extreme prejudice.” Like a dagger it enters the ether, no need for repeat or follow up. It comes at the conclusion of a lot of moralizing and fancy rhetoric, whereby the flunkies of the brigade – the uniformed propagandists for an exercise that never made a lick of sense – try and convince Willard (and themselves, perhaps most of all), that by removing Kurtz, they can set the war on a new course. A less insane course, where all the obligatory motivations can once again stand at the head of the parade. Freedom, justice, order; out of moth balls and back where they belong. But for this one regrettable individual, this once proud fighting man, we’d have the hearts and minds all sewn up. Clarity, as is our right. But he went too far. Ignored protocol. Violated the rules of the game. Took everything to its logical conclusion when no one, least of the Civilians of the group, ever asked.
Kurtz must die because he laid bare the essence of the Vietnam experience and thereby war itself. At least as far as the United States is concerned. To win, to secure the blessings of liberty, we must dispense with our humanity. Not for a time, or in part, but entirely. Forever. Once breached, no going back. A new way of thinking, the destiny of our newly evolved state. Hacking off “little arms,” as Kurtz put it, without a single tear for our efforts. Piled up, sans sentimentality. Could we do it? Were we sufficiently steeled for the implications of it all? This little coffee klatch, convened on a warm Saigon afternoon, says no. Hence, the mission. Were we up to it, the matter would have already been settled. But some heart remained. A bit of conscience drifting to and fro. So Kurtz must go, lest the country know how close we came.
Yes, the little man knew. He always knew. More than destroying the country to save it, he was blasting away any remaining claims of an ethical high ground in order to keep American humming. The soul would be gone, of course, but we’d still open at the usual time. Goods and services, in lieu of deeper meaning. Maybe that was the meaning. We are indeed what we’ve always suspected, but no one’s allowed to come clean. So we’d engage in a pointless war, year after year, massacre after massacre, so we wouldn’t have to go deeper. A million dead to keep us from an even greater cost. Could have had matters buttoned up in a matter of months, but we’d have had to admit the decay. Join an elite club of which no one wants to be a member. Everyone would be complicit. Do it our way, and only a chosen few will have to fall on the sword. The fairy tale could continue. Kurtz as the sacrificial lamb to preserve a star-spangled lie.
But more than the guardian of the kingdom, the keeper of the keys, Civilian is every last reason we even started down that path that led ultimately to that desperate embassy evacuation. All textbook theory, he ignored the reality on the ground. Myopic to a fault, he dismissed history, tradition, and culture to reframe everything as a battle-royale for righteousness. From him, there is a direct line to McNamara and Westmoreland, from body counts to confirmed kills. From his pen, furiously scribbling in some Pentagon office as the midnight oil burned, came every rotten notion, from round-the-clock saturation bombing (in the case of Laos, nine unceasingly bloody years of it) to the hand-in-glove love-fest of propping up corrupt murderers in the South. A series of mistakes so total, so absolute, it would forever reduce the word to a monstrous punchline. Can deliberate ineptitude ever again be so passively dismissed? Civilian sure thinks so. It’s all he has left.
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