Lieutenant Carroll Character Analysis

“[Walowick] called [Johnson] a cootie, sir,” [I said.]

“A what?” [Captain Stewart asked.]

“That’s what he called me,” Johnson said.

“What the fuck’s a cootie?”

“It’s a bug,” Walowick said.

“That’s like calling me a nigger,” Johnson said.

“Is that a racial thing?” Captain Stewart looked at Walowick.

“A cootie’s a cootie,” Walowick shrugged. “He shouldn’t have called me no farm boy. If he calls me a farm boy, I’m gonna call him a cootie again.”

That’s when Johnson hit Walowick again, and the fight started again. This time Lieutenant Carroll got out of the way. When the fight was over, Captain Stewart told them both to stop talking to each other. That was that.

The war was different now. Nam was different. Jenkins had been outside of me, even the guys in Charlie Company had been outside. Lieutenant Carroll was inside of me, he was part of me. Part of me was dead with him. I wanted to be sad, to cry for him, maybe bang my fists against the sides of the hooch. But what I felt was numb. I just had these pictures of him walking along with us on patrol or sitting in the mess area, looking down into a coffee cup. It was what I was building in my mind, a series of pictures of things I had seen, of guys I had seen. I found myself trying to push them from my mind, but they seemed more and more a part of me.

“You know, I never thought much about black people before I got into the army. I don’t think I was prejudiced or anything—I just didn’t think much about black people.”

“Well, we’re here,” I said.

“I think I should let his parents know what happened […] I don’t want to be let off the hook.”

“The letter I wrote […] is going to sit better with his family. You might feel bad, like you need to get something off your chest, but don’t drop it on his folks. It’s going to be hard enough just having him dead.”

He looked at me, then pushed the letter across the table. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

I wanted to be pissed at him. I wanted to think that he was crap because of what he said about black people. But the only thing I could think about was that I was glad it was Turner, and not me.

“[Walowick] called [Johnson] a cootie, sir,” [I said.]

“A what?” [Captain Stewart asked.]

“That’s what he called me,” Johnson said.

“What the fuck’s a cootie?”

“It’s a bug,” Walowick said.

“That’s like calling me a nigger,” Johnson said.

“Is that a racial thing?” Captain Stewart looked at Walowick.

“A cootie’s a cootie,” Walowick shrugged. “He shouldn’t have called me no farm boy. If he calls me a farm boy, I’m gonna call him a cootie again.”

That’s when Johnson hit Walowick again, and the fight started again. This time Lieutenant Carroll got out of the way. When the fight was over, Captain Stewart told them both to stop talking to each other. That was that.

The war was different now. Nam was different. Jenkins had been outside of me, even the guys in Charlie Company had been outside. Lieutenant Carroll was inside of me, he was part of me. Part of me was dead with him. I wanted to be sad, to cry for him, maybe bang my fists against the sides of the hooch. But what I felt was numb. I just had these pictures of him walking along with us on patrol or sitting in the mess area, looking down into a coffee cup. It was what I was building in my mind, a series of pictures of things I had seen, of guys I had seen. I found myself trying to push them from my mind, but they seemed more and more a part of me.

“You know, I never thought much about black people before I got into the army. I don’t think I was prejudiced or anything—I just didn’t think much about black people.”

“Well, we’re here,” I said.

“I think I should let his parents know what happened […] I don’t want to be let off the hook.”

“The letter I wrote […] is going to sit better with his family. You might feel bad, like you need to get something off your chest, but don’t drop it on his folks. It’s going to be hard enough just having him dead.”

He looked at me, then pushed the letter across the table. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

I wanted to be pissed at him. I wanted to think that he was crap because of what he said about black people. But the only thing I could think about was that I was glad it was Turner, and not me.