38 I CHRONICLESntion charge dismissed for insufficientnevidence)—the reader is to gather thatnGarwood was, above all things, a “survivor,”na supreme achievement. Thentreatment of Garwood’s motives —n”nature or nurture”—is even more dubious.nWith sneers at the Marine Corpsnand Middle America, the authors depictntheir subject as the hapless productnof a rootless America and of an absurdnwar the volunteer Marine never wantednto fight, the victim of a Military Codenof Conduct that has become irrelevant.nWhat emerges from the elaboratenrationalization of Garwood’s collaboration,nhowever, is that it was Garwoodnhimself who created his protracted ordeal.nFrom the moment he decided thatnsurvival meant more than every othernloyalty, he became his masters’ malleablentool. Garwood repaired his captors’nradios, tested their bullhorns, cleanednand carried their weapons, signed withoutnprotest their propaganda documents.nIndeed, he emerges as considerablynmore collaborative in thentestimony of his camp mates, which hisnbiographers report, than he appears tonbe in the inner tape recording thatnSpencer and Groom have labored sonhard to reproduce. The reporters do notnresolve—or even acknowledge—thisnserious internal contradiction in theirnbook.nThe impact of tendentious biographynmay be considerable in the contemporarynmoral dimness. Vietnam, in itsnunexamined tangle of myth, fact, andnfiction, is the uncontested central eventnin modern American history for annunmoored and suggestible generationn—not least for that circle of dewy youngndidacts in the Congress who rise tonlecture and scold the pariah nation likenfledgling Puritan divines. Groom andnSpencer’s book adds another small textnto the pulpit of Dodd, Downey, Markey,nand Co.nJohn Romjue is a historian with thenU.S. Army.nTelling Stories Outnof Schoolnby Brian MurraynP.E.N. New Fiction I, edited bynPeter Ackroyd, New York: Quartet;n$14.95.nIt was E.G. Wodehouse, I think, whononce told an anxious would-be writer ofnfiction that literary success was the resultnof careful adherence to a few verynsimple rules. Find a desk, Wodehousensuggested, and stock its drawers withnsharp pencils and plenty of paper. Pullnup a chair. Then, “Put your bum onnthe chair. And keep it there.”nOf course, would-be writers —nparticularly the less gifted ones—arenalways looking for a less sweaty path tonwealth and celebrity. The shelves of ournpublic libraries are full of handbooksnthat purport to reveal—in avuncularntones—the central tricks of the writer’sntrade. Perhaps the most amusing ofnthese is James N. Young’s 101 Plots—nUsed and Abused. Young worked as anfiction editor at a time when shortnstories were accorded prime space innsuch general-interest periodicals as ThenSaturday Evening Post and Collier’s.nLike any editor. Young routinely shovelednhis way through great stacks ofnunsolicited material; in due course henbecame something of a connoisseur ofnthe hackneyed plot.nAmong the old stories Young embalmednin 10 J Plots is the one about thentwo bandits who together pull off a greatnheist, but who both—at a celebratoryndinner in a secluded spot—“die ofnpoisoning, each having poisoned thenother.” Here too is the account of thenpuny fellow named Percy who impressesna young woman with his strength andnvalor until his alarm clock sounds andnhe discovers that, alas, it was all “only andream.” “Be careful not to trick thenreader too much,” Young notes. Forn”readers get their dander up when anwriter takes unfair advantage of them.”n101 Plots first appeared in the mid-n40’s. These days, one rarely comesnacross the sort of stale and corny talesnthat Young warned against. Many ofntoday’s published stories eschew storynline in favor of the conveyance of voice,ncharacter, and atmosphere; many ofnthese predictably resemble in structurenand theme the sort of midnight jottingsnthat one might expect to find in thenprivate journal of a lonely teachingnassistant who has spent the day readingnKafka and scribbling “awk” and “frag”non too many unintentionally Kafkaesquenfreshman themes.nSuch “serious” fiction can then be asnhackneyed as anything that poor Youngnhad to pore over. Indeed, perhaps thentime has come for an updated version ofn101 Plots—a version tided, say. It’snBeen Done and aimed at the manyncreative-writing majors who have readnthe likes of Anne Beattie and RaymondnCarver and understandably said tonthemselves: “Geez, if they can do it,nanybody can.” This volume would urgenthe neophyte authors not to portray yetnanother trapped housewife or frustratednnnacademic; to steer clear of images ofndead dogs in suburban driveways andndying insects dragging themselves acrossnbedroom floors; not to pack too manynshort, present-tense paragraphs withnbrand names and the titles of pop songs;nto go ahead and employ adjectives andnadverbs not found in the pages of TVnCuide.nThe 29 stories that Peter Ackroydncollected in P.E.N. New Fiction I arennot the products of American grad studentsnof creative writing. They werenwritten for a short-story contest sponsorednby the English branch of P.E.N.,nthe international writers’ society. Mostnof these pieces take place in British andnIrish settings and are largely free of thenfatigued tone and monochromatismnthat one finds in the Garver-like minimalistnefforts that continue to turn up innAmerican “little” magazines and literarynquarterlies. Tract houses, fast-foodnjoints, pick-up trucks, and vaguely renderedncharacters named Chick, Webb,nand Jewel are all refreshingly absent.nUnfortunately, only about five ofnthese stories achieve real distinction.nThese are Desmond Hogan’s “Ties,”nThomas McCarthy’s “Mammy’s Boy,”nClare Boylan’s “Villa Marta,” RonaldnHayman’s “Urchins,” and MeiranChand’s “The Gift of Sunday.” Butnthese pieces are vivid and smooth andnmemorable enough to make P.E.N.nNew Fiction 1 a worthwhfle choice fornlibrary patrons who continue to findnthat—in airplanes, laundromats, andnswimming pools—a fine short storyncan make a splendid companion.nBrian Murray is professor of Englishnat Youngstown State University.nThe Mafiosonby Christopher MuldornOrganized Crime, 2nd edition, bynHoward Abadinsky, Chicago: Nelson-nHall.nAccording to some theorists, most ofnAmerica’s woes began with the arrivalnof big government in 1932. Before thatntime, so the story goes, liberty was thenrule, the work ethic was alive and well,nGod was in the classroom, and all wasnwell with the world. As with all ideologies,nthis one presents an incompletenpicture of reality. Organized crime, anmajor presence in American life wellnbefore 1932, was not exactly a showpiecenof free-market capitalism.nIn Organized Crime, Howard Abadinskynhas written a lucid and compre-n