In his memoir, THERE WERE NO FLOWERS: A Surgeon’s Story of War, Family, and Love, William Meffert exhibits a confident manner of storytelling; one tinged with poignant sentiment. The interlacing of war and family, and the way these two issues pull the theme of manhood into their orbit, makes for an endlessly compelling tale, “I needed my dad. I hoped he needed me too.” And so, the reader joins a quest for understanding, both in terms of the elusive father figure and the tragically needless cruelty witnessed by the author himself. Against the backdrop of pervasive fear and propaganda, Meffert’s pained relationship with his father unfolds, forever finding its way to the forefront of his consciousness. What adds great emotional depth, and a sort of self-reflexive measure of his success as a parental figure, is the author’s attempt to retrace his father’s steps with his own son, allowing him to rediscover a wakeful love. This also lets the narrative sway from the war in Vietnam to the one witnessed by his father, which in turn leads to the drawing of many sharp parallels. Their progression is steady and engaging, and the author’s recollections never yield their compassionate focus.
Childhood observations of his father and work are interspersed with tales of romantic crushes, love, and heartbreak. This blend of medicine and family life sits at the heart of THERE WERE NO FLOWERS, giving it its notably universal appeal. With adulthood come more prominent experiences of horror and human apprehensiveness, particularly when the Meffert’s role as a combat surgeon in Vietnam takes center stage. Tension slips into the operating room and hounds the author beyond its walls, “If you hear explosions, sirens, or gunfire, don’t just lie there in your beds. Run like hell to those sandbagged bunkers near the mess hall.” Meffert also doesn’t shy away from pushing the carnage from his memory onto the page, and it’s this commitment to the truth that makes his memoir a truly unforgettable read. From “flakes of dried blood” and blood clots clinging to his scrubs to “the fetid smell of blood, feces, and the stink of helicopter kerosene - the perfume of trauma,” he devotes himself wholly to painting a sensory vision. Another aspect of the experience, one instilled with the humane angle it requires, is the fate of the soldiers returning from Vietnam. The outward disdain of the anti-war protesters faced with wounded and disfigured men prompts ruminations on wartime responsibility, as well as the notion of humanity itself. These bleed into nightmares and Meffert’s work as a clinical surgeon after the war, forever turning his memoir into something fresh and enthralling.
In THERE WERE NO FLOWERS: A Surgeon’s Story of War, Family, and Love, William Meffert revisits his experience as a combat surgeon in Vietnam, bracing the resultant reality - full of gore and despair - with the sentimental shrapnel from his childhood. From reflections on war and fatherhood to scenes from the operating room, the author treats the reader to a tale that proves wondrously adaptable.
~Neil Czeszejko for IndieReader