by Kim Ekemar
New York, November 1998
John Partridge
Editor of Paul B. Crimson's first novel Velvet Nights
An introduction to the reader
I was contacted by John Partridge, to everybody in publishing simply known as JP, in June 1998. He explained he had read some of my literary efforts and wondered if I was interested in the compilation of material that he termed to be ‘extremely sensitive on a personal level’. I had met JP on three previous occasions, always impressed by his austere and gentlemanly behavior even if he could be a bit condescending at times. His hesitating proposal got the better of my curiosity, and I agreed to meet him a few days later.
As the reader will soon find, the material selected is not as extensive as one would think considering the related criminal acts. The reasons are many. I certainly had to plough through thousands of pages. Besides the key documents JP gave me they included newspaper articles, police reports and court protocols. Eventually I got a grasp of how the events and the documents interacted, and I became fascinated with the complexity of the affair. How could one present all its facets without letting the main issues get lost in the details?
I faced the problem of putting the pieces together in a comprehensible way without boring the reader with excessive information. This might sound simpler than it became. Which source should present the body of events? Should minor supportive circumstances be included in the form of footnotes? To what degree could the content be edited without distorting the truth? Where would Crimson’s manuscript come in – the result, or perhaps even the purpose, of his self-confessed crimes?
I decided the most effective way to relay the information would be to quote the essential parts from the sources and present these excerpts in chronological order whenever it was possible. It required severe discipline to exclude entries in Crimson’s diaries and Velvet Nights not directly related to the events in Harbor, no matter how interesting they were. This decision of restraint I based on the fact that I was putting together the supporting facts about the complex chain of events that took place in Harbor during winter 1973 - not a biography of Paul Crimson.
Immediately after the factual references I placed the chapter he wrote at the time. I found this to be the most efficient method to reflect the perceptions, the influences and above all the creative process that Crimson was subject to. Apart from the choice of the information to be included and the order in which it should appear, I also deemed it necessary to do some careful editing of what was actually said or written. In my reworking of the police protocols, for example, I left out certain repetitive phrases and interjections and cut out long pauses and irrelevant pieces of conversation. I am painfully aware this kind of literary surgery requires a lot of trust from the reader. Much thought went into this decision, and I believe the result to be the most comprehensive way to understand what actually took place on all levels. I hope the reader will too.
One last observation: on December 7, not six months after his call to me about this book, John Partridge passed away in a way I truly hope was peaceful. During his last twenty-five years I know he was much troubled over his participation in the Crimson affair, and that he was determined to settle the score before his days were over.
It is my sincere wish that the result would have been to his liking.
Mexico, October 1999
Kim Ekemar
A brief summary of Paul B. Crimson’s life
(1947 - 1973)
Paul B. Crimson was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, on the 15th of June 1947. His father had worked for Ford in Detroit, when a few years after the war he got the opportunity of a dealership in Ohio. He jumped at the chance and moved with his young pregnant wife three months before their only son was born.
Paul’s mother was a nervous woman who always worried. She fussed over her child to the point of not allowing him to let go of her apron strings until he went to war. The isolation of her son and herself became more pronounced after a series of rows provoked by her husband’s repeated infidelities. When her husband tired of her completely he gathered what he could and left for California without even saying goodbye to his son. This was to have a profound impact on Paul, who was twelve at the time. They were never to have contact again, although according to his diary his father tried to get in touch with him after Paul became famous for his book about Viet Nam.
Before that fateful event, Paul’s childhood can – at least apparently – only be described as innocent and secure. He was spoiled by his mother, and financially comfortable through his father’s income during the boom years when a car purchase was within everybody’s reach. He grew up with increasing American affluence and newborn rock ’n’ roll music. Paul went through twelve years of schooling without any remarks at all, either good or bad, with one splendid exception. He always received top marks in English language and literature. It seems he was a voracious reader and knew more about poetry than those who taught him in high school.
The single most important event during his teens was his call to serve in the US Army. Paul finished high school in 1966 and on January 8, 1967, he was ordered to present himself for basic army training. He was nineteen years old.
The United States was escalating its war in Viet Nam and in a hurry to recruit more soldiers. Many avoided the draft by using family connections, hiding under a different name, or going to Canada or overseas while the war lasted. Paul did nothing to escape his draft. Judging by his diaries at the time he actually seems to have welcomed the change.
He was trained at a US Army base for three months, and then shipped to Saigon with thousands of other troops. In Viet Nam he spent another three months in local training before he was finally considered fit for confrontation with the enemy. There is no doubt Viet Nam changed his character more profoundly than anything else in his short life. He partook in jungle combat, the burning of villages, the slaughter of innocent villagers and bombing raids ordered by his superiors. A decisive factor on his later behavior was his presence at the infamous Mei Ngong slaughter. His diary reveals that he killed more than eighty men and women during his time in the war – several of them civilians.
Generally speaking, his diaries are surprisingly candid. The one he kept in December 1968, however, is not very explicit about why he chose to volunteer for an additional year’s service beyond the two obligatory. The main reasons he gives are that he needed more time to collect material for the book he was planning, and that the extra money wouldn’t hurt. The latter argument doesn’t sound very convincing, while the first one is probably closer to the truth.
Veterans were in demand in this war that – although the White House was still years from admitting it – the US was losing. Apart from minor shrapnel wounds Paul had so far gone unscathed through the fighting. He was never commended for his conduct as a soldier, nor did he receive any reprimand. Apparently he was never considered for promotion, nor he did ever seek one. Paul B. Crimson was just another soldier who obeyed orders satisfactorily, didn’t care too much for heroic efforts but with time became appreciated by his superiors for his experience compared to the rookies replacing those who died or went home.
It is likely that Paul was not introduced to drugs until he arrived in Viet Nam. There marihuana flourished, as did stronger drugs like opium derivates. He was never caught using them in the army – at least it was never reported. Since the use of drugs was common enough also among officers, this is not as strange as it may sound. Many of those in charge turned a blind eye since drug abuse was thought to make it easier for the troops to stand the hardships and the knowledge that next morning they might be shot by the enemy anyway.
Later, after having returned to the US, Paul was caught in Los Angeles using marihuana. In his statement to the police he claimed he had picked up the habit in Viet Nam like almost every other returning war veteran. He was let off lightly since it was a first offense, and because it could not be proven that what little marihuana was found had been for anything but personal use
.
According to the autopsy report filed after his overdose, Paul had traces of a long-term addiction to marihuana, cocaine and other drugs. This is consistent with the amazing rate he spent the money earned on his first book, the life he led after its immediate success, and his later attempt to clean up his act by moving to Harbor.
Paul seemed to take pleasure in using varied language. Except for some verbatim dialogues in Velvet Nights, foul language is rarely found in his work. His style is fluid and he usually creates vivid visual images of what he describes. His prose is readily absorbed until one suddenly realizes there are many hidden implications behind the deceptive tower of words.
As for the last six months before his life ended, I will let his diaries and the events prove my point.
Excerpts from the diaries prior to January 16, 1973
December 11, 1968
I finally made my decision and signed up for another year. I have been hesitant whether to do it or not, and everybody screams at me that I must be out of my mind. But I really don’t have much of interest to go back to. In general I like it here, and signing up for another period gives you enormous respect. I don’t mind the money either, and by now I certainly know how to take care of myself in combat. When I try to honestly give the true reason for staying, though, it’s to get more material for that brick of a book that I’m writing.
January 15, 1969
Today we had a close one. The gooks got Trevor, Louie and Chuck. Johnny Push-push will lose a leg but at least we managed to get him out of there alive. I’m particularly grieved about Trevor; he was always fun and game. It wasn’t my fault. I was supposed to be at the head of the ambush patrol when the VC hit us hidden under camouflage in the jungle in an area that had been previously cleared. We never expected the attack. The conversation was relaxed and I had stopped to roll myself a reefer of prime grass that Johnny had gotten me cheap. Some of the boys went on and got trapped. It could have been me, I suppose.
February 23, 1969
We were on a search mission in a village called Nguy Mein when a freak incident took place. We had the villagers lined up while Billy Joe and three others of our boys went through their huts for any signs of VC. Suddenly a man began to run frantically towards Billy Joe when he started to break down a door. Billy Joe, who has been here less than six months, fired a volley at the villager. The man fell over next to a wall where garden tools had been stacked. Billy Joe entered the hut, certain he would find something important. He tore the place apart but couldn’t find the reason for the man to come yelling and prevent him from entering. Finally, he shouted that he gave up and left the hut. Without a second glance at the villager he had shot, he walked towards the next place he was going to check. Suddenly the bleeding villager came to life and grabbed an axe from among the tools. Before Billy Joe reacted on our shouts of warning, the villager had buried the axe in his skull, parting it down to his nostrils. It was a horrible sight to see his surprised face topple over and the axe not even coming loose. Three of us pumped bullets into the villager, who hit the dirt seconds after Billy Joe.
December 21, 1969
I’m waiting for take-off to get me out of Saigon. Even if I wasn’t ordered to go back home, I wasn’t exactly asked to stick around either. Things have certainly cooled off since last year. I don’t mind. I now have the rough outline ready from my participation of this dirty little war. Another three months to review the text, then I’ll shop around for someone to publish it. Statistics: I’ve spent 991 days in Viet Nam. 153 men in the units I have been assigned to have been killed in action. How many of them were wounded I don’t know, but the figure should come to five times that. I’ve killed 80 or 82 of the enemy. My savings are now more than 27,000 dollars, with a little help from some black market dealing together with Louie. I have a book of 837 pages finished in the rough, and approximately 2,000 pages of diary.
November 6, 1970
Bradley & Brougham Publishing House has consented to take on Velvet Nights! They even sent me 6,000 dollars anticipating what they call “a major success”! The guy who is going to be in charge of editing my book is John Partridge, but he told me to call him JP like everybody else does. I’m really excited by their enthusiasm!
September 16, 1971
I’m exhausted after yesterday’s endless events with the presentation and book signing and two literary cocktail receptions and the long dinner when I got too drunk to get home on my own. I’m very happy, though, because everybody including JP tells me I have a success on my hands. I don’t know about a lot of the other well-wishers, but I trust JP to tell me the truth.
October 26, 1971
JP called me today, really excited. Due to the huge demand, they’re already planning a second printing of Velvet Nights!
November 11, 1971
I’ve decided to go to LA. New York is too uppity and besides the weather’s getting too cold for my liking. JP is against it but I told him I’m up to my nose with all the literary events and small talk and superficial pleasantries. I met Johnny Push-push by chance the other day and scored from him. He told me Bernie and Darryl are surfing in California, and the idea of hanging out on the beach attracts me. ‘The difference between getting your leg hit by a bullet and a grenade is that Bernie still can surf’ were Johnny’s resentful words as we parted. He looked haggard and I wonder if he doesn’t stuff himself with more drugs than he pushes.
October 3, 1972
Surprise, surprise. In today’s mail was a letter from my old man, forwarded to me in California by JP. After being totally incommunicado for thirteen years, he now has the gall to write me through the publishing house to which I owe my book’s success. He claims he’s sick and dying, but what else could he use as an excuse to write me? A third slow reading of the letter quells any doubt that the father who once abandoned me wants my financial help to get him back on his feet. He blames some minor setbacks in his life for his present misfortune. Am I included in those minor setbacks, or was I a major one?
January 3, 1973
I had to check twice what date it is, because lately everything has become a blur. Close to two weeks in windowless casinos makes you lose sense of time, which I suppose is precisely what the shrewd owners of the Strip want you to do. Thank heavens my book is a smash! I had to ask for B&B to advance me more money, I think for the fifth time in a year. The proceeds from my book and my savings … I’ve blown it all. Where did it all go? Lately mostly on gambling, I think, but I know I have to slow down on the coke, too. Then there was that casino hustler, Laura or Loretta or something, who shook me down for over 4,000 bucks before she disappeared forever from my life.
January 9, 1973
I’ve been talking to JP every day for almost a week. God knows how he found me, perhaps when I asked them to send me more money. JP is very insistent. I should get on with my next novel now that the first one was such a success, he says. Delighted to oblige you JP, only what the hell should I write about? The only thing I have in-depth knowledge of is the Viet Nam War, and I’ve already covered that theme. I doubt my boring childhood would sell many copies. Perhaps I could go off to some other cheery battlefront and report atrocities from a different location.
January 10, 1973
JP appears alarmed about my reckless debauchery in Las Vegas. He keeps on nagging how I should leave for some quiet place, get my writing gear out and whip the cream on the benevolent reception of my first and only effort so far. This, he says, you do by writing a follow-up novel. I’m sure he’s right, but I don’t think I have it in me … on the other hand – what should I do? I know I’m slowly going under here. Perhaps I should go back to New York.
January 12, 1973
JP called me again with a very specific suggestion. Would I like to take advantage of some friendly connections of his on the coast of Maine? They are willing to rent me independent quarters in their big house overlooking the sea, and I would have perfect surroundings to concentrate on my writing. Sounds att
ractive, and I’m certainly up to my eyeballs seeing LA and Vegas from the loser’s angle.
Part II
HARBOR
Paul Crimson’s diary
Notes and letters exchanged between Paul Crimson and John Partridge
January 16, 1973
Harbor greeted me with a light snowfall when I finally arrived early in the evening. Thirty-nine hours of traveling across the country viewing the countryside through tinted window-film now made the snow look future bright and toothpaste white. The trip lasted long enough for me to finish more than two thirds of the book (The complete tales of Edgar Allan Poe) that I bought shortly before leaving Vegas. After the exhausting trip it was a relief to stretch my legs while finding the bearings in my new hometown. I knew from JP that my lodgings would have a view of the port of Harbor. I only had to ask my way once; it’s such a small place. I doubt there can be more than 15,000 or 20,000 inhabitants here. I declined a cab from the station and walked in the direction they pointed me. The snowflakes melting on my face in the windless night air was a strange experience after having been cooped up in a Greyhound bus for days on end.
After turning three corners the port was in front of me. In the dark and the sparse light, I could only distinguish three, or maybe it was four, large ships anchored among the ice floes. A channel has been made in the ice to allow the ships to come and go. I could not see any smaller boats. I suppose they have been taken out of the winter waters so they wouldn’t be crushed to tinder once the ice got mean.