1972...

It’s a strange thing, the genesis of a novel. Some ideas stick. Others don’t. Years ago, I read the story of Hugh Thompson, Jr., a helicopter pilot serving in Vietnam who, along with his crew, Glenn Andreotta and Lawrence Colburn, were instrumental in stopping what’s come to be known as the Mai Lai Massacre. If you’re unfamiliar with the story of their heroism, you might want check it out – an act of exceptional morality backlit by what most consider the worst atrocity of the entire conflict. Having been too young to serve in Vietnam, I would never presume to write a story of that actual war, but the idea of courage regardless of cost has been with me for a very long time.

In beginning this novel, I had little desire to write of Mai Lai, itself - the massacre was too real, too horrible, and I feared I could not do justice to those who’d died there. But my feelings about Thompson and his crew were too strong to ignore. On a bad day in March of 1968 they put themselves between a company of poorly-led, war-mad American troops intent on murdering an entire village of innocent South Vietnamese civilians. In taking that extraordinary risk, Thompson and his crew saved untold lives and paid an entirely unjust cost. There was a cover-up to hide the atrocity; Thompson and his crew were vilified.

In 1969 , though, Seymour Hersh broke the story of the massacre and coverup, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize the following year. After that came criminal charges, a trial, and national outrage. Even so, it took thirty years for Thompson and his crew to receive the recognition they deserved. When at last they were awarded the Soldier’s Medal (The U.S. Army’s highest award for bravery not involving direct contact with the enemy) then Major-General Michael Ackerman described their actions at Mai Lai, saying,  “It was the ability to do the right thing even at the risk of their personal safety that guided these soldiers to do what they did … [They] set the standard for all soldiers to follow.” That kind of courage inspired this novel and the character of Jason French, who may be one of the best I’ve ever written.

All that being said, this is not a novel about the Vietnam War – I was three years old when 500 men, women and children were slaughtered at Mai Lai. THE UNWILLING, instead, is the story of an American city in 1972, of young men who served and died, and those who grew to manhood in fear of the draft. It’s a story of courage and sacrifice, of families and girlfriends and the difficult truth that horrible acts are not relegated to war, alone, that a more grotesque evil might linger just down the street.

I’ve always wanted to set a novel in the past – an entirely unique challenge – and to recreate the world I remember from childhood (no cellphones or computers). It made sense, too, to set this book at a time when our country felt equally torn, partly because tension like that makes for good storytelling, but also to celebrate that we’ve lived through hard times before – been equally divided - and that brighter days come when people act in good faith. More profoundly, I wanted to speak to the unchanging nature of humanity, the good and bad of us all. People often mistake my intent, believing I write dark, when that’s not entirely true. Instead, I write about the search for light in dark places. That means building rich, flawed characters and then turning up the heat to see what choices they’ll make as the softness around them cooks away. Wartime or peace, at home or on the dim streets of a midnight city, it’s what humanity is about, how we handle love and hope, fear and loss, the enduring questions that confront us each generation, to do the right thing or the wrong, rise or fall, sacrifice or surrender.

That seems like a big target, but it’s an easy one to miss. In fact, every novel I write begins with a sense of almost unbearable risk – people do read these things - but I’m pleased how this one turned out - a thriller to its core – and love the way C.J. Box reacted after an early read, describing THE UNWILLING as “…somehow raw, tender, brutal and exquisite – all at the same time.” As strange as it may sound, that’s exactly the kind of book I set out to write. I hope you enjoy it.