When Patrick Nolan stepped onto the runway in Song Mao, he saw before him a dusty wasteland, not the tropical paradise described by his teachers back at Fort Bliss. The reality fit his fear that maybe he hadn’t been so lucky to dodge combat duty by studying to be an interpreter. No matter what, a year out of graduate school and 9,000 miles later, there he stood in Vietnam. Always against the war, Nolan hoped that working in the civil affairs unit providing aid to villagers would offset to some extent the constant devastation. But daily contradictions took their toll. An afternoon spent helping refugees build a well might end that night on the roof relaying radio authorization for artillery to fire away. He met fellow soldiers he admired, those fully dedicated to the civil affairs mission, while he despised others for profiting in the black market.As an interpreter, Nolan learned to know the Vietnamese people more deeply, many of whom became close friends. He came to value their beliefs and traditions, embracing the beauty of their myths and the spiritual power of the lotus. Even so, deadly machinations of the internal war and its risks compounded Nolan’s anguish about wanting to leave it all behind. Maybe Tomorrow illustrates the harsh realities of the brutal ironies created by the Vietnam war in a unique and utterly moving way.