the tragedy of war

Ok, I wrote most of this up as part of an old email to my girlfriend a few months ago. I figure it's a decent bit of writing, and wanted to make it public to receive some criticism. I've reworked it a bit since the audience has changed, and cleaned up some digressions.

Thoughts?

Note: upon rereading this, when I refer to "war" I realized I picture the trenches of WWI or the protracted battles of WWII more than the current goings-on in Iraq, for example, but perhaps my opinions apply to it all.

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May 23, 2008

Military funerals and war veteran graveyards and memorials seem to be among the few things that can almost without fail summon up a depressing cocktail of emotional extremes in me.

Tonight I want to examine exactly what I think of when I think about dead soldiers.

I am still in the process of reading Hannibal, and amidst Harris' new-found poetic bent, he wrote one editorial comment that struck me.

"Whether you believe in God or not, if you are a warrior Arlington is a sacred place, and the tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted."

The setting being Arlington National Cemetery across the river from Washington DC, as Agent Starling visits and contemplates the grave of a fallen comrade.

I have had the honor and privilege to walk amongst the snow white headstones of this cemetery, and to witness from afar a military funeral from the 21 gun salute to the folding and passing of the three-cornered American flag that draped the coffin of the fallen.

Under the privacy of my mirrored sunglasses, I cried as we watched the funeral progress. The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted.

"[Starling] wondered how many like him had been wasted by stupidity and selfishness and the bargaining of tired old men."

That is the tragedy of war. That the leaders, the people the soldiers are supposed to respect and must trust with their lives, can and do send their wards into certain death, not for true glory or honor, but to make headlines or secure an economic asset to be exploited by the sugardaddies of the politicians at a later date.

Do not let my cynicism cause a misunderstanding. I am well aware that not all authority figures are corrupt or undeserving of respect or obedience. The battlefield can allow truly great tactical minds to shine, and can also allow the bravery and compassion of the good individual to shine through.

A beautiful thing about war and combat situations, I think, is that it presents an unforgiving proving ground to the individual warrior. That individual has a chance to make a decision in a very black and white environment, a decision that can be simplified in a way very few civilian decisions can be. The warrior can cower or desert, surrender and be at the mercy of his enemy, throw his life away without having blood on his hands, or fight and try to take the life of his counterpart on the other side of the battlefield. There are no politics involved. Only that warrior, his personal moral convictions, and his personal mental strengths and weaknesses. Some warriors break down instead of making a decision. War separates out the weak from the strong very quickly, but balances this fair judgement with the cold element of chaos found in the falling shrapnel of air-burst artillery shells.

War is beautiful because it gives the warrior a chance to stare down death's gaping maw and smirk fearlessly, in that moment proving his mettle to himself, giving him, regardless of whatever else happens, the hard-won knowledge of his own personal fortitude. War is worthless because that brave warrior can be cut down by chance. War is evil because it allows the privileged and powerful to send their brothers and countrymen, farmers and teachers, to an unavoidable, bloody and terrible, haunting and traumatizing fate.

When I see a veteran's grave, I always think of combat veterans, and I find myself jealous. I want a chance to stare down the maw of death and prove my mettle to myself. I naively think I am ready to suffer the permanent damage, the further loss of innocence that this entails. I am aware of my own mortality, but I have never really been close to death. Danger, yes. Treading water without a vest over a jagged coral reef as the Pacific Ocean repeatedly crashed over my head is probably the closest I've ever been to what I want, and I am proud of my thoughts and actions in that situation.

When I see a veteran's grave, I think of combat veterans being ordered to stare down the maw of death and test their mettle, whether they are personally ready or not. They signed the forms and were passed through the bureaucracy, and thus they are bound to oblige. That is not how this is supposed to work, and it is tragic. Eighteen year old children should not be ordered to eat, to dream of, to fixate on, to live with death; they should not be ordered to become the maw of death to be stared at by others.

The closest I think I can get to hopeless despair is when I try to immerse myself in the collective sorrow felt by those who are and those who should be physically present at a military funeral.

There will always be wars and rumors of wars, until the end of time. And modern warfare especially is a cold, dehumanized, detached and bureaucratic affair. War is honest when, as the warrior takes a life, he is haunted by the knowledge that the enemy he is killing is someone he must empathize with, someone who was born and raised by parents, someone who aspired to be a firefighter when he was young and innocent. War is honest when the warriors can look each other in the eye. I foresee war becoming less and less personal, less and less honest over the course of our lifetimes. I foresee war becoming more and more terrible.