A U.S. Navy Douglas A-4E Skyhawk from Attack Squadron 56 (VA-56) “Champions” dropping a bomb over Vietnam. VA-56 was assigned to Attack Carrier Air Wing 5 (CVW-5) aboard the aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga (CVA-14) for a deployment to Vietnam from 29 September 1965 to 13 May 1966. (U.S. Navy)
“(War) It ain’t nothing but a heartbreaker
— Whitfield and Strong
(War) Friend only to the undertaker, aww!”
When younger, I had a fascination with military history. I was seduced by the books I read fueling an attachment to derring-do and the warrior ethic, the façade of chivalry and nobility, the errant knight. One of the earliest memories is Sunday mornings with my grandmother reading the comics. Prince Valiant was her favorite and I loved it too. I was entranced by the caliber of the drawing and held by the stories that carried on week after week, year after year.
I recall a comic book print of the Iliad. Years later I revisited it in book form following the guidance of a librarian. She pointed me to the Odyssey and the Aeneid. Through her lead I discovered the world of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The tortured Tristan, my favorite, the equal of Lancelot. I was so steeped in it I chased leads like some folk devour liner notes to see who wrote the song, who played the gig.
I found El Mio Cid and the Chanson of Roland, both chivalrous and noble. Both died honorably in service to their lord. Emerson Lake and Palmer wrote a song about such folk. Lucky Man. “Of his honor and his glory, the people would sing.” I devoured Alexandre Dumas and fancied myself one in search of a quartet. “One for all, all for one.” I knew these were fantasies.
My interest stayed within the margins. I did not see the bloodshed, nor did I contemplate the consequences. I was abysmally dumb about the lethality and finality of war. Though I was aware of the Vietnam War, it was restricted by what I was allowed to see. The histories concentrated on tactics and glorious perseverance against insurmountable odds. The real dudes were like stuff of fantasy.
There was Alexander the Great, Hannibal of Carthage, Julius Caesar and Germanicus. Pyrrhus of pyrrhic victory fame was intriguing. Tamerlane, Saladin, Suleiman. Then on and on to Napoleon, Lee and Grant and world wars, and Patton and Rommel. The protagonists were cast as noble even if something else percolated beneath the surface.
And then there are the slogans which stuck in the air long after reading. “Don’t shoot ’til you see the whites of their eyes,” or “I don’t steal my victories.” “An army marches on its stomach.” Nuts. The die is cast. Over there, over there. No plan survives first contact. Etc. etc. When it comes to war, slogans fly with higher frequency than truth.
One day my curiosity took me to the place I should have gone from the start. It was a shelf of used books. I opened the regimental history of a unit that fought at Waterloo. I have a fascination with the battle, the missed opportunities that would have led to Napoleon’s victory, and the madness to
rush pell-mell into hellfire. Carnage translated as casualties in most accounts, but this memoir laid out the goriness in the most explicit details, yet in the casual way an accountant tabulates payroll.
The moment is embedded, like a slap that leaves indentations spelling “you dumb ass.” I didn’t stop reading the histories, but the underlying why of the stories became more important. How does the breaking point arrive where to kill is the expedient and only way to resolution? And who are the ones at the tables that decide? It’s surprising how small the number of deciders is. Out of billions, hardly thousands decide or have a hand; the rest have the privilege of participating, whether they want to or not.
When it comes to war and other extracurricular activities beyond the pursuit of happiness, our leaders manipulate emotions and facts, stoke prejudices, drive wedges in debates, pit one against another, with a mix of deception and control so pervasive we really do believe the grass is greener over there but for… (fill in your prejudice.) And just like paranoids, you are right, something is coming after you.
It’s the snarky snake oil salesmen who come wrapped in tricolor splendor or clutching holy books, or ledgers with names and things, and like Chicken Little crying “the sky will soon be raining balls of fire. Great balls of fire. The best and greatest there have ever been.” And so that there be no confusion, lo and behold here are the great balls of fire and you’re right — haven’t seen anything like these since the last time, except now it’s spreading. These could be the greatest balls of fire or not.
And this pitch, among many others, has worked before. Powers come practicing their mime with smugness and disdain, led by the whims of a few, bolstered by competing camps of deciders. A dangerous mix. Can the start of a war be as casual as a tantrum over a perceived threat? It’s time to feed your head because many have suffered for lesser spats than this.
Some will want to fight, others will feel compelled — guided by duty, national honor, patriotic reasons, economic reasons, or the belief a religious code is under assault. Some because they crave to kick ass, like, say, a secretary of war. The big boys dress up and talk big about honor and duty and obedience. In the face of war, you need cosplayers, and it really doesn’t matter if they have ever struggled at anything more than competitive bowling.
