This is post #1,001 here at Hotweir.com. I can't believe I didn't notice yesterday that we had reached a milestone, but there you have it; I've been so busily engaged in my new job that I missed what should have been a moment of celebration.
When I was a young teenager, my cousins George, Jr., Dan, and Gordon and I had one of those conversations that only young boys have. We discussed the various ways we might die and which one would be preferable. My memory may well be flawed, but I believe we all agreed that dying in the service of our country would be the best way to go.
I probably still held this view when I started attending classes at the University of Michigan in the fall of 1965, because I was (1) naive, (2) conservative by nature, and (3) pro-war, in the sense that I agreed with the 1964 GOP Presidential candidate Barry Goldwater's proposal to drop a nuclear bomb on Vietnam.
But, in this new environment, where people were openly debating every sort of question, for the first time in my life I was able to honestly reflect about what my own beliefs were. Slowly, I came to realize that I was, both by instinct and experience, an outsider.
In January 1966, an older friend on campus, Ed Herstein, and I went to the basement restaurant in the Student Union, where we discussed all the pluses and minuses of my country's war in Vietnam.
I emerged from that conversation, based in logic, as an opponent of that war. And that has made all of the difference ever since.
5 comments:
War: My View (1)
Being an “outsider” sounds so sad to me. But then, perhaps you'll be tempted to feel some form of sympathy toward me when I've reflected on my younger life here.
You excelled in high school (scholarships to U of M aren't all that easy to come by). I graduated #623 out of 628 in my senior class. I had no clue what I was going to do. Still I was a happy guy. In many respects I very much resembled a Forest Gump character (except I didn't have his excuse).
On the evening of our commencement it was my senior English teacher's task to line us up in preparation to walk, two by two, to the stage. Intent on her task, she did not notice me at first. In that moment when Susan (my partner) and I arrived in front of her, as she hurriedly emphasized that we needed to keep our gate uniform and dignified, and gave our appearance a final critical inspection, her eyes froze on my face. She let out a gasp, “Oh!... Dan!...” followed in a hushed tone with, “Well, I guess it's too late now”. In hind sight, she was right and I was clueless. At 17-1/2 years, there was nothing in my performance to encourage anyone to think I was ready to become an adult.
I took some junior college courses and worked at some odd jobs for a while, but remained pretty much clueless. At 19-1/2 it seemed to me that becoming a combat helicopter pilot would give my life purpose and my self esteem some footing. Successfully completing the requirements, the Army gave me a contract and shipped me off to basic training. That reality was pretty rude to idiots. I couldn't shirk anything there, and I was not a happy guy. Waking up, that Forest side of me wasn't much prettier to look at either; inside at least, I was sounding like that calvary guy in the old Johnny Preston song, “Please Mr. Custer, I don't wanna go!”
But I had a contract and go I would.
War: My View (II)
It is altogether fitting, for me, to be writing today, this 4th of July, of my youthful impressions of war.
At a time when I wandered almost aimlessly with my skills in reality avoidance elevated to near art, I had unwittingly planted my feet in the path of some of the ugliest of human activity. My mind worked overtime, to no avail, in the effort to seek shelter from the looming storms. There are actions one may take, occasionally, with scant preparation and too little thought, which have fearful consequences. My propensity to take such action was more than occasional.
Eight weeks of basic training was no fun; engaging my reluctant mind in a disciplined lifestyle was painful. My contract said I was going to flight school via a warrant officer candidacy training program to last 9 months with discipline elevated by geometric factors. And, even if by some miracle I managed to complete the flight training, my contract then bound me to 4 years as a pilot with 2 of those probably in combat. The word dread was added to my anemic vocabulary.
Discipline for candidates at Fort Walters (Texas) was everything advertised, and more. Reveille at 5:55 AM, formation at 6 AM in sharp crisp uniform, with bunk and locker ready for inspection as well. No superhuman effort could make a new candidate much more than a pathetic, worthless worm. Thousands of America's best went through this program with great success; thousands of others would not. I had a contract with an escape clause – if, for any reason, I didn't complete the flight training I fell back to a 2 year enlistment option with a choice of alternate duty. I'm not sure if it was the 500 demerits given for my less than stellar boot shine one day, or the breakfast I was denied for “being out of uniform” on another day, but 2 weeks into the program I exercised my option.
Reassigned to a holding company, I was given a card on which to write 3 alternate duty choices with the ominous warning, “Choose carefully. If there are no openings in the areas you select, you'll automatically go to infantry.” I consulted everyone I thought might know and the leading advice was military police. Word was they needed MPs and it was a safe bet. Better yet, a lot of MPs were getting assignments in Europe. Another dropout acquaintance I new selected clerk school - against all the best advice; he was apparently more skilled at reality avoidance. My advice was right on and I got orders for MP training. Thanks, Mr. Custer!
I met up with that hapless dropout acquaintance, clerk wannabe, at Fort Dix, New Jersey after graduating from military police training. My acumen for making a well informed choice on display in my newly awarded MP insignia (albeit with orders to Vietnam), his offer to buy me a drink out of pity may have seemed misplaced. But his condolences were sincere, you see, because he got clerical training and orders to Europe! “Please, Mr. Custer!”.
War: My View (III)
By now it must be clear that most of my courage was imagined and tended to evaporate instantly in the face of reality. All that I've described so far has been the heavenly side of soldiering; training, pretending, with meals and a cot provided – nary a threatening word so long as you comport to the disciplined structure and your (small) role within it.
But my mind said I wanted to be with the young love of my life, my high school sweetheart, because she represented everything a furtive young male imagination thought good and valued in life. (Somehow, the drill sergeants and training officers fell short in that category.) That youthful genius of mine, that artful skill of dodging reality, was tapped out. There was no escaping from the path I chose, it was clear that I would finally have to screw up real courage, somehow, to face the storms without losing control of my bodily functions in front of others. And I had no clue.
Anger is a fascinating human tool, mostly misunderstood and misused. It brings all of natures' force to the ready, available to sustain you to do that which you could never otherwise do. I discovered, quite by accident, that an effective way to handle fear is by channeling anger. It takes practice, lots of practice. My first exposures to violence were typical; overwhelmed with terror, I forgot most of what the Army tried to teach me. It was my good fortune that in those few moments of mind numbing fear, my response – or lack thereof – was of no importance to anyone else. But I knew. And I was desperate to change.
In a few weeks time I was to discover the key to anger; there is only one trigger for it in the human psyche and that is fear. If you need to kill someone (assuming you're not into killing for pleasure) you must bring your rage to the surface immediately. You need to be frightened of him, or what he will do if you fail. You need to learn to channel that real fear instantly into a controlled rage. American soldiers were at a disadvantage until they learned. Too many have died before having the chance to learn.
“...mens' souls will be shaken by the violences of war, for these men are lately drawn from the ways of peace...” - Franklin Roosevelt, from his D-Day prayer.
In September, 1968 I woke up in Oakland, California. My first morning back home on US soil. Facing a day of Army routine - stand in this line, wait in that room – I was on cloud 9. I had survived. I was being discharged that day... the Army didn't need me any more. My whole life was ahead and the fear, the depressing belief held for so long that I would not survive, was lifted. Never had I experienced such euphoria. Walking to the mess hall for breakfast, a young corporal yelled at me that I was out of uniform and demanded I put my hat on. His uniform said he had not been overseas, and that rage thing briefly struck me. I thought, “Damn, I could actually kill him, and he doesn't have a clue.” I laughed and put my hat on; I didn't have to kill anyone that day.
War: My View (Epilogue)
It was a different time. My flight landed at Detroit Metro and I disembarked in my dress uniform. No one paid particular attention until a young soldier wearing MP insignia on his lapel saw mine and approached me. He saw my valor ribbon and gushed about wishing he would get orders to go “over there”. I felt a twinge of pride, but it was quickly extinguished by a sense of dread. I didn't want to talk to him... he didn't have a clue. The memories were too fresh, too depressing, and I was anxious to get home (lost skills in reality avoidance returned very quickly, very naturally). That chapter of my life was over and I wanted nothing to do with it any more. Just get rid of the uniform and lock the rest out of sight.
The baggage carousel took forever, but at length my things came into view. I slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and my war trophy (a captured assault rifle) over my other and quickly made my way upstairs to find a cab. When was the last time you could walk through an airport with an assault rifle?
The depression I spoke of is something most “citizen soldiers” go through during lengthy combat deployments. It's a defense mechanism that kicks in days or weeks into the experience, as you stop thinking about home and concentrate on living day to day. Back then, without as much communication capability, it was easier to do (I frankly don't understand how our great young warriors deal with it today). Instead of worrying about surviving, you become fatalistic about the possibilities and push the tension out of your conscious thinking.
War is insane. Every American citizen soldier will attest to this. Why would any civilized society throw its youth into the path of such evil? The answer is easy to understand, if difficult to accept, when you're an American: There is some evil in the hearts of all men, and much evil in the hearts of some men.
There are ruthless thugs and wanton, selfish leaders still at work in many countries yet today. They will kill and terrorize anyone who threatens them or their hold on power. America has long been chief among the threats to these grotesque twisted pieces of human waste. For all of our missteps, we are yet the shining example of what may be; generation upon generation of peace loving people, industrious, innovative. Our generosity as a people is legend; we have lavished our fortunes and our blood on many other countries for most of our existence. Our history speaks of this very clearly, that we fiercely defend our own freedom and we value the freedom of others. No tyrant can well abide the threat we pose.
Until all peoples are shrouded in the rule of law – not that of petty thugs or an elite few, but law of the people who live within it – we will have to fight against the evil that is. That evil, my friend, is very real and will consume us if we allow it.
Correction:
In my first post I refered to the "Mr. Custer" song as performed by Johnny Preston. It was actually Larry Verne. (Johnny Preston sang "Running Bear" - same ancient era, several lifetimes ago.)
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