It’s Veteran’s Day, a grim, solemn holiday in my mind. We owe our soldiers, past and present, a debt of gratitude for the service they have provided and the sacrifices they have made. But I suggest that we should use the holiday less to celebrate the sacrifices they have made, admirable as they are; and more to reflect on whether the things purchased through that service and sacrifice are worth the price. When it’s (actual as opposed to rhetorical) freedom and preservation of the country, then definitely. Advancement of lesser policy goals, however, deserve closer scrutiny. Because, it’s not like we’re playing some elaborate game of Risk. We’re sending young men off to die.
In any case, Veteran’s Day always makes me think of World War I poems. So, here are a few:
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
DARK clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.You’d think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.
The Parable of the Old Man and the Young:
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned, both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake, and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets the trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
Thank you, Doug. I’ve said for a long time now that we need to return Armistice Day, even at the expense of taking it off the Federal calendar, to remember that futility and enormity are part and parcel of that Pro Patria we just can’t seem to pay enough lip service to. Just one day to reflect that all the madmen don’t have funny mustaches and aspire to global domination. Some have crowns, some are covered in brocade, and are just doing their jobs.
Second the thank you reminder, Doug. Here’s the last stanza from my new favorite.
Insensibility
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.