| m i l i t a r y |
|
THE SOMETIMES STRAINED RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN ROTC AND ROETHKE by Eric McMillan
Every time the semester begins anew and I first step into a
classroom, there is an awkward moment almost as if everyone
is trying not to look at me. There is an automatic
uneasiness with my presence which could leave me paranoid
and self-conscious if I paid it any mind; after three
years, however, I'm getting used to it. I wear half my
identity for all to see; I've chosen to stand out, even at
the risk of alienating myself. After three years, I'm the
only devoted English major here at the university to show
up on the first day wearing a military uniform.
Some would think that unusual dress is par for the course
amongst the English major crowd. Images come to mind of
youth clad all in black expressing their angst over a cup
of Greenberry's and a Kamel Red, another silly stereotype.
But whether the others in my class know it or not, they
also wear a kind of uniform. Be they highly commercial and
conventional or anti-establishment, their uniforms are as
much an expression of who they are and what they stand for
as mine. I too value free thinking, discontent with the
systems in our lives, and the belief that within art, the
attempt to give expression to the ineffable, there lies the
possibility of redemption.
People don't want to hear that from the guy dressed in the
starched Battle Dress Uniform and polished combat boots.
People here don't expect cadets to be eloquent or capable
of the deeper thoughts and feelings of poetry. It's too
anachronistic, as if the only lines I should be able to
recite come from Tennyson: "Theirs not to make reply, /
Theirs not to reason why / Theirs but to do and die."
The warrior-poet should be an extinguished race, long ago
slaughtered amongst the innocents first pitted against the
horrors of modern warfare. As Wilfred Owen, a famous WWI
poet, once wrote, there is nothing left for war except
pity: "the Poetry is in the pity ... All a poet can do
today is warn." Now, the warrior-poet has been replaced by
the warrior-witness, the shellshocked and victimized
soldiers of the battlefield whose collective testament is
that nothing is so important as to be worth the absurdity
of war.
The course of this powerful modern protest has rendered the
future officers of today's Army nothing more than
stereotypically mindless servants of a military machine
which most freethinking intellectuals despise. It leads one
to ask questions: what could be so important that it would
make anyone want to risk becoming a sacrifice? Why would
anyone want to wear that uniform? Our generation no longer
has any appreciation of why it is important that some --
even from the intelligentsia -- choose the military.
What comes as a difficult decision for any individual to
make, to put on the uniform and serve the people, comes as
even more of a paradox to one devoted to the study of
literature. After all, what could an English major have to
offer the Army? How will my knowledge of Shakespeare or
Wordsworth or Eliot make me a better officer?
It was while I was sent to Germany as a tank platoon leader
for a month this summer that I began to confirm the answers
I've given to all of those questions. My job description
read: "In charge of the lives of sixteen men and twelve
million dollars' worth of equipment" (not a bad entry level
position for any college grad). One day while conducting
maintenance inspections on the tanks, I learned that one of
my soldiers had been injured in a motorcycle accident on his
way to work that day and had been taken to a German
hospital. Being responsible for his welfare, I had to
inform his family of what happened, talk to his doctors in
the hospital (which presented its own difficulties since I
don't speak German), coordinate his recovery treatment with
the American military hospital, ensure that his insurance
would cover the treatment, talk to both German and military
police to see if he faced any legal actions, and follow up
on any damages.
What that lesson illustrated to me is that the military is
a business about people. I do my job because I know how
badly I'm needed out there. My platoon consisted of the
kids in high school you probably overlooked, the ones with
no sense of inner drive or direction. Most of them would be
trapped in a horrible existence if it weren't for the
direction they have found in the Army. My soldiers from
this summer have all kinds of personal problems you and I
would shudder to think about facing -- troubled pasts, drug
addictions, unwanted pregnancies, families to provide for,
and bills to pay on truly measly salaries, to name a few.
This is the place where an English major can really make a
difference. What other course of study better prepares you
for the awesome responsibility of command? To study
literature is to study the human condition -- not only its
politics, cultures, and psychology as comprehended by the
mind, but also its passions, fears, and hopes as
comprehended by the heart. When you are responsible for
lives, you must be in touch with life.
Don't believe for a minute that I am being naïve, that I
have no appreciation for the demands and sacrifices of the
profession of arms. I've faced challenges far tougher than
your average twentysomething has, and believe me, it's only
just begun. I don't do the jumping out of planes, rappelling
from helicopters or the weekends and summers of combat
drills with a big ass ruck on my back and an M16 in my
hands to inflate my sense of machismo. This is a deadly
serious business, one to which I've already lost people
I've known and cared about.
This summer while I was out training I received word that
one of my comrades who had graduated a couple of years back
had been killed when his helicopter went down in a storm
over Korea. Norm Flecker was one of the best leaders I've
met here at the university, a true role model the likes of
whom can never be duplicated -- and he's dead now and
nothing can change that. Lately, when I think about Norm I
think about the same thing -- he, like myself, faced the
realities of wearing the uniform. No matter what the
consequences, he chose to wear it. His twin brother, Al,
who is also assigned to a flight unit in Korea, still wears
his uniform despite the unfathomable loss he's suffered.
Norm didn't do his job because his mind had been filled
with numbing propaganda or because he was naïve but because
he believed in the importance of taking care of soldiers.
His death comes as a great tragedy, one of those things
that never should happen but does, especially in this line
of work. Though the abject horror of it all still haunts
me, I remember the exceptional human being who gave of
himself freely through doing his duty. He made a
difference, and to me this is the only consolation in
fitting his life with his death.
I won't ever try and twist anyone's arm into being an Army
officer because not everyone can do it. I respect those who
decide that the burden is too much to ask. Even those of us
who follow the harsh masters of duty and discipline wonder
day to day if we can. Here again my English major proves
useful. Only one thing has never left or failed me, time
and again preserving what's left of my sanity, my humanity,
and my hope -- a number of sacrosanct lines of poetry which
cleave to my heart.
In many ways the responsibilities of the officer are
analogous to those of the poet. Lawrence Ferlingetti's
tightrope walker in "A Coney Island of the Mind" serves as
an excellent illustration of what I mean. Both poet and
warrior are "constantly risking absurdity and death ... [he
is] the super realist who must perforce perceive taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step." Poetry is often
seen, especially in the (post)modern era, as an expression
of the self abstracted from society, an act of egocentrism.
But both poet and warrior need vision and are in some way
bound by an internal compulsion to serve their fellow man,
even if they fail to completely understand their fellow
man. The struggle to become selfless lends meaning to what
could otherwise be considered an absurd quest. I believe
that, perhaps, the need for the warrior-poet has not
completely disappeared. Someone must bridge the chasm which
lies between the realms of men and words. I stand at the
ready.
|
back to Decweb main |
