Open Writing

The other day, in a sylvan, waterside setting on Shelter Island, New York, I watched from my boat as a small vignette unfolded in a slip across the channel. Two small powerboats were docked side by side, and on one, an old man had just come in from a fishing trip and was stowing his rods and nets. Shortly, a young man came to the neighboring boat, carrying a bait bucket, rods and nets.

The two obviously knew one another, and though I could barely hear their conversation, it was apparent that the young man was questioning the older about where the fish were biting and what bait they were taking that day. The young man had a military bearing and close-cropped hair, and I later heard him say that he is a veteran of two stints in Iraq and would likely soon be posted to Afghanistan.

As a rule, American parents and grandparents take a much more active role in their children’s and grandchildren’s lives than did my parents or those of my contemporaries in England. Most are involved in their offspring’s sports as volunteers or just as boosters. For the most fortunate kids, being taught how to hunt, fish and handle a boat by a father or grandfather is a right of passage.

Hunting, boating and fishing in particular are enduring pastimes, long after others have been left behind with the toys of childhood. They cement a bond between fathers and sons, mentors and the mentored. In my mind ’s eye, the interaction I was watching across the water was a graphic portrayal of this. The young man listened deferentially to the old man’s advice, and it was clear that the old man understood that his expertise was respected.

There are many reasons why people volunteer to join the military. Some are drawn to a rigidly structured lifestyle, others are just born warriors, and live to fight. Still others are seeking an escape from mundane lives in rural backwaters, or hoping to secure the educational opportunities offered to veterans. Many have no clear idea of why they volunteered, except perhaps that some of their childhood cohort were already serving, or because the military offered something better than what they had for a home life.

With the possible exception of the warriors, I have to believe that the rest of the soldiers must do some soul searching once they are involved in a conflict. Squatting in a filthy outpost in the commandeered ruin of a house in Baquba, or manning a rocky outpost overlooking the Swat valley, I suspect that their thoughts often turn towards what they have given up to serve their country.

In the many articles I have read about the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts, soldiers who were interviewed frequently expressed shock at the way many people live in those countries. Some of the soldiers were from poor families themselves, but they had never been exposed to such marginal living. In a television interview, one soldier bitterly expressed his dismay at what he considered was a futile effort to bring a better life to the Iraqis. Looking around at the arid landscape and ruined buildings, almost with disgust he said “These people have nothing, nothing!

When the heat is unbearable, and dust storms blanket the sun, memories of duck hunting in the late evening mist of the wetlands, or setting out at dawn to catch an incoming tide that will bring the Bass, the Bluefish or the Shad must be heartbreaking. How long would it be, if ever, that they would again follow deer tracks in the first snowfall of winter, or wait patiently for a clean shot, or train a Labrador puppy to retrieve birds?

In an address to army cadets in the American Civil War, General William T. Sherman said "You may think that war is all glory, but it is all hell, boys." I wonder how many military recruiters would be prepared to say that to their potential recruits.

Some of war’s sacrifices are easy to comprehend – separation from loved ones, the soft caresses of a young bride, the development of a newborn child, the final years of a parent or grandparent, the possibility of injury and loss of life. But loss of life doesn’t always mean dying. It can also mean the loss of a life once lived, or that could have been lived – a marriage that didn’t survive the separation; a child that was already grown without being known; a sanity that was destroyed.

For me, World War II poet Henry Reed’s poem, “The Naming of Parts” says it all. A soldier daydreams while being instructed about the components of his rifle. I quote just one verse:

“The Naming of Parts” from “Lessons of the War”

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

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