I just finished re-reading George Orwell’s 1984. As my son is introduced to literature like All Quiet on the Western Front and 1984 in his sophomore English class, I am re-introduced to these books. We don’t talk about them too much, my son and I (he’s deep in that uncommunicative teenage phase), but I see the books lying around and pick them up, remember where I was when I first read them. Times change, cultural tools change, governments fall or reinvent themselves, world leaders enter and exit the stage, but these enduring books remind us that regardless of era or place or circumstance, people largely remain the same.
As I was reading 1984 I was reminded of how necessary it is for a nation to have an enemy. For four decades or so America feared the Soviet Union and Soviet-style communism, that grey, humorless KGB-Gulag-police state that lay like a heavy blanket across Eastern Europe, and we devoted economic, political and military resources to contain the Soviet threat wherever in the world it reared its head. Our spies shadowed their spies; our nuclear arsenal kept pace with theirs, warhead for warhead and tank for tank; our proxy states matched up against theirs. Tensions rose, tensions fell, but during the Cold War we always knew where to find our nemesis.
And then the Soviets invaded Afghanistan and got bogged down for nearly a decade in a hostile land that would not bend to their will, their centrally planned economy failed to expand as promised, Gorbachev began to loosen the reins of State control, the Soviet edifice creaked and cracked, the Iron Curtain went up in flames and the Berlin Wall crumbled.
Our primary global adversary had morphed into a free market opportunity.
But as if to prove that nature abhors a vacuum, a new bogeyman arose to take Communism’s place: radical Islam, represented by bearded men in flowing robes, with sandals on their feet and ammunition belts draped across their chests, AK-47’s held at port arms, and defiance in their eyes. Jihad, they cried. God is great and Death To America. Our new enemy, everywhere and nowhere, moving in the shadows and on the margins, until they brought the Twin Towers down and instigated the worldwide, never-ending War on Terror, which -- to bring this back to 1984 -- is reminiscent of Oceania’s ceaseless war against its enemies.
The other eerie echo of 1984 lies in the grotesquely oversized American surveillance state, much of it contracted out to private companies with minimal accountability. By now, most Americans grasp that our government routinely eavesdrops on domestic phone conversations, e-mail messages, tweets, Facebook posts, and other on-line activity, though little public protest has resulted from this massive assault against personal privacy. Posters of Big Brother may not be everywhere in contemporary America, but Big Brother is definitely watching and listening, ever alert for allusions, hints, associations or phrases that might be a harbinger of another attack. In a war without end, the threat never abates, and the citizenry is exhorted to exchange constitutionally protected freedoms for the illusion of security; thus it becomes permissible for the President of the United States to authorize the killing of American citizens on foreign ground, without bringing formal charges in a court of law; or authorize the military to indefinitely detain American citizens suspected of subversion or alliance with our enemies, right here on home soil. The current occupant of the White House assures us that he will never abuse these extraordinary powers, but once the genie escapes the bottle, there’s no telling what might happen two or four or six years from now.
Fanatics are always dangerous, and it makes little difference whether those fanatics are Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Capitalist or Communist, wild-eyed oil drillers or tree huggers; fanatics become blind to any cause but their own, and in the fanatical mind, the means always justifies the ends.
I fear America has passed a dangerous marker in its history as a functioning democracy, but outside of the ACLU and writers like Christopher Hedges, few people recognize the peril we are doing to ourselves. True liberty and total security from external threats are antithetical. Rights once relinquished don’t return. It’s worth quoting Christopher Hedges here:
“Totalitarian systems always begin by rewriting the law. They make legal what was once illegal. Crimes become patriotic acts. The defense of freedom and truth becomes a crime. Foreign and domestic subjugation merges into the same brutal mechanism. Citizens are colonized. And it is always done in the name of national security.”
I want to believe that Hedges is overstating his case, but I don’t think he is. Orwell described a dystopian country engaged in perpetual wars, constant surveillance of its people, and total control of information; citizens only knew what the Party wanted them to know. As I said before, all of this seems eerily familiar in contemporary America; we are at perpetual war with Muslim fanatics, under watch by our own government, and subjected to a corporate-owned media that filters, distorts and misinforms.
Very eerie indeed.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
POEM: Later Than We Think
Empires rise and empires fall
Roman, Ottoman, British
The American empire lies on its deathbed
Heartbeat faint, breathing labored
Fingers growing cold
The powerful divide us and conquer us
With the politics of fear
Pit us one against the other
Tell us we are not our brother’s keeper
Ayn Rand’s twisted morality spills
From gilded lips
They divide us with God and unborn
Babies
Gay marriage and evolution
Gun control and contraception
Race and the color line
While we bicker at the margins,
They plunder and hoard
Destroy the commons on which
We all depend
Time to stand and be counted
Time to stand and be heard
Time to stand and be seen
Our flag still flies
But it doesn’t mean what it once
Did
The wine of our exceptionalism
Has gone rancid in the cask
Money bought the government
And the government delivers the spoils
To the doorstep of its masters
One nation under dollars,
Divisible
With property and prosperity
For the privileged few
Begrudged scraps for the many
Too much money in too few hands
Every banana republic’s time-honored recipe
Time to stand and be counted
Time to stand and be heard
Time to stand and be seen
It’s later than we think
It’s later than we think
It’s later than we think
Roman, Ottoman, British
The American empire lies on its deathbed
Heartbeat faint, breathing labored
Fingers growing cold
The powerful divide us and conquer us
With the politics of fear
Pit us one against the other
Tell us we are not our brother’s keeper
Ayn Rand’s twisted morality spills
From gilded lips
They divide us with God and unborn
Babies
Gay marriage and evolution
Gun control and contraception
Race and the color line
While we bicker at the margins,
They plunder and hoard
Destroy the commons on which
We all depend
Time to stand and be counted
Time to stand and be heard
Time to stand and be seen
Our flag still flies
But it doesn’t mean what it once
Did
The wine of our exceptionalism
Has gone rancid in the cask
Money bought the government
And the government delivers the spoils
To the doorstep of its masters
One nation under dollars,
Divisible
With property and prosperity
For the privileged few
Begrudged scraps for the many
Too much money in too few hands
Every banana republic’s time-honored recipe
Time to stand and be counted
Time to stand and be heard
Time to stand and be seen
It’s later than we think
It’s later than we think
It’s later than we think
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Gluten Free
When I pulled into the driveway my ten-year-old daughter was waiting for me, arms crossed over her chest, a grumpy look on her face.
“Thanks a lot, dad,” she said before storming off.
“What’s the deal with our daughter?” I asked my wife when I walked into the house.
“Chloe can’t come over for any more play dates,” she said. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault? How can it be my fault? I couldn’t pick Chloe out of a police lineup if my life depended on it. Which one is Chloe? Why can’t she come over?”
“Because you called the President of the United States a pussy, that’s why,” my wife said.
“I did?”
“Yes, you did, in one of your blog entries. Chloe’s mother read it and was horrified. She thinks you’re a dangerous crank.”
I sat down at the kitchen table. “Well, that’s preposterous. Crank, yes; dangerous, no. Chloe’s mother read my blog?”
“She Googled your name and the Balcony popped up. Apparently, she runs background checks as a matter of routine because she thinks Santa Barbara is filled with perverts and illegal aliens – particularly on our end of Milpas Street.”
My wife set a bottle of petite syrah and two wine glasses on the kitchen table.
“Miranda’s in a dither. She’s lost her BFF. Last week Chloe was her mortal enemy and now she can’t live without her. Alliances change fast in fifth grade.”
“Have I met Chloe’s mother?” I asked.
My wife said -- her voice laden with sarcasm -- that I would have met Twyla Thorn if I were more involved in our daughter’s social life. Meaning, she explained in the same sarcastic tone, the endless phone calls and e-mails and text messages to coordinate pick-ups and drop-offs and sleepovers.
“I’m not emotionally equipped to deal with other parents,” I said. “You have more empathy and patience than I do, which allows you to connect with people easily.”
“That,” my wife said, “is a crock.”
“There’s an entire protocol to play dates that I will never understand,” I said.
“If you don’t stop talking I’m going to get really angry.”
“Admittedly, my character is hopelessly flawed,” I said. I poured wine in her glass. “Tell me about Chloe’s mother.”
In addition to being PTA president and chief fundraiser for the elementary school, Twyla was the wife of a super successful plastic surgeon (offices in Beverly Hills and Santa Barbara), and mistress of a nine-room, colonial style house on four acres in Mission Canyon. In her spare time, she ran marathons and rode horses and raised orchids. She was a committed, proselytizing vegan, and every Tuesday afternoon could be found at the farmer’s market on State Street, shopping for organic fruits and vegetables.
“Now I know who Chloe is,” I said. “She’s the lactose intolerant one!”
“That’s right. Twyla’s one of those stridently anti-gluten types. She gives very detailed instructions on what Chloe can and cannot eat.”
“Glutenites can be very self-righteous,” I said.
“Feeding Chloe is a nightmare.”
“I guess you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” I said. “I can’t believe Twyla Googled me. Seems a bit paranoid.”
“Maybe. She despises Obama, by the way. Buys into the whole Muslim-Socialist-Foreigner narrative. She voted for McCain in 2008 and – you’ll love this --- she believes Sarah Palin is the only person who can save America from social disintegration.”
“And she thinks I’m a crank? If she’s a Palin fan why is she so exercised about my calling Obama a pussy?”
“You insulted the office.”
“She took umbrage,” I suggested.
“Extreme umbrage,” said my wife. “But, look on the bright side – someone read your blog.”
“Ouch! Let me ask you something about play dates. When you take the girls to the movies are you obligated to buy Miranda’s friend whatever she wants? Suppose she demands a super-size slushy, a corn dog, a bag of M&M’s and a Snicker’s bar all at the same time?”
My wife sighed. I try her patience. “You have the right to be an adult and set reasonable boundaries,” she said.
“This would make a good blog subject,” I said. “Play dates, parents, the unwritten rules of reciprocity. I could do something with this.”
“Please don’t,” my wife said. “Please.”
I should listen to her.
“Thanks a lot, dad,” she said before storming off.
“What’s the deal with our daughter?” I asked my wife when I walked into the house.
“Chloe can’t come over for any more play dates,” she said. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault? How can it be my fault? I couldn’t pick Chloe out of a police lineup if my life depended on it. Which one is Chloe? Why can’t she come over?”
“Because you called the President of the United States a pussy, that’s why,” my wife said.
“I did?”
“Yes, you did, in one of your blog entries. Chloe’s mother read it and was horrified. She thinks you’re a dangerous crank.”
I sat down at the kitchen table. “Well, that’s preposterous. Crank, yes; dangerous, no. Chloe’s mother read my blog?”
“She Googled your name and the Balcony popped up. Apparently, she runs background checks as a matter of routine because she thinks Santa Barbara is filled with perverts and illegal aliens – particularly on our end of Milpas Street.”
My wife set a bottle of petite syrah and two wine glasses on the kitchen table.
“Miranda’s in a dither. She’s lost her BFF. Last week Chloe was her mortal enemy and now she can’t live without her. Alliances change fast in fifth grade.”
“Have I met Chloe’s mother?” I asked.
My wife said -- her voice laden with sarcasm -- that I would have met Twyla Thorn if I were more involved in our daughter’s social life. Meaning, she explained in the same sarcastic tone, the endless phone calls and e-mails and text messages to coordinate pick-ups and drop-offs and sleepovers.
“I’m not emotionally equipped to deal with other parents,” I said. “You have more empathy and patience than I do, which allows you to connect with people easily.”
“That,” my wife said, “is a crock.”
“There’s an entire protocol to play dates that I will never understand,” I said.
“If you don’t stop talking I’m going to get really angry.”
“Admittedly, my character is hopelessly flawed,” I said. I poured wine in her glass. “Tell me about Chloe’s mother.”
In addition to being PTA president and chief fundraiser for the elementary school, Twyla was the wife of a super successful plastic surgeon (offices in Beverly Hills and Santa Barbara), and mistress of a nine-room, colonial style house on four acres in Mission Canyon. In her spare time, she ran marathons and rode horses and raised orchids. She was a committed, proselytizing vegan, and every Tuesday afternoon could be found at the farmer’s market on State Street, shopping for organic fruits and vegetables.
“Now I know who Chloe is,” I said. “She’s the lactose intolerant one!”
“That’s right. Twyla’s one of those stridently anti-gluten types. She gives very detailed instructions on what Chloe can and cannot eat.”
“Glutenites can be very self-righteous,” I said.
“Feeding Chloe is a nightmare.”
“I guess you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” I said. “I can’t believe Twyla Googled me. Seems a bit paranoid.”
“Maybe. She despises Obama, by the way. Buys into the whole Muslim-Socialist-Foreigner narrative. She voted for McCain in 2008 and – you’ll love this --- she believes Sarah Palin is the only person who can save America from social disintegration.”
“And she thinks I’m a crank? If she’s a Palin fan why is she so exercised about my calling Obama a pussy?”
“You insulted the office.”
“She took umbrage,” I suggested.
“Extreme umbrage,” said my wife. “But, look on the bright side – someone read your blog.”
“Ouch! Let me ask you something about play dates. When you take the girls to the movies are you obligated to buy Miranda’s friend whatever she wants? Suppose she demands a super-size slushy, a corn dog, a bag of M&M’s and a Snicker’s bar all at the same time?”
My wife sighed. I try her patience. “You have the right to be an adult and set reasonable boundaries,” she said.
“This would make a good blog subject,” I said. “Play dates, parents, the unwritten rules of reciprocity. I could do something with this.”
“Please don’t,” my wife said. “Please.”
I should listen to her.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Fire on the Water
My wife turned fifty a few days ago and we drove up the coast to celebrate. We left our children with their grandparents and hit the 101 north, along the Gaviota coast, with the ocean on one side and green hills on the other. We had two bottles of wine and a bottle of champagne, a couple of books, my iPad and Kindle Fire, and no obligations for two days. Chris Whitley was singing on the stereo; the sun shone through the windshield.
Every time I drive through San Simeon and see Hearst Castle high on the hill, I think of the laborers who hauled all the cement and lumber and pipe and nails and plaster and tile up that long, winding and – at the time – dirt road, and the craftsmen who turned all those raw materials into WR Hearst’s castle. Years and money, money and years, hundreds of trips up the hill, Hearst forever changing his mind, always wanting bigger and more grandiose. It’s hard to believe one man was so wealthy that he owned homes all over the country, warehouses full of artifacts, sculptures, paintings and tapestries, and hundreds of thousands of rolling acres in and around San Simeon – a ranch as large as a medieval kingdom. Thinking about the scale of the Hearst holdings staggers me every time.
The best thing about being in Big Sur – besides the raw beauty of the country and a visit to the Henry Miller Memorial Library – was being out of cell phone range, without access to the Internet, away from TV’s and newspapers, canned laughter and advertising. Time slows in Big Sur and one’s mind can get quiet enough to hear a different inner dialogue. We stayed at the Ragged Point Inn and the window of our room looked over a rocky cove. The tide rolled in and made a sucking sound when it went out, sea birds wheeled in the breeze and turkey vultures soared along the cliff line. We sat on the balcony with our books and a bottle of wine, our feet on the railing, completely at peace.
In the world we left behind, wheels turned and engines coughed, phones chirped and trilled, siblings bickered and parents quarreled, lovers made love, and sparrows built nests; Romney and Santorum and Gingrich and Paul played on, each trying to prove that he is the true Uber-Conservative, the Pure One who will bow to the financial markets, dismantle public education, privatize Social Security, bomb Iran, roll back the clock on reproductive rights, and dynamite the wall that separates church and state.
In far away Afghanistan, a deranged US soldier loaded his weapon and left his base without being seen by any of his comrades, and launched a killing spree that left 16 Afghan civilians dead. This is how military occupations generally end; sooner or later the occupier commits an atrocity the locals will not tolerate.
On our last night, we waited until nearly sunset and drove up Highway 1, climbing and then dipping, while the last of the day’s light set fire to the water.
Every time I drive through San Simeon and see Hearst Castle high on the hill, I think of the laborers who hauled all the cement and lumber and pipe and nails and plaster and tile up that long, winding and – at the time – dirt road, and the craftsmen who turned all those raw materials into WR Hearst’s castle. Years and money, money and years, hundreds of trips up the hill, Hearst forever changing his mind, always wanting bigger and more grandiose. It’s hard to believe one man was so wealthy that he owned homes all over the country, warehouses full of artifacts, sculptures, paintings and tapestries, and hundreds of thousands of rolling acres in and around San Simeon – a ranch as large as a medieval kingdom. Thinking about the scale of the Hearst holdings staggers me every time.
The best thing about being in Big Sur – besides the raw beauty of the country and a visit to the Henry Miller Memorial Library – was being out of cell phone range, without access to the Internet, away from TV’s and newspapers, canned laughter and advertising. Time slows in Big Sur and one’s mind can get quiet enough to hear a different inner dialogue. We stayed at the Ragged Point Inn and the window of our room looked over a rocky cove. The tide rolled in and made a sucking sound when it went out, sea birds wheeled in the breeze and turkey vultures soared along the cliff line. We sat on the balcony with our books and a bottle of wine, our feet on the railing, completely at peace.
In the world we left behind, wheels turned and engines coughed, phones chirped and trilled, siblings bickered and parents quarreled, lovers made love, and sparrows built nests; Romney and Santorum and Gingrich and Paul played on, each trying to prove that he is the true Uber-Conservative, the Pure One who will bow to the financial markets, dismantle public education, privatize Social Security, bomb Iran, roll back the clock on reproductive rights, and dynamite the wall that separates church and state.
In far away Afghanistan, a deranged US soldier loaded his weapon and left his base without being seen by any of his comrades, and launched a killing spree that left 16 Afghan civilians dead. This is how military occupations generally end; sooner or later the occupier commits an atrocity the locals will not tolerate.
On our last night, we waited until nearly sunset and drove up Highway 1, climbing and then dipping, while the last of the day’s light set fire to the water.
Friday, March 02, 2012
The Long & Dubious War
I found the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, in my son’s room, sandwiched between a biology textbook and a sheaf of math notes. I first read All Quiet when I was 18 or 19, a few years older than my son is now; at the time I was stationed at Yokota Air Base in Japan, and by happenstance I found the novel in the base library and checked it out because I had heard it was a classic.
My son was assigned All Quiet in his English class, and perhaps for that reason he found the novel “boring” and “tedious” though I give him credit for having the sense not to call it “irrelevant”, a term he often uses to describe his sophomore classes. Having no more need of it, he gladly loaned me the copy, and so, putting aside a volume of essays by Christopher Hitchens, I began reading All Quiet for the second time in my life.
The United States has been “at war” continuously for the past eleven years, in several countries, all of them Muslim. Afghanistan came first, of course, and then Iraq, and then, in no particular order -- Yemen, Pakistan, and Libya. The results have been sketchy at best, the objectives ever changing, and the milestones and timelines for exit elusive.
It’s astonishing to realize that the United States has been fighting in Afghanistan twice as long as World War I lasted. Obviously, the death toll in Afghanistan – on both sides – pales in comparison to the nine million or so human beings slaughtered in World War I. As any reader of All Quiet knows, slaughter is the correct word. Heavy artillery, poison gas, machine guns, grenades, tanks, bayonets; rain, snow, mud, disease, malnutrition; attack and counter-attack; and death, death, death, on all sides.
The civilian population during World War I also suffered, and this stands as a central difference between warfare in 1914 – 1918 and today. Food was often scarce in the countries at war in 1914, as were other everyday comforts. Able-bodied men were conscripted and sent to the front. Few civilians escaped some form of sacrifice for the war effort, and few emerged at the end of hostilities without suffering loss in one form or another.
Contrast that with modern, American-style warfare. Over the last eleven years, Americans have not been asked to sacrifice at all, and except for the constant tributes to our “brave men and women in uniform”, our “valiant warriors”, one could hardly guess we are a nation at war at all. Collective suffering is avoided because our wars are fought by an all-volunteer military – a professional standing army – backed by a multitude of contractors for hire. If the draft had been in effect in 2001 and 2003, it’s unlikely we would have invaded Afghanistan and then Iraq so cavalierly because there would have been a tangible cost, and undoubtedly a popular backlash against open-ended conflicts with a tactic rather than an enemy.
The war in Afghanistan drags on and on because the politicians and generals cannot devise a way to extract our troops without admitting failure. They assure us progress is being made, that the Afghans are nearly ready to assume responsibility for their own security, and that the Taliban is on the run. (After eleven years and billions of dollars expended, not to mention lives on both sides, wouldn’t you expect to see concrete results?) Of course our political and military leaders cannot admit the whole thing was a wretched mistake born of hubris and desire for revenge after 9/11, because to speak the hard, unvarnished truth would undermine many of our sacred beliefs and institutions. Imagine a government spokesperson informing a mother or sister or wife that her son, brother or husband died needlessly. “We regret to inform you that your son was killed because our nation’s politicians are cowardly and stupid.” No, the politicians and generals must make us believe the cause is noble even if it isn’t, just as they sell us the fantasy that in only one more year – or eighteen months at most -- the Afghans will be ready to defend themselves, allowing us to depart with honor.
The lads in Paul Baumer’s company had no beef against their French or Russian counterparts, not as individuals anyway. Soldiers were pretty much the same, regardless of the flag they fought for; they were called up, they went, they fought, they experienced terror and relief, saw comrades mutilated and killed, and each of them desperately wanted to survive to return to the life they had once known. The truth was that prime ministers, presidents, monarchs, industrialists and generals instigated wars and dispatched young men to fight and die in them.
As one of Paul’s comrades said, “There must be some people to whom the war is useful.”
World War I was never out of sight or mind; the same can’t be said for America’s long and dubious war against Muslim terrorists.
My son was assigned All Quiet in his English class, and perhaps for that reason he found the novel “boring” and “tedious” though I give him credit for having the sense not to call it “irrelevant”, a term he often uses to describe his sophomore classes. Having no more need of it, he gladly loaned me the copy, and so, putting aside a volume of essays by Christopher Hitchens, I began reading All Quiet for the second time in my life.
The United States has been “at war” continuously for the past eleven years, in several countries, all of them Muslim. Afghanistan came first, of course, and then Iraq, and then, in no particular order -- Yemen, Pakistan, and Libya. The results have been sketchy at best, the objectives ever changing, and the milestones and timelines for exit elusive.
It’s astonishing to realize that the United States has been fighting in Afghanistan twice as long as World War I lasted. Obviously, the death toll in Afghanistan – on both sides – pales in comparison to the nine million or so human beings slaughtered in World War I. As any reader of All Quiet knows, slaughter is the correct word. Heavy artillery, poison gas, machine guns, grenades, tanks, bayonets; rain, snow, mud, disease, malnutrition; attack and counter-attack; and death, death, death, on all sides.
The civilian population during World War I also suffered, and this stands as a central difference between warfare in 1914 – 1918 and today. Food was often scarce in the countries at war in 1914, as were other everyday comforts. Able-bodied men were conscripted and sent to the front. Few civilians escaped some form of sacrifice for the war effort, and few emerged at the end of hostilities without suffering loss in one form or another.
Contrast that with modern, American-style warfare. Over the last eleven years, Americans have not been asked to sacrifice at all, and except for the constant tributes to our “brave men and women in uniform”, our “valiant warriors”, one could hardly guess we are a nation at war at all. Collective suffering is avoided because our wars are fought by an all-volunteer military – a professional standing army – backed by a multitude of contractors for hire. If the draft had been in effect in 2001 and 2003, it’s unlikely we would have invaded Afghanistan and then Iraq so cavalierly because there would have been a tangible cost, and undoubtedly a popular backlash against open-ended conflicts with a tactic rather than an enemy.
The war in Afghanistan drags on and on because the politicians and generals cannot devise a way to extract our troops without admitting failure. They assure us progress is being made, that the Afghans are nearly ready to assume responsibility for their own security, and that the Taliban is on the run. (After eleven years and billions of dollars expended, not to mention lives on both sides, wouldn’t you expect to see concrete results?) Of course our political and military leaders cannot admit the whole thing was a wretched mistake born of hubris and desire for revenge after 9/11, because to speak the hard, unvarnished truth would undermine many of our sacred beliefs and institutions. Imagine a government spokesperson informing a mother or sister or wife that her son, brother or husband died needlessly. “We regret to inform you that your son was killed because our nation’s politicians are cowardly and stupid.” No, the politicians and generals must make us believe the cause is noble even if it isn’t, just as they sell us the fantasy that in only one more year – or eighteen months at most -- the Afghans will be ready to defend themselves, allowing us to depart with honor.
The lads in Paul Baumer’s company had no beef against their French or Russian counterparts, not as individuals anyway. Soldiers were pretty much the same, regardless of the flag they fought for; they were called up, they went, they fought, they experienced terror and relief, saw comrades mutilated and killed, and each of them desperately wanted to survive to return to the life they had once known. The truth was that prime ministers, presidents, monarchs, industrialists and generals instigated wars and dispatched young men to fight and die in them.
As one of Paul’s comrades said, “There must be some people to whom the war is useful.”
World War I was never out of sight or mind; the same can’t be said for America’s long and dubious war against Muslim terrorists.
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