Americans
celebrate the last Monday in May as “Memorial Day.” It is a time to remember
the men and women who defended our nation’s freedom, sometimes dying for that
freedom. This essay attempts to recall
those who were “reluctant” soldiers.
On a recent trip through Kansas,
along Interstate 70, I drove past Fort Riley.
Established in 1853, Fort Riley played an important role in American
military history. It was a principal
training center for the cavalry during the days of the Indian wars—George A.
Custer was stationed there for a while.
It became the home of the US First Infantry Division, was occasionally
the home of the “Buffalo soldiers,” the all African-American 9th and
10th Calvary units; and continues to be an important site for
training US Army personnel.
But, for me, Fort Riley’s history
was not as significant as the fort’s place in my father’s stories of his
experience as a soldier in World War II.
My father was about thirty when Pearl Harbor was attacked; he was drafted
a year or so later. (I recall a story
suggesting his entering the military was deferred because he was worked in a
critical industry—steel-making.) His
basic training was at Fort Riley. He was
eventually deployed to the Pacific; after a brief stay in Australia, his unit
headed to New Guinea and the Philippines.
My father told few stories of his
army days. Most of those concerned what
happened at Fort Riley and the people he met there. His story of a training maneuver in which he
spent a bitterly cold night sleeping in the loft of a barn seemed ironic in
view of his deployment in the tropics.
In telling these stories, he often wondered aloud if the friends he had
made there returned home from the war.
His discharge papers listed him as
a “small arms mechanic” but that may have been only one of many jobs he
did. My mother once said he had been a
baker but, today, I wonder if that was something he told her to keep her from
worrying.
He never told about battles or
shooting at the enemy. Only after his death,
did I learn he had participated in two amphibious assaults.
You see, my father was a reluctant
soldier. Yes, he knew the nation had to
defend itself but he was not a “natural-born killer” and refused to be made
into one.
At the same time, he didn’t want to
leave his home or his pregnant wife. He
did not want to be halfway around the world when his son was born but he
was. Though he knew his duty as a
soldier, he was awash with guilt that he wasn’t with his wife when that son,
aged eighteen months, died from pneumonia.
Perhaps my father was reluctant to tell “war stories” because those
stories inevitably brought back those memories.
My father was not the only
reluctant soldier in the war. In fact,
historians tell us such soldiers have probably served in most American wars,
including the Civil War. Those who study
such things tell us that the kill-rate in the battles of those wars should have
been much higher. Their conclusion? American riflemen were deliberately missing
the enemy. These soldiers would only
shoot to kill when left with no other choice.
Historians and sociologists opine
this reluctance reflects a natural human reluctance to kill our own kind. Perhaps, but I would think this explanation
would be valid only if the reluctance were universal in every culture. Doubtless, I am biased (or naïve) but I can’t
help but wonder if the reluctance to kill the enemy might suggest the influence
of a Christian worldview that sees individuals as created in God’s image, men
and women for whom Christ died. (Yes, I
know America’s pervasive racism seems to militate against this notion but,
acknowledging that, the Christian worldview had considerable influence in our
nation’s life.)
My father was not a believer during
the war—he trusted Christ years later. Still,
as my father grew up in his small Ozark hometown, he probably heard the sixth
commandment, “Thou shalt not kill,” repeated again and again. Of course, few Americans in those days could
have escaped the influence of the Christian worldview. While I’ve never believed America was a “Christian nation,” like some radio pundits like to claim, there’s little doubt
the Christian ethos once had greater impact on behavior and attitudes.
To counter the reluctance to kill,
the military has attempted to desensitize its recruits. Whether they have been successful remains to
be seen. That they have sometimes been
too successful is evidenced in headlines and news stories that leave us stunned.
That our culture is changing is
also evident. In the Midwestern city
where I live, hardly a week goes by without the report of murders—inspired by greed,
pride, or anger. Have we forgotten the
value of human life? Is it because the
Christian worldview is losing its influence? This is not the place to debate
the matter.
This Memorial Day weekend we will
hear about the courageous men and women who helped preserve our freedoms. This is right and proper. But, as we honor them, let’s remember that many
of these soldiers did their duty reluctantly and once the war was over, often,
wanted nothing more than to forget those days as soon as possible. This doesn’t make them less patriotic or
courageous, but it reminds us of their fundamental humanity. They wanted to be remembered for something other
than their ability to kill.
