“War is not merely a political act, but also a political instrument, a continuation of political relations, a carrying out of the same by other means.”
–Carl von Clausewitz

“There is many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all hell.”
–William Tecumseh Sherman

Although they both are right, I find Sherman to be quite a bit more human. Yet even he manages to fall short because I think that war is one of those situations where words fail. We can call war “hell”, but does that really encompass the horror, agony, tragedy, and loss that war entails?

I deplore violence, yet I realize that with the way we, as a species, act there are times when conflict and violence are necessary. Situations are always more nuanced then the doves and hawks would have you believe, and in many instances there are no right choices, just choices distinguished primarily by differing degrees of wrongness.

I often find myself in the intriguing position of being accused of being too liberal when I interact with war history and military types, yet being accused of being too conservative when dealing with science, philosophy, and skeptical types. That alone tells me I may be on to something.

One incident in my past really helped crystallize my views on war. When I was in grade school, my parents paid a Hungarian family to babysit my sisters and I.  They were old-school Hungarian; they spoke the language, they cooked the food, they had the intense religious beliefs. The family was huge - there were children ranging in age from their 20’s down to a newborn. This family was not too far removed from the tumultuous events that shaped Hungary during the Second World War.

I only remember a handful of things from those days, but one of them is this disturbing little item. There were two high school aged boys in the family, Johnny and Tommy. They were both fairly odd, but Tommy was almost around the bend odd. You see, Tommy loved the idea of war and killing. Did I mention this was an ultra-religous, no tv or radio, no contraception, have 15 kids kind of family? For some reason, though, Tommy’s little ultra-violence streak was ok with them.

The disturbing bit? You see, one day Tommy wrote a poem for school. About his love of all things war-related. I want to stress that this is something he read aloud at school and turned in for a grade. Even at the age of 10, it bothered me so much I can remember it to this day.

War is great, war is willing
To offer one the job of killing
It’s so fun to kill and maim
War is just a little game

It actually got worse from there - he had a bit in their about if the commie killed your buddy how you should kill his daughter and rape his wife. Disturbed yet? I still am, and it’s been nearly 30 years since I first listened to this little gem. But I suppose I do have Tommy to thank in a way - this verse was the catalyst that both kindled my interest in military history and impressed on me the very human cost of our warlike nature.

The poem I’ve chosen for this week was written about World War I (aka, “The Great War” as well as the unfortunately incorrect “War to End All Wars”). It is also something that ran through my head numerous times as I watched the US-led invasion of Iraq, and it is something that I think of every time I see another US death reported in these oversea conflicts.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

–by Wilfred Owen