On War, Soldiers, and the Matter of Life and Death

 For the sake of clarity, I'd like to note that this is not an assignment. 

Physical science is giving me no small amount of trouble right now, and to be honest, I can't get the matter between my ears to focus on anything other than the topic I'm about to discuss. We've been reading Plato's Republic in Great Books for the past week or so, and one of the topics that Socrates speaks on is the topic of warriors, or, in his words, "guardians." He and his companions are developing a hypothetical city, and they need to decide how they want their guardians to live and act. One topic they discuss is what kind of music will be learned by their guardians. This is likely both a literal topic and a metaphor, but we won't go into that here. Suffice it to quote the passage in question: "leave me that harmony that would appropriately imitate the vocal sounds and tones of a courageous person engaged in battle or in other work that he is forced to do" (Plato 81). Upon reading this, I recalled my father's stories of service in the U.S. Air Force, my WWI and II history readings, and my knowledge of certain war correspondence and stories. The question arose, "why should we say that someone wouldn't ever go to battle willingly?"

I still hold the belief that someone does, to an extent, willingly fight for the sake of what he loves. I've always held a particular interest in this concept of willingly sacrificing because of a powerful love for something other than oneself (as we know Jesus did on a greater level than anyone else), so I don't think that someone would never go willingly into a fight such as what is described in this portion of Republic. In the discussion, we came to the conclusion that Socrates was referring to war for the sake of war. No one in his right mind fights and kills and risks his life just for the fun of it. I was satisfied with that answer.

In the course of the conversation, however, one of my classmates (who is very intelligent, and I certainly don't reference his statement to say that he was wrong but rather to set up my argument) said that a person might avoid going into battle because he is afraid of dying. This is most likely correct, in the case of those who do not join a war or who join it because they were required by draft or other means. However, when he said that, the histories and war correspondences and first-hand documented stories I knew came to mind again, and I replied, "From what I've read and heard and learned about people who fight in big wars--once you've fought for a long time, you already know that you're probably going to die. It's a given. Eventually your only concern is whether or not you're going to let the man next to you die. Or the people you're fighting for back home, whether you'll let them die."

I was much less organized with my thought in class, but that was the point of it. We didn't have an opportunity to discuss it deeply there, because there were other questions to answer during the course of the class time, but now I can't get it out of my head.

One of my personal heroes in the history of soldiers is a World War I pilot named Kiffin Rockwell. Near the beginning of the War, before the U.S. officially joined, Rockwell and many others enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. As planes and aerial warfare became more useful over the months (they were developed quickly as the need for them increased), small groups of pilots and gunners formed. Rockwell joined the Lafayette Escadrille, which was a group of American pilots in the Foreign Legion. Rockwell writes about his fellow soldiers in the war often. One of the first is Paul Pavelka, a very close friend from when Rockwell was an infantryman. Another is Victor Chapman, a fellow pilot in the Escadrille. Rockwell wrote many letters home about his experiences with these fellow soldiers in the war. One letter to his mother included an account of the battle at Artois, where Rockwell was shot. Paul Pavelka was there as well. Rockwell writes, "I didn't watch a friend of mine [Pavelka] continue on after I was wounded because I did not wish to see him if he fell" (Carroll 47). Pavelka was also injured at this battle, but he recovered and wrote to Rockwell to say that he was alright. Months later, now in the Lafayette Escadrille, Rockwell wrote home about Victor Chapman. Chapman was killed after he followed a reconnaissance team to provide backup; he was accidentally left alone in a surprise German air attack. "Victor Chapman was the first American pilot to die in the war" (Carroll 84). 

"Victor had about the strongest character of any boy I have ever known," Rockwell wrote. "Last night I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep thinking about him, especially as his bed was right beside mine" (Carroll 84). Rockwell writes many similar stories of other war mates. He was also the one to write to Chapman's parents of his death.

On September 22, 1916, Kiffin wrote a heavy letter to Paul Pavelka. "Take whatever money you happen to find on me, and drink to the destruction of the d--- Boche" (Carroll 241). And to his mother, earlier in the war: "I don't want you to worry about me. If I die, I want you to know that I have died as every man ought to die fighting for what is right. I do not feel that I am fighting for France alone, but for the cause of all humanity, the greatest of all causes" (Carroll 241). On September 23, Kiffin was caught alone by a German Albatross. The gunner blew the wing off his plane, shot him through the chest, and killed him before he even hit the ground.

After even just a few months in the War, Kiffin's concern was not himself. He knew he was probably going to die. So he watched out for his friends, wrote about them, wrote to them, and hoped above all that they would be safe, even if he wasn't. He wrote to his brother Paul Rockwell, also a soldier, who lived through the war and later compiled all of Kiffin's available war correspondence into a single volume. Kiffin went to war willingly, because there were too many people he loved for him to sit back and passively allow them to be put in danger. There is my view of the willing warrior.

But I would also like to submit to you one more statement: No one ever survives a war. Some people die on the front lines, others make it to the road home. But the bright-eyed, battle-ready soldiers who leave are not the same soldiers who come back at the end. These returning men are shattered versions of their old selves, broken from what they've seen and what they've done. They fight for the sake of everything they love, and they pay the price for it one way or another.

That, however, is not the end of the story. Here is where we, the doctors and teachers and fast-food workers and every other variation of civilians, come into view. We have not risked our lives on the battlefield, and we likely have not experienced any sort of violent death firsthand. We all know, however, what it means to hurt. If we choose to love as these soldiers, these men and women, loved--even if we choose to love with only a fraction of the amount that they did--we just might be able to help put some of the pieces back together and lead that bright-eyed soldier back to life.

Case in point: Freedom is not free, but love pays any price. To love the ones who lost a part of themselves for our sakes is not so high a price to pay.

SOURCES

Plato. Republic. Hackett Publishing Company, Inc., 2004.

Carroll, Andrew. My Fellow Soldiers. Penguin Random House LLC, 2017.