36
Comfort, content, delight,
The ages’ slow-bought gain
They shrivelled in a night.
Only ourselves remain
To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renewed and re-renewed.
Rudyard Kipling, For All We Have and Are
1972
The worst thing that ever happened to me, the worst thing that I ever did, what I could not and did not want to forgive, did not happen in war or in training for war. It happened on a bright clear January day in Orlando, Florida. The moment was as resonant as, and much more painful, than the imagined ping that drew me into the infantry.
The pain struck as I looked out the circular window of the airplane. It struck just above my diaphragm, near my heart. It was not a blow, exactly. It was a clenching, a tightening, a collapsing inward that took the air out of my lungs. There they were. I could see them at the airport window. I raised my hand and gently touched the scratched plastic. It was the movement of a palsied old man, my fingers crooked with pain. She, she with the dark hair, saw the gesture through the layers of glass and pointed to me, then caught our blonde daughter up into her arms and turned her towards the plane. “See,” she seemed to be saying, “See! See! There he is!”
The whine of the engines overwhelmed my hearing and through a blur I could see my wife and daughter begin to recede from me as if I were sitting still and they were gliding away from me on a moving sidewalk that took them further and further into the distance.
The worst of it was I could not say exactly why I was doing it. Almost all the rest of my generation had decided that this war was a mistake and I was pretty sure they were right. It was very personal to abandon my family without even a righteous cause to fight for. When asked why by civilian friends all I could say was, “Because they told me to.” And that was true, but only the World War Two veterans of my father’s generation had nodded their heads.
Or was the worst of it that I was going back? That this was not a trip into the unknown? I knew the musty smells of Asian markets. I knew the green underwater feel of the jungle and the clacking of bamboo groves.
The engines spun up louder and louder as we waited at the end of the runway. The terminal was out of sight and all I could see from the window was concrete and brown grass and pine trees in the distance. I was going away and going to. I had left those that meant everything to me to a year of loneliness.
I could not tell when the pain went away. I am not sure that it did. It seems still inside me like some black insect captured in amber, a shadow that sometimes blocks the light.
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ReplyDeleteI read the post again and deleted my old comment. Hope it's ok (I make constant revisions and can't edit here). It's interesting how by reading description of yourself at that moment, the focus goes towards the women.
ReplyDeleteYou should have been in my class when we studied Homer years ago; it looks funny now when I think bunch of civilians studying Homer without veterans to offer meaning/context.
I will read and listen more. Thanks, -T.
Ex: Focusing on Penelope - the "soldier's wife:"
"For every thing there is a season, and a time
For all we do on the life-giving earth.
I will go now to my room upstairs
And lie on my bed, which has become
A sorrowful bed, wet with tears
Since the day Odysseus left
for Illion (Troy), that accursed city."
Odysseus, Book 19.
Tony,
ReplyDeleteToo bad. My daughter (copy editor and proofreader of this and previous versions) was going to jump in with a comment some day soon! She is, of course, an adult now and probably a bit too acquainted with the soldier's life. The first time she read it (some years ago) I think she was quite affected (as was my wife).
Would love to have studied Homer in a more disciplined fashion. You may have seen way back in my very first post a reference to my grandfather telling me tales of a one-eyed monster and a man who lashed himself to a mast. Didn't figure out who that was until much later in life, but my brother and I really loved the stories.
The quote is very apt. Would have used it if I had remembered it at the time. Fagle (sp) translation?
Thank you. I'm glad your daughter read it though. As a civilian on this infantry blog, I feel like this: if I make a comment early on, I'd be too much like a guest who comes for a visit and tells you how to re-arrange your furniture (in terms of interpreting your text). Hope it makes sense.
ReplyDeleteMy thinking stands: I can't imagine what your daughter thought when she read your reaction as delivered by your text. Women appreciate good language. And what a great discovery it must have been on her part - that moment stays with a person.
Oh yes. Fagle is often recommended. So is Fitzgerald (too artsy for me). My commitment personally is to the translation by Stanley Lombardo. It's as if learning I never understood Homer. It's full of energy, edgy talk and suffering I can relate on the ground level. I'm tackling it slowly now and re-read.
Isn't it odd: The cyclop is the story we most often hear?
On Lombardo, I would ask you: What's your reaction to his interpretation?
ex:"What are you doing now, dogfly....
You still haven't learned that I'm too strong
For you, or you wouldn't try to match up with me.
Maybe this is what your mother wanted
When she cursed you for abandoning the Greeks
And giving aid and comfort to the Trojans."
Ares to Athena Illiad Book 21.
"Out of my way, you malicious brat.
To think we gave you credit for good sense!
But you'll get no prize without going on oath."
Menelaus to Antilochus Book 23
And glorious Ajax, spewing out dung
From his nostrils and mouth, took the ox.
With his hands on one horn, he addressed the crowd:
"Shit! The goddess tripped me up. It's like
She's Odysseus' mother, always at his side." (on Athena).
They all had a good laugh at his expense.
then Antilochus took off the last prize,
Smiling, and addressed the crowd:
"As you all well know, the gods to this day
Still honor the older generation of men.
Ajax is just a little older than I am,
But Odysseus belongs to an older generation -
Old but still with plenty of juice, as they say of him -
And tough to outrun, except of Achilles."
Book 23.
Thanks for letting me learn with you, T.