Maybe “scare” is the wrong term because I’m pretty sure I could handle myself if a group of them decided to launch a surprise attack. But I certainly don’t like them very much. This shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone familiar with my past as it would indicate that I didn’t really like any of them when I was a child myself. It turns out that sarcasm doesn’t make you very popular until your peers start catching on. Even then, it’s marginal.
Erich Maria Remarque’s novel, All Quiet on The Western Front, spends most of chapter seven describing the main character Paul’s return to his hometown on furlough from the fighting. In the only portion of the story that takes the reader away from the trench warfare of WWI, Paul confronts a personal hell when reuniting with his grieving and sickly mother, his curious father, and a handful of pompous politicos who claim a more thorough knowledge of the war in which he has fought for years. In the novel, Paul holds back from relating the truth about his gruesome reality in an effort to ease his mother’s fear and maintain his mental reserves for the inevitable return. Truthful descriptions of the front may also brand him as unpatriotic or aggrandizing. He eventually breaks down in his mother’s arms and weeps for his lost childhood.
I’ve read chapter seven several times over the past few years. I guess it helps to know that disassociation with civilians is a typical experience for soldiers and maybe I’m not as big an asshole as I sometimes feel. My most recent return is substantially less difficult than my first. I had a much less exciting tour, I’ve grown up a little, and maybe my loved ones just expect a lot less. But let’s be serious, old Paul Baumer was a million times tougher than me and he fought in a time when war was hard. It’s not like I was out bayoneting the wounded or choking on mustard gas over there. We had ice cream sundaes and Internet for God’s sake!
But our returning “heroes” can expect a certain amount of oddness. While deployed, they are inundated daily with news and information concerning the Iraq war and all that goes with it. It can be surprising to come home and remind yourself that it just hasn’t been news for at least a couple years. I guess the general public thinks we’ve won or at least there are fewer of us over there. For the record, troop levels in Iraq remain above 130,000 (higher than pre-surge) and this does not include the tens of thousands in Afghanistan, and those numbers continue to grow.
I don’t waste any time blaming the media for ignoring the wars. They’ve gotten pretty boring. Ask anyone over there, they’ll tell you how bored they are. But it may be interesting for viewers to hear the occasional story about how much everything costs. Because if there’s one thing that television likes to tell me about, it’s money. You can’t seem to avoid an economy story unless there’s some sort of ongoing pirate saga. Pirates? Seriously? I’m only glad that the Navy finally has something to do while they’re out floating around. Now if we could only figure out a way to keep our Air Force relevant…
So without the news saying anything about the war, it really is up to the men and women serving to relate whatever they can. This is a remarkably tall order. It’s easy to feel like an expert when everyone knows so little. On the other hand, it can be very uncomfortable describing anything due to the background information required to put any story or situation into context. It’s much easier to just remain quiet and spare everyone the awkwardness of listening to stories full of acronyms. I find myself talking about farm animals a lot. They seem to be a rare subject where the listener and I can find common ground. And who doesn’t like a good goat story.
But let me get back to those kids.
Ninety pairs of beady little eyes gripped me with the kind of intensity you’d expect be reserved for the Jonas Brothers. I felt a little drippy palm-sweat moisten my shirt cuffs and my heart tried to beat through my chest. I was honestly amused at how incredibly terrified I was to be talking to these little devils. I can’t remember the last time I was so nervous.
My sister Jennie, a 6th grade English teacher and the coordinator of this impromptu “assembly” introduced me as her little brother who just got back from Iraq. “He’s really nervous, so be nice and keep the questions appropriate.” I wasn’t thrilled to hear her describe me as nervous. I was doing my best to look cool. Cool and threatening. One kid told me to just picture them all in their underwear. I told him I thought I could get arrested for that kind of stuff. He shrugged in what I perceived was agreement, and I took a second to reflect on how deeply aware our society had become concerning sexual predation. I’m not sure if that’s a necessarily a positive cultural trait. Either way, I was uncomfortable enough with everyone’s clothes on. I ignored his suggestion and just went straight into my farm animal material. “Hey, bet you don’t know how much cows like to eat garbage?”
Remarque’s characters may have dealt with a much harsher reality. And while they served in a time of nationalistic fervor that catalyzed their enlistment and subsequent sacrifices for the good of the homeland, they were never expected to field the questions of pre-adolescents.
And the questions are always good ones. I was five minutes into the presentation when I heard it: “Did you kill anybody?”
Jennie covered her face and peered at me through the cracks of her fingers, no doubt recognizing this as a query outside of the aforementioned “appropriate question” category. But I had prepped for it:
“Actually I killed a few people on the way over here. Oh, you meant in the war. Well, in that case, no.”
If you like freedom, thank a vet. If you don’t mind being disappointed, ask him a question.
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