I’ve never murdered anyone. My father never murdered anyone.
My grandfather never murdered anyone. Alltogether, we’ve lived a shelter life,
us Gathmann men, in the twentieth century, for the state’s nets were out, and
millions fell into them, drafted and turned into murderers. Or lets not
exaggerate – there were those among the drafted who did not serve in the
infantry, sail the seas, or fly in bombers and fighters. But millions did. It
was in fact a generational experience for American men, a first blood kind of
thing. World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam – duty or at least the law
armed the stripling male and commanded him to murder. The same thing, of
course, was demanded of British men, Russian men, German men, French men, etc.
It was always the same thing: see the woman there, nursing the child? The
command was simply to roast her and her suckling, make sure it was good and
hot, and that around her the houses burned and the streets buckled from the
heat. Simple. See the man advancing to murder other men with his rifle? Put a
bullet in his skull, or perhaps blow his legs off, double quick! Its an order.
And so it goes down to now. I’ve recently been reading
Randall Jarrell’s war poetry. Jarrell, like all the generation of poets that
experienced WWII, was permanently seared. Robert Lowell said that Jarrell’s war
poetry was the best to come out of those particular years of mass slaughter. There
are small perfect poems, and larger ones that are more drafty. But the eye is
on what it means:
The other murderers troop in yawning;
Three of them play
Pitch, one sleps, and one
Lies counting
missions, lies there sweating
Till even his heart
beats: One; One; One.
O murderers!... still
this is how its done:
This is a war…
I hope the family luck continues. Never to be a soldier,
always a protester … oh what bliss.
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