It Was Everyone's War...

On a snowy day (yesterday) one may find oneself looking at old magazines  . . .

This is  the December 1942 issue -- even older than I.

As I leafed through the pages, I was struck by one thing in particular.

Everyone was expected  to be a part of the war effort. 

Whether producing superior files or jigsaws, it was all tied to helping Uncle Sam prevail.

 

And it was up to YOU, as a patriotic American, to curb your consumption . . .

The wars the US fights recently don't seem to be like that.  They seem to be wars of choice, pre-emptive actions, fought to defend economic interests. fought increasingly with the help of mercenaries such as Halliburton or Blackwater. 

Without a draft in which anyone's (and that would include Congress and the President) anyone's son or daughter may be called up to put their life on the line, it's all too easy for the great majority of us to ignore these wars. 

We might throw out a token 'Thank you for your service' if we encounter someone in military uniform but as far as sacrifice that involves curbing consumption -- why that would be un-American, Big Business cries, flinging up its hands in dismay.

As for the shameful treatment of our veterans, well that's a post for another snowy day...

 I'm certainly not longing for another world wide war -- but I do wonder if reinstating the draft -- and making it all-inclusive -- might make our country think long and hard before leaping into military action. 

Veterans Day

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

By Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) -- a WWI soldier-poet's thoughts on the lines from Horace:

Dulce et decorem est pro patria mori -- It is sweet and fitting to die for your country.