The warmth of war.
We were thinking deeply today, as it was raining and Las Vegas tends to move very slowly in the rain.
One of the men at work spoke with the Host at lunch today. It was damp and grey, and he mentioned that he loved that weather, because it reminded him of the "Intimacy of War". Immediately I stood by to listen, as the term he used seemed rather like an oxymoron. I pressed him to continue, ever-trying to maintain the semblance of the Host.
He told us that, when he served in the second World War, the chilled rainy days were the best, because his commander always used that as an excuse to tell his men to stay huddled for warmth. Not touching, even, just close. And in that closeness, they would share stories of their girlfriends waiting at home, or the new baby or how they missed the scent of their mother's apple pie.
And I realized something that is so exciting, and yet foreign to me, that I only dare to hold onto it.
War, as some of you undoubtedly know, is vicious, brutal, often intolerable. It changes one's soul, it takes hold of grown men, guts them, and sends them weeping into the night, alone with their guilt until they are numb and mindless beasts running about, sometimes unaware or uncaring of what they do.
And yet...
And yet there are good times, too...as difficult as it may be to believe. Friendships forged out of fear and necessity so great that no one can touch upon it. Whispered poetry read aloud from tattered pages and held by trembling hands. The childish pranks played upon one another to stave off boredom and anxiety. A battle-hymn sung proudly with the others in one's unit, even if a bit shaky and somewhat off-key, building a sense of pride and brotherhood. Seeing a sunrise ablaze in lavender and mauve with your partner on third watch, both silent, and both in awe that something so beautiful can still pull so deeply at a jaded man's heart.
These are the things that make life bearable. So small and to some, insignificant. But I think I realize that when all I had were days and night rolling into one, the constant dull ache from hunger and pulsing agony of terror, the hopelessness and guilt and self-hatred and wanting so deeply to be killed, just to have an excuse to quit...I kept going. Partly because I felt I had to, yes, I do admit that. But partly because these simple pleasures, although rare, were meaningful to me.
I really do not like the sentimental tone this post has taken, but I suppose it is that way for a reason. I have hit upon something, and I believe it would behoove me to investigate fully.
One of the men at work spoke with the Host at lunch today. It was damp and grey, and he mentioned that he loved that weather, because it reminded him of the "Intimacy of War". Immediately I stood by to listen, as the term he used seemed rather like an oxymoron. I pressed him to continue, ever-trying to maintain the semblance of the Host.
He told us that, when he served in the second World War, the chilled rainy days were the best, because his commander always used that as an excuse to tell his men to stay huddled for warmth. Not touching, even, just close. And in that closeness, they would share stories of their girlfriends waiting at home, or the new baby or how they missed the scent of their mother's apple pie.
And I realized something that is so exciting, and yet foreign to me, that I only dare to hold onto it.
War, as some of you undoubtedly know, is vicious, brutal, often intolerable. It changes one's soul, it takes hold of grown men, guts them, and sends them weeping into the night, alone with their guilt until they are numb and mindless beasts running about, sometimes unaware or uncaring of what they do.
And yet...
And yet there are good times, too...as difficult as it may be to believe. Friendships forged out of fear and necessity so great that no one can touch upon it. Whispered poetry read aloud from tattered pages and held by trembling hands. The childish pranks played upon one another to stave off boredom and anxiety. A battle-hymn sung proudly with the others in one's unit, even if a bit shaky and somewhat off-key, building a sense of pride and brotherhood. Seeing a sunrise ablaze in lavender and mauve with your partner on third watch, both silent, and both in awe that something so beautiful can still pull so deeply at a jaded man's heart.
These are the things that make life bearable. So small and to some, insignificant. But I think I realize that when all I had were days and night rolling into one, the constant dull ache from hunger and pulsing agony of terror, the hopelessness and guilt and self-hatred and wanting so deeply to be killed, just to have an excuse to quit...I kept going. Partly because I felt I had to, yes, I do admit that. But partly because these simple pleasures, although rare, were meaningful to me.
I really do not like the sentimental tone this post has taken, but I suppose it is that way for a reason. I have hit upon something, and I believe it would behoove me to investigate fully.
posted by Logan Nambiet at
8:28 PM
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