I had occasion to take a break from work for about an hour today to pay my respects to Sergeant Aaron Smith, who was killed in Wardak Province, Afghanistan while serving with the 2d Battalion, 87th Infantry, 3d Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division. He was buried at Fort Leavenworth today.
I was talking with Household6 about the size of the
Patriot Guard Riders contingent escorting Sergeant Smith's remains and his family to the cemetery here at Fort Leavenworth and being surprised at the size of the contingent, but I had mentioned part of it was due because of
Fred Phelps and his followers in picketing previous military funerals - and that Phelps is from Kansas. Household6 was unaware of Phelps, but it honestly wouldn't bother me at all if his entire congregation were struck by precision-guided lightning some day. After trying unsuccessfully to explain why Fred Phelps might have been a factor today, I didn't want to talk to Household6 anymore today. I realized that Fred Phelps doesn't figure much on someone who likes to watch the Disney Channel.
Standing on the side of Grant Avenue here at Fort Leavenworth as the group passed by, I remembered Hal Moore's basic truth, that "When your men die, and you don’t, you feel guilty. You’re the leader." I'd been talking to some of my students today prior to the group passing by, but I realized it's probably bad form to weep in front of my students, so I didn't say much after the group passed by.
Acknowledging that Sergeant Smith (who I did not know) died in the execution of the last phase of the campaign plan I wrote two years ago, I realize that while I've been physically living in my house for the last six months, there is a very significant part of me that has not returned home. I realize that I still haven't been able to disassociate myself from my last combat tour, where I spent a lot of mental and emotional energy turning myself into a
razor. This is that much more ironic since I was literally walking out of a video teleconference about Afghanistan this morning on the way to pay my respects.
I guess there's a reason why David Drake's
Redliners is a book that I hold particularly dear, especially after spending 14 months as a campaign planner. Another science fiction writer alludes to part of my anguish:
Any ship we lose, thought Bean, means that grown men and women have died. Any carelessness on our part takes lives. Yet they don't tell us that precisely because we can't afford to be burdened with that knowledge. In wartime, commanders have always had to learn the concept of "acceptable losses." But those who keep their humanity never really accept the idea of acceptability. Bean understood that. It gnaws at them. So they protect us child-soldiers by keeping us convinced that it's only games and tests.
Therefore I can't let on to anyone that I do know. Therefore I must accept the losses without a word, without a visible qualm. I must try to block out of my mind the people who will die from our boldness, whose sacrifice is not a mere counter in a game, but of their lives.
Orson Scott Card
, Ender's ShadowThe price of freedom is eternal vigilance, but there is an obligation of memory by the society for those who pay the opportunity cost of that freedom.
Labels: memory, professionalism, social commentary
