The Silent Regret Of The Rear Echelon

I recently watched Ken Burns' "The War," his summation of World War II. It is an excellent flim, as are all of his productions. Burns tells the story through the voices of people who were there, either in the theaters of battle or living through the war stateside.

One sentiment that was expressed by nearly every soldier who appeared in the film was the strong desire to be involved in combat. The recent passing of the youngest WWII Medal of Honor recipient lived out this compulsion. He lied about his age (14) to join the Marines, and was stationed in Hawaii once the truth was discovered. He then stowed away aboard a Navy ship to get closer to the fighting, and volunteered to fight once he was discovered again.

Some veterans observed that the bonds they shared with their foxhole buddies could not be matched by any other relationship. Generally speaking, veterans from that famously taciturn generation would only look to comrades in arms for support in working through the mental scars brought on by combat. They felt that only those who had seen what they had seen could understand them, even if they did not express themselves the way we in our culture of confession do today.

All of this presented a problem for the millions of servicemen and their families about who you seldom hear much said: those who supported the front line combat troops. One of my grandfathers served in this capacity. Oddly, given my long fascination with WWII, I never talked with him about his wartime service. My limited understanding is that he was in the quartermaster corps, involved with the organization of provisions and materiel, but that he wished he had been able to serve overseas. The closest I ever came to learning anything about it was when I saw my grandmother get angry for one of the few times in my life, as she expressed bitterness of the exaltation of combat troops over those who did not get into the fight. My other grandfather did ship out, but I knew even less about his experiences, and he never spoke of his service (in North Africa, I believe).

There is something deeply anachronistic, which looks like irrationality to today's eyes, about an impulse to engage in combat that is so strong that it causes boys to stow away on Navy ships and creates division among peers based on the gruesome fortuity that some fought and others supported those who fought. Certainly, those who faced the horrors of the front lines in WWII or any other conflict are worthy of the respect of their peers and those in whose interest they serve. It is a strange problem, though, especially for those of the WWII generation, that those who did not hear a bullett fired in anger have, in many instances, lived lives tinged with regret and possibly even shame. That they did not attain the greater glory of active participation in combat was not for lack of desire in many cases, but judgment was swift and permanent.

In the end, though, I could not have been more proud and humbled when Grandpa was given military honors at his funeral, all the more so because the ceremony was overseen by my brother-in-law, a man who served with distinction for many years.

I have resolved to learn more about the service lives of both of my grandfathers. Theirs are stories that deserve to be known and remembered, especially as the stories of their generation begin to sound more and more foreign to our post-modern ears. Individually, they may not have stormed ashore at Omaha Beach or raised the flag at Iwo Jima, but they were a part of a endeavor whose success depended upon the contributions of countless individuals doing their designated jobs. That is a principle that should never go out of fashion.