D-Day

Thoughtful soldiers in the American Civil War shared the sentiments of Henry "The Youth" Flemming, of Stephen Crane's Red Badge of Courage:

From his home his youthful eyes had looked upon the war in his own country with distrust. It must be some sort of play affair. He had long despaired of witnessing Greeklike struggle. Such would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions. (46)

The modern world was in full swing by the mid-nineteenth century, and nothing made men think of this more intensely than war ― especially a civil war. Across the water, in Europe, Fredrick Nietzsche was beginning to piece together his assessment: the world had become too domesticated, too closed off to the wonders of chance. There realm of human possibilities would narrow with each new generation, as men became accustomed to administration instead of politics, therapy instead of conflict, and, of course, "niceness" in place of virtue. He wrote:

The over-all degeneration of man down to what today appears to the socialist dolts and flatheads as their "man of the future" ― as their ideal ― this degeneration and diminution of man into the perfect herd animal... this animalization of man into the dwarf animal of equal rights and claims, is possible, there is no doubt of it. (Section 203)

And, like many Europeans, Nietzsche was certain that the United States led the way in that degradation, in exploiting that possibility to the most radical extent. It was, after all, the future of the world; its democracy would soon be the world's democracy. It would soon spread mass-mediocrity all over civilization ― and, in doing so, destroy all there is in man that knows how to honor, seek nobility, and love greatness.

Hence, the Germans assigned to holding the beaches in Normandy 65 years ago were certain that the Americans about to land there were wild and bumbling gangsters and cowboys and swing-dancers.

They were the products of all that had degraded modern man, the Germans told themselves. For all the training and drilling, all the daring amphibious and paratrooper assaults, all the advanced weaponry, they were still products of democracy, and for that reason, deserved no fear, and probably no small amount of contempt. They did not know honor; only equality, the Germans told themselves. The Americans, after all, were fighting for the very poison that had almost killed Europe; it was cured just in time by the Fuhrer's teachings, which they had been indoctrinated in since youth ― a solution that was not found in any recovery of a "human" sense of greatness or nobility, but in a racial sense. That poison, they believed, was something far deadlier than any democratic trend in Europe: It was the self-evident truth that all men are created equal, and that their are endowed by their creator with inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; and that government exists to protect those rights.

But the Americans did take Omaha Beach. They did liberate Paris and Belgium, and finally take Berlin.

Courage is an awesome thing. One can be brave or bold or daring, or take great risks for the noblest intentions. But only the soldier, in the gritty horrors and chaos of war, can truly know what courage is. To attribute courage to anyone else in the same sense is to commit the height of dishonor.

What is it about a democratic society's view of courage? Courage is often scorned, mocked, and ridiculed; it is the delusion of young men who run off to war seeking glory and applause, precisely so they can be slaughtered "for the corporations," "for that president," "for nationalism." And yet, when their freedom is truly threatened, all of that vanishes, and they display courage and valor that is unmatched by any other army.

It doesn't make them angelic, of course. Democratic armies are prone to all the usual vices of war-time. It brings out the worst in men who are already bad, and it can ruin the decency of the nobler ones. In the process of war, all men can turn into cogs in the terrifying and deadly machine.

But if we contemplate what courage is, it becomes clear that we cannot expect it to show its brilliance on the surface. The surface is ugly ― and, in many ways, it is pure evil and insanity. There is no courage if we do not account the paralyzing fear that comes with these circumstances. But at the same time, we are not seeing courage if we look at it without the end it seeks. Aristotle put it this way:

[I]t is for enduring painful things... that people are called courageous. Hence, courage is painful, and it is justly praised, since it is more difficult to endure painful things than to refrain from pleasant ones. Nevertheless, it would seem that the end that goes with courage is pleasant, but is blocked from sight by the things that incircle it. (1117a30)

The end is pleasant ― and the greatness of that pleasure can only be realized in victory. But victory is only pleasurable when it is for the sake of a just end. The Germans in France believed their end was just: it was the right of people who shared their racial identity to rule over others. And, of course, the Americans believed their end was just ― that equality was good for all of mankind.

The way to think through these, it seems, is to ask which one has the greater pleasure to it ― which is more joyful, more life-affirming, and more attuned to divine laughter.

The Nazi regime, of course, went out of its way to say that about itself: the songs, the propaganda, and the assurance that the goal is indeed something they could achieve historically. The social transformation through totalitarianism; the invasion of Europe; the killing and destruction of Jews and other people ― it was all for the sake of a perfect end.

The Americans, on the other hand, could promise no such thing. When the Germans were defeated, there would only be more of the same. An ideal of equality was in view, of course; but it was something they knew would never be realized in a fallen world. It should remind us that any attempt at making men into angels, or making the world perfect through human efforts, will always end in a greater disaster than we started with. It is another one of those things that should make us glad to be human, and listen to Plato's words:

[I]t's not possible for evils to be done away with... since it's necessary that there always be something contrary to what's good, but they make the rounds of the mortal nature and of this place here. (Theatetus, 176a)

Can the modern world still accept the value of this statement ― that the highest good will always be transcendent, and that the world will always be fallen, in which case, there will always be wars to fight? Or should we submit to absolute power of therapy and administration and social engineering to make it perfect, no matter what the human cost?