Memorial Day

I watched 60 Minutes last night, a show honoring our troops. Featuring the young man who recently was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, it showed him to be humble, amazingly thoughtful and well-spoken (he joined the military at age 17). To me, his heroism is only slightly about what he did. The show can be watched here.

When I served in Vietnam, I was certain the guys around me were and would remain the best friends I ever had. Maybe, had I been in similar situations that Sgt Giunta experienced, it'd have been true. In my case, I'm lucky it wasn't. I experienced regular rocket attacks, after which I'd put on flack gear, dash to the clinic while Cobra helicopters fired into the jungle. But I never carried a rifle, never fired a shot, never looked an enemy in the eye. And I was able to move on.

We love war too much.

If the word "hero" has any meaning at all, it unquestionably applies to men and women like Sal Giunta, and everyone with whom he served. But there's an almost indescribable perversity at play here. We call upon people like Sal to fight in wars of questionable value, for reasons we may never know; we place them in situations that no young man or woman should ever face. And, forced to act heroically or die, they do. Often both. As admiring as we should be of them, we should be ashamed of ourselves, and what we did to them. And how we manage to turn it into something to feel good about.

The rest us us watch it on 60 Minutes, get all teary-eyed, slap another magnetic ribbon on our pickup, a couple of flags, and head off to a teabagger rally to rail against taxes to pay for their care. Our definition of patriotism is all about soldiers and war; it's easy, it's so damn easy; it's too damn easy. Rather than sacrifice ourselves, we pretend to through our soldiers. A couple of tears, a throb of the heart. A good day's patriotism. Pass me another Bud.

For our troops I have nothing but admiration. And sympathy. I understand those for whom their service was the high point of their life, and I know that for many multiples more it was the low point, the beginning of their slow and life-long destruction. Sergeant Sal Guinta deserves more respect than nearly anyone I can think of, other than every other soldier who ever served. While we learn of him and his comrades, while we satisfy ourselves by basking in their heroism and fool ourselves into thinking it has some larger meaning, we dishonor them and ourselves by ignoring their needs, electing people who'll make sure the only thing we'll ever have to do is shed a tear once in a while, rather than pony up; rather than being the kind of country that cares for its own (and I mean everyone, not just its soldiers); the country for which they think they served.

A couple of days ago, a few miles from here, a man died in a river. Seeing a dog struggling in the current, he dove in to save it. The dog made it to shore. The man didn't.