Goodbye, John Wayne
At the time of enlistment, it is quite clear that the author has fully embraced the idea of war as an expression of valor, courage and patriotism. By the end of his story, having come face to face with reality and no longer so easily molded and shaped by propaganda techniques, he is ready to assert in print that war is a “a terrible waste” leaving “an indelible mark on those who are forced to endure it” in which the “only redeeming factors were my comrades’ incredible bravery and their devotion to each other.” Between the enlistment and that final summation can be found the kind of brutally honest truths about war that do not make into the propaganda machines of bloodless John Wayne movies and video games you always live to play another day.
Too Many Heroes
The author himself takes note of what he considers to be the singularly definitive irony of his experiences in war and—an irony unto itself—his observation is that war, as ugly and wasteful as it may be, is the theater upon which the greatest heroism is displayed. And, unfortunately, too often overlooked:
“It's ironic that the record of our company was so outstanding but that so few individuals were decorated for bravery. Uncommon valor was displayed so often it went largely unnoticed.”
Nobody Knows Anything
William Goldman’s dictum about believing predictions in Hollywood holds true for believing predictions about battlefield engagement on two difference occasions in the narrative. The twisted logic between expectations and outcome proves to so paradoxical as to attain the status of irony. The intelligence relayed from the officers to the infantrymen on the field of battle was such that going into the battle, expectations were running optimistically high that “Peleliu would be secured in a few days.” Such an estimation proved woefully and tragically misplaced. In light of the bloody consequence of that buoyant overconfidence, the irony of the same big brass warning the same soldiers that their landing at Okinawa is going to prove long, difficult and deadly is a most welcome one when the outcome proves to be exactly the opposite: a landing with no enemy fire and an almost unimaginable lack of any casualties.
The Ultimate Ironic War Casualty
The purpose of war is death and every soldier knows it. Being killed in battle—no matter how bizarre the circumstances or how just plain unlucky the terms of meeting that death—ultimately every casualty resulting from engagement with the enemy is the same as it came about from serving one’s primary purpose as a soldier. The worst kind casualty in war is friendly fire. But within friendly fire exists a unique example that simply must be the considered the ultimate in irony and such is the kind of death which befalls a fellow Marine whom the author knew well. He and another soldier were handling a rifle which one told the other was unloaded, even going so far as to toad him into pulling the trigger to prove it. The trigger was pulled, the rifle proved not to be unloaded and the Marine was instantly killed in a wasteful violation of one of the very first rules every recruit learns during basic training.
The Book
The Commanding Officer of Company K—the company to which the author belonged—is beloved by his troops and as a result his death during the battle at Peleliu is a massive emotional blow to everyone. Shortly afterward, he watches from a distance as one of the two surviving officers of Company K seems to angrily toss a thick book into a garbage can along with some maps and assorted papers. Curious, he goes over and pokes around until he brings up a hardback volume of perhaps a thousand pages. The title does not seem to him one worthy of the fiery toss by which the book ended up in the garbage, so he opens the cover and there discovers the reason for the Lieutenant’s disgust: the name of the recently killed CO written in his own hand. The book features assorted war stories by various writers collected and published under the book’s overseeing editor, Ernest Hemingway. Overcome with revulsion and pondering the inscrutable mystery of why anyone in the company would want to read stories about war, he “slammed the book down into the trash can in a gesture of grief and disgust over the waste of war.” The book’s title become ironic under the circumstances: Men at War.
