M. As to military service (I speak of our own, not of that of the Spartans, for they used to march slowly to the sound of the flute, and scarce a word of command was given without an anapest), you may see, in the first place, whence the very name of an army (exercitus) is derived; and, secondly, how great the labor is of an army on its march.
Then consider that they carry more than a fortnight’s provision, and whatever else they may want; that they carry the burden of the stakes, for as to shield, sword, or helmet, they look on them as no more encumbrance than their own limbs, for they say that arms are the limbs of a soldier, and those, indeed, they carry so commodiously that, when there is occasion, they throw down their burdens, and use their arms as readily as their limbs.
Why need I mention the exercises of the legions? And how great the labor is which is undergone in the running, encounters, shouts! Hence it is that their minds are worked up to make so light of wounds in action.
Take a soldier of equal bravery, but undisciplined, and he will seem a woman. Why is it that there is this sensible difference between a raw recruit and a veteran soldier? The age of the young soldiers is for the most part in their favor; but it is practice only that enables men to bear labor and despise wounds.
Moreover, we often see, when the wounded are carried off the field, the raw, untried soldier, though but slightly wounded, cries out most shamefully; but the more brave, experienced veteran only inquires for someone to dress his wounds, and says,
“Patroclus, to thy aid I must appeal
Ere worse ensue, my bleeding wounds to heal;
The sons of Aesclepius are employ’d,
No room for me, so many are annoy’d."
Then consider that they carry more than a fortnight’s provision, and whatever else they may want; that they carry the burden of the stakes, for as to shield, sword, or helmet, they look on them as no more encumbrance than their own limbs, for they say that arms are the limbs of a soldier, and those, indeed, they carry so commodiously that, when there is occasion, they throw down their burdens, and use their arms as readily as their limbs.
Why need I mention the exercises of the legions? And how great the labor is which is undergone in the running, encounters, shouts! Hence it is that their minds are worked up to make so light of wounds in action.
Take a soldier of equal bravery, but undisciplined, and he will seem a woman. Why is it that there is this sensible difference between a raw recruit and a veteran soldier? The age of the young soldiers is for the most part in their favor; but it is practice only that enables men to bear labor and despise wounds.
Moreover, we often see, when the wounded are carried off the field, the raw, untried soldier, though but slightly wounded, cries out most shamefully; but the more brave, experienced veteran only inquires for someone to dress his wounds, and says,
“Patroclus, to thy aid I must appeal
Ere worse ensue, my bleeding wounds to heal;
The sons of Aesclepius are employ’d,
No room for me, so many are annoy’d."
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 2.16
The heroes from the classic war films I enjoyed as a boy just seemed to have been made that way; the strong arms and the square jaw went together with the martial skills and the fearless deeds. Were they born with it, or was it about tapping into some endless supply of willpower? I didn’t particularly ask such questions, being quite content to assume they were the good guys, and so their enemies were the bad guys.
Most of my friends were fans of the rugged infantry sergeant, cigar-chomping optional, though I looked up to the dashing squadron leader, pipe-smoking optional, and I always had a lump in my throat when he went down in a noble act of sacrifice during the final act. Women wanted to be with him, and other men wanted to be like him.
As with every other aspect of life, I would need to reflect far more carefully before I could consider the true source of courage. As I slowly learned about the nuts and bolts of war, I first had to admit that it wasn’t a walk in the park, and why there wasn’t a special mold for instantly producing conquering champions.
The reality eventually hit me how there was no magic wand for becoming a good soldier, and there was a reason why any veteran, whatever the scope of his accomplishments, invariably described the grueling regimen of drill, drill, and then some more drill. There were months, even years, of tedious exercises standing behind the possibility for the briefest moment of glory in combat.
Why should I have been surprised? It is much the same with any other accomplishment worth pursuing. Yes, some are granted a natural disposition, but none of that will make a difference without gradually forming the habit of discipline. When I can practice it in my sleep, I might be ready to attempt it for real.
It applies to sports, to writing, to playing an instrument. It is also necessary for an excellence in all trades, or in acquiring the fine arts of being a friend, a husband, a father. The battlefield may highlight the grandeur, yet proudly building a routine of virtue is a condition for anything worthwhile. There is labor in it, and thus there will also be the endurance of pain in it.
And once I begin to gain a proficiency in life, the discomfort becomes more bearable, and the occasion it provides even takes on the form of a privilege. The more the goal means to me, the less the pain hampers me—I have remade it into a means for my self-improvement.
I shouldn’t confuse a young man’s recklessness with fortitude, and I shouldn’t take the reserve of the experienced man as a weakness. When push comes to shove, the pup is more likely to run away, while the old dog is more likely to stand his ground. To one, the flesh wound seems crippling, and to the other, the mortal wound is but a scratch.
I now have little patience for machismo, because I have finally figured out why boasting, however refined, is the mark of a man who only wishes to put on a show. Point me rather in the direction of the modest man, who is happy to do the actual work, and I will know whom to follow as an example.
The heroes from the classic war films I enjoyed as a boy just seemed to have been made that way; the strong arms and the square jaw went together with the martial skills and the fearless deeds. Were they born with it, or was it about tapping into some endless supply of willpower? I didn’t particularly ask such questions, being quite content to assume they were the good guys, and so their enemies were the bad guys.
Most of my friends were fans of the rugged infantry sergeant, cigar-chomping optional, though I looked up to the dashing squadron leader, pipe-smoking optional, and I always had a lump in my throat when he went down in a noble act of sacrifice during the final act. Women wanted to be with him, and other men wanted to be like him.
As with every other aspect of life, I would need to reflect far more carefully before I could consider the true source of courage. As I slowly learned about the nuts and bolts of war, I first had to admit that it wasn’t a walk in the park, and why there wasn’t a special mold for instantly producing conquering champions.
The reality eventually hit me how there was no magic wand for becoming a good soldier, and there was a reason why any veteran, whatever the scope of his accomplishments, invariably described the grueling regimen of drill, drill, and then some more drill. There were months, even years, of tedious exercises standing behind the possibility for the briefest moment of glory in combat.
Why should I have been surprised? It is much the same with any other accomplishment worth pursuing. Yes, some are granted a natural disposition, but none of that will make a difference without gradually forming the habit of discipline. When I can practice it in my sleep, I might be ready to attempt it for real.
It applies to sports, to writing, to playing an instrument. It is also necessary for an excellence in all trades, or in acquiring the fine arts of being a friend, a husband, a father. The battlefield may highlight the grandeur, yet proudly building a routine of virtue is a condition for anything worthwhile. There is labor in it, and thus there will also be the endurance of pain in it.
And once I begin to gain a proficiency in life, the discomfort becomes more bearable, and the occasion it provides even takes on the form of a privilege. The more the goal means to me, the less the pain hampers me—I have remade it into a means for my self-improvement.
I shouldn’t confuse a young man’s recklessness with fortitude, and I shouldn’t take the reserve of the experienced man as a weakness. When push comes to shove, the pup is more likely to run away, while the old dog is more likely to stand his ground. To one, the flesh wound seems crippling, and to the other, the mortal wound is but a scratch.
I now have little patience for machismo, because I have finally figured out why boasting, however refined, is the mark of a man who only wishes to put on a show. Point me rather in the direction of the modest man, who is happy to do the actual work, and I will know whom to follow as an example.
—Reflection written in 8/1996
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