Our German hosts had a party over the weekend and introduced me to a woman whose father fought for the Germans in Stalingrad during World War II.  The gentleman is in his mid eighties now, and his daughter said he’s never spoken about the war to anyone. Like many veterans of wars throughout history, he boxed it up and let it sit there inside him. Recently, though (we’re talking the last month), he’s decided that telling the story is something he needs to do.

Of course, this was something I couldn’t let pass me by, so I asked, and he agreed to an interview. I’ll be doing it this Friday afternoon, and I thought I’d throw it out to all of you and see if there was a question you thought worth asking him. I’ll be busy reading up on the battle of Stalingrad and coming up with my own stuff in the meantime.

Let me know what you think.

JM

En route, I saw a couple signs for Verdun.  Of course, simply the name, Verdun, evokes the insanity of WW I and I tried to picture what kind of memorial could possibly recognize the million-plus men and boys who died there.   I’ve added it to my list of places to see in the year ahead.

In short, the trip to the Rhone Cemetery in France didn’t happen.  It was too long of a drive in the midst of the August tourist season.  So, no blog information from the cemetery, instead I spent time with the extended family, drinking wine, playing games, reading, and eating French food at the in-law’s chateau.  Not such a bad thing, after all, and a needed respite after my twenty years in the Air Force.

Back in Germany, on a walk through our village, I noticed a modest war memorial in a small park.  It was tucked in between two old houses on a patch of land overlooking the village.  My curiosity drew me in.  The words “Unsern Kriegsopfern” are written in iron letters on the stone monument.  Translated, it means “Our War Victims”.   The years of the two World Wars are listed below the title, but only the names of those from the First World War are displayed on the pillars inside—fifty-three dead and missing from this small village (current population is approximately 4100 with an estimate of about 1600 at the outset of WW I).  There’s no display of those who died in World War II, though, and I found the absence of names to be odd.   After several discussions with a few German friends, I failed to find a definitive answer as to why the dead from World War II aren’t there.

By the time I left the memorial, I realized that there was a time when I would have said (and did say) that the Germans who died in World War I deserved what they got.  Germany is, after all, considered by many to be the aggressor in that war alongside Austria-Hungary.  But that was before I would study the literature of war and challenge those simple assumptions and ideas I’d been taught since I was a boy.  As a cadet and junior officer I’d come to accept the notion that the young men who died fighting against America were part of a greater evil and deserved death.   That was years ago, though, long before I would realize that the young soldiers are exactly what the memorial says, “victims” of war.  Young men manipulated by the illusion of a God on their side, a flag to carry, a shared past, revenge, or of fear concocted by politicians and an aristocracy who see war as a game to be played out for their own selfish ends.

As I write, I’m still wondering why the “victims” of World War II are conspicuously absent from the monument to the dead and missing?  Maybe there is no clear answer, or maybe it’s because the definition of victims in that horrific war was considered too broad, cutting across all veins of society, and sparing few.  There wasn’t enough space on this modest monument to list all the “victims” of that war.   More than anything else, it’s become easier for me over the years to understand why Germany tend to be a nation that recoils from the thought of war.

It’s clear to more than ever why an old German woman in the spring of 2003 asked me to tell George Bush not to invade Iraq.  She, like her whole generation and the children of those who took part in World War II, understand the legacy and the repercussions of war in a way that most Americans can’t.  Had Germany’s cities been decimated in World War I or had the ghosts of those whose names are inscribed on the pillars been able to speak, then maybe things would have been different.  Just maybe there would have been no need for the years 1939-1945 to be a part of the memorial at all.

I’ve returned to a familiar place—Eulenbis, a hilltop village overlooking Ramstein Air Base, Germany, but everything feels so different.  The view from this gasthaus, nestled in the heart of the Rheinland Pfalz, hasn’t changed in the years since I last stayed here, but I have, and so has the gasthaus itself.  A new patio extends from a recent addition, and I’m dining at the modest restaurant, added a few years back to cater to the military and civilian contractors who’ve come to execute the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Its growth is tied to these conflicts—a reflection of the tenuous prosperity that war often brings to the villages and towns around military bases.

It was my intent to start this blog after visiting an American Cemetery in Southern France, my second stop on this year-long adventure—sabbatical—whatever you want to call it, but instead the view on this beautiful evening has made me change my mind.  Eight years ago I arrived here with my National Guard unit, enraged and focused after the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.  I was here to fly in support of our fledgling war in Afghanistan and later to plan part of the invasion of Iraq.  And now I’ve returned with a new perspective.

The view before me is of the evening sky and clouds framing the silhouettes of C-17 Globemasters and 747s flying to and from the Middle East.  I can hear the rumble of engines on the ground from here—a clear reminder of the missions I’ve flown and planned from Ramstein.  It is there on the extensive and rebuilt runway where many of those coming to and from the wars arrive and depart.  They pass through this base—a revolving door—to and from their first, third, or even fifth tours.  Transiting the base alongside them are the bodies—Human Remains—HRs in silver boxes at the midway point to be re-iced and outfitted for their final trip home.

Over the past four years teaching War Literature to Air Force Academy cadets, I’ve come to understand the complexities of war in a more profound way.  As a pilot and a graduate of that institution, I acknowledge the allure of flight, of war itself, and of losing oneself in the power and illusion of technological superiority and moral certainty.  More than anything, though, I’ve discovered how easy it is for each generation to get manipulated by the lies and promises hidden behind the veil of patriotism and the flag.  I wonder as I watch a new C-17 turning onto final approach, is it at that midway point en route to Iraq or Afghanistan, and if so, do those inside know what awaits them at the end of that flight.

As for me, I’ve dragged my family across the ocean for a year, stored our belongings, and am determined to continue delving within myself to examine the questions that war demands we ask of ourselves.  What will be the promise of this year ahead?  I’m jet-lagged and tired, enthused and uncertain about what’s in store for me as I order dinner and my first beer of the trip.  My wife and children are off visiting friends, and I pause to watch an old German couple strolling past me.  The man is older, in his late-seventies or early eighties, and his wife is guiding him along a path winding past fields of sheep and goats down toward the forest.  This hill was barren at the end of World War II—it’s forests stripped of wood to keep the people from freezing to death while the machines of war consumed a nation.  I wonder if this man was here then, and if so, what he recalls from a time when his country began a war that would devour more than sixty-million lives.

So I’m here, not at an ending point—a cemetery in France—where the dead lie in wait, but at the midway point—a transient place for those coming and going from these wars… a stop for those who’ve fallen or are returning from combat.  We are, after all, in the very midst of the struggle of our time.  It is here and across Europe where I’ll write and observe as a military outsider for the first time, to contemplate and engage in the dialogue that must take place.  It is what War Literature and the Arts is there to do, and what the upcoming conference in September is about—to provide a venue for creative minds.  More clearly than ever, we need the modest creative antidote to war that art can provide.  Without it, we would be more lost than we already are.

Check out the link to our conference:  http://wlajournal.com/conference/ to see who’ll be there.  The conference is free, so if you’re interested in coming out to Colorado, please do.  I’ll be there along with the people headlining the conference.

Okay, so I’ve written enough for now, and I don’t expect to be linger this long on the page in future blogs.   There are other things to write, and besides, I want to hear what you have to say.  My Weizen Bier has arrived, the first of many on this year ahead.  Time to put down my pen.  Next stop Southern France, visiting relatives, and if time allows, a trip to the Rhone American Cemetary there.

Until next time,

JM