thedrifter
08-29-05, 12:08 PM
Born to be a soldier
Reflecting on the impact of Southern military culture
I was born to be a soldier. Not that I was particularly brave or even destined for a distinguished military career, but I think there is something inherent in most Southern boys that predisposes them to the profession of arms. I simply got a bigger dose of it than most.
As early as I can remember, I was surrounded by, and fascinated with, all manner of things military.
Growing up in South Carolina – particularly along the once scorched-earth route that followed Union General William Tecumseh Sherman – it seemed that everywhere was once a battlefield and everyone was somehow connected to it. Swords, rifles, flags, daguerreotypes, and photographs of young uniformed men filled the local museums, historic homes, and even the attics of friends and family. Books about English and French knights, Confederate cavalrymen, and German paratroopers lined the dens of senior male relatives. Portraits of Southern Generals Robert E. Lee and Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson graced the foyers of banks, libraries, and government office buildings. Models of British warships were displayed on the credenzas of my dad's business acquaintances. And in Dad's Gervais Street (downtown Columbia) office hung a picture entitled, "The Surrender," a parodist's portrayal of Union General Ulysses S. Grant relinquishing his sword to Lee.
Beyond that, most every man in my world – Dad, Dad's friends, my friends' dads, my uncles, older cousins, and ancestors as far back as my family knew – had at the very least served a hitch in active or reserve service. If they had not, it was because they were medically disqualified, not because they chose not to serve.
In any other region of the country such a record of service would qualify a family as being considered a "military family." In the South, however, it was simply duty, and no family was considered a military family unless the patriarch had logged at least twenty years of service and retired.
But the South was military. It always has been. And military tradition, though rarely expressed albeit acknowledged by Southerners, permeates every inch of the Southern social fabric from deer drives to debutante balls to the pageantry associated with college football games.
Though I didn't realize it at the time, the approach my parents took with me even had martial overtones.
Dad taught me before I was six-years-old – "Love your country." "Love your flag." "Never raise your hand against someone senior to you." "Never start a fight." "Never run from a fight." "Always fight fair unless your sister or your mom are attacked." Then I was exhorted to pick up the biggest stick available and crush the attacker's skull.
Dad also told me stories about Revolutionary War hero Francis Marion and how he and his men would burst upon the British columns, striking quick, and then disappearing into the Carolina swamps where the redcoats were unable to track them. Marion and his guerillas were particularly fascinating to me as at least one of their hideouts had purportedly existed in the area where we vacationed at my Uncle Bob's "lake house" on the Santee. Marion's exploits – combined with Uncle Bob's twisted tales of "untamed Injuns" and others-not-like-us who lived on nearby islands and ventured out only to murder children in their beds – was enough to convince me that a soldier was the most important man in the world.
The first stories I remember being read to me were from the Childcraft book series. Mom read those to me: Always the tales I wanted to hear about ear-ringed pirates operating along the Eastern Seaboard, English princes commanding grand battalions in the era of Marlborough, and American patriots on horseback splashing across backcountry streams. The first books I bought (and still own) were The Golden Book of the American Revolution and Great American fighter pilots of World War II. And, of course, I can't remember not playing with toy submachine guns, G.I. Joes, and those little plastic, green soldiers.
At Kat's Hotel – an inn in downtown Aiken so-named by my sister, Annette, and me because our Aunt Kat worked there as a receptionist – I spent hours in the pool pretending I was a Navy frogman infiltrating an enemy-held beach. My mission included swimming from one end of the pool to the other, slowly surfacing, eyes first, then my nose and only just enough to breathe while I reconnoitered older girls who were usually sunning in a row of chaise longues.
I even dreamt of one day forming an underwater commando unit with some of my neighborhood buddies. We would be called the sea devils.
Like all Southern boys, we built forts, played "army," and sometimes crawled into a neighbor's garaged boat and pretended we were patrolling the South Pacific with John Kennedy and PT-109.
Even sports had a martial flavor for us. We often played pickup games of baseball, basketball, and football; inevitably arguing over which team would be called the "Fighting Gamecocks" – the mascot of the University of South Carolina and the nom d' guerre bestowed upon Continental Army General Thomas Sumter by one of his opponents, British Colonel Banastre Tarleton.
At night, lying in bed, I consciously divided my world into six parts: I was at the center, safe and strangely contented by the sounds of crickets, dogs, and distant train whistles. North was where the "Yankees" lived, and, as I understood it then, they were our natural enemies. To the south was Charleston where South Carolina earned its "Palmetto State" sobriquet in a fiery exchange between the Royal Navy and our coastal defenders. To the near west was the city center of Columbia, still scarred in some places from Sherman's invasion a century before. To the near east was Fort (Andrew) Jackson where the distant "wooomp" of grenades and mortars was "a constant" as young army recruits trained for combat in Vietnam. Above me was the infinite sky where, in my mind, unseen American fighters pilots were holding back the hordes of Russian bomber pilots who wanted to kill us all.
Often I would lie awake listening to the distant "woomps" and contemplating my own future as a soldier. At eight and nine-years old, I was afraid of one day being killed in action. More horrifying to me, however, was the idea that a man who did not serve his country might somehow be considered less-than-a-man. Of course, the debacle in Vietnam would ultimately change that concept for most people. I was the exception. In my mind, the call to arms, regardless of the outcome, was the noblest opportunity a man might ever have.
When I was a little older – like so many other Southern boys whose schoolwork begins to take a back seat to mischievous pursuits – I was parentally threatened with being shipped off to a military prep school.
I had mixed emotions about military school. Most of me had no desire to go. The thought of a shaved head, institutionalized corporal punishment, and a female-free environment was not attractive in the least. On the other hand, there was something secretly appealing about flashing swords, brass-buttoned tunics, and learning more about the heroes with whom I had become so enamored.
In the end, my independent nature and a steady girlfriend overcame my warrior dreams. I promised to work harder in the classroom, my grades gradually improved, and my formal training in the art of war was postponed. But I always knew, as did my friends and all other Southern boys, that military school was an option for substandard performers.
continued...
Reflecting on the impact of Southern military culture
I was born to be a soldier. Not that I was particularly brave or even destined for a distinguished military career, but I think there is something inherent in most Southern boys that predisposes them to the profession of arms. I simply got a bigger dose of it than most.
As early as I can remember, I was surrounded by, and fascinated with, all manner of things military.
Growing up in South Carolina – particularly along the once scorched-earth route that followed Union General William Tecumseh Sherman – it seemed that everywhere was once a battlefield and everyone was somehow connected to it. Swords, rifles, flags, daguerreotypes, and photographs of young uniformed men filled the local museums, historic homes, and even the attics of friends and family. Books about English and French knights, Confederate cavalrymen, and German paratroopers lined the dens of senior male relatives. Portraits of Southern Generals Robert E. Lee and Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson graced the foyers of banks, libraries, and government office buildings. Models of British warships were displayed on the credenzas of my dad's business acquaintances. And in Dad's Gervais Street (downtown Columbia) office hung a picture entitled, "The Surrender," a parodist's portrayal of Union General Ulysses S. Grant relinquishing his sword to Lee.
Beyond that, most every man in my world – Dad, Dad's friends, my friends' dads, my uncles, older cousins, and ancestors as far back as my family knew – had at the very least served a hitch in active or reserve service. If they had not, it was because they were medically disqualified, not because they chose not to serve.
In any other region of the country such a record of service would qualify a family as being considered a "military family." In the South, however, it was simply duty, and no family was considered a military family unless the patriarch had logged at least twenty years of service and retired.
But the South was military. It always has been. And military tradition, though rarely expressed albeit acknowledged by Southerners, permeates every inch of the Southern social fabric from deer drives to debutante balls to the pageantry associated with college football games.
Though I didn't realize it at the time, the approach my parents took with me even had martial overtones.
Dad taught me before I was six-years-old – "Love your country." "Love your flag." "Never raise your hand against someone senior to you." "Never start a fight." "Never run from a fight." "Always fight fair unless your sister or your mom are attacked." Then I was exhorted to pick up the biggest stick available and crush the attacker's skull.
Dad also told me stories about Revolutionary War hero Francis Marion and how he and his men would burst upon the British columns, striking quick, and then disappearing into the Carolina swamps where the redcoats were unable to track them. Marion and his guerillas were particularly fascinating to me as at least one of their hideouts had purportedly existed in the area where we vacationed at my Uncle Bob's "lake house" on the Santee. Marion's exploits – combined with Uncle Bob's twisted tales of "untamed Injuns" and others-not-like-us who lived on nearby islands and ventured out only to murder children in their beds – was enough to convince me that a soldier was the most important man in the world.
The first stories I remember being read to me were from the Childcraft book series. Mom read those to me: Always the tales I wanted to hear about ear-ringed pirates operating along the Eastern Seaboard, English princes commanding grand battalions in the era of Marlborough, and American patriots on horseback splashing across backcountry streams. The first books I bought (and still own) were The Golden Book of the American Revolution and Great American fighter pilots of World War II. And, of course, I can't remember not playing with toy submachine guns, G.I. Joes, and those little plastic, green soldiers.
At Kat's Hotel – an inn in downtown Aiken so-named by my sister, Annette, and me because our Aunt Kat worked there as a receptionist – I spent hours in the pool pretending I was a Navy frogman infiltrating an enemy-held beach. My mission included swimming from one end of the pool to the other, slowly surfacing, eyes first, then my nose and only just enough to breathe while I reconnoitered older girls who were usually sunning in a row of chaise longues.
I even dreamt of one day forming an underwater commando unit with some of my neighborhood buddies. We would be called the sea devils.
Like all Southern boys, we built forts, played "army," and sometimes crawled into a neighbor's garaged boat and pretended we were patrolling the South Pacific with John Kennedy and PT-109.
Even sports had a martial flavor for us. We often played pickup games of baseball, basketball, and football; inevitably arguing over which team would be called the "Fighting Gamecocks" – the mascot of the University of South Carolina and the nom d' guerre bestowed upon Continental Army General Thomas Sumter by one of his opponents, British Colonel Banastre Tarleton.
At night, lying in bed, I consciously divided my world into six parts: I was at the center, safe and strangely contented by the sounds of crickets, dogs, and distant train whistles. North was where the "Yankees" lived, and, as I understood it then, they were our natural enemies. To the south was Charleston where South Carolina earned its "Palmetto State" sobriquet in a fiery exchange between the Royal Navy and our coastal defenders. To the near west was the city center of Columbia, still scarred in some places from Sherman's invasion a century before. To the near east was Fort (Andrew) Jackson where the distant "wooomp" of grenades and mortars was "a constant" as young army recruits trained for combat in Vietnam. Above me was the infinite sky where, in my mind, unseen American fighters pilots were holding back the hordes of Russian bomber pilots who wanted to kill us all.
Often I would lie awake listening to the distant "woomps" and contemplating my own future as a soldier. At eight and nine-years old, I was afraid of one day being killed in action. More horrifying to me, however, was the idea that a man who did not serve his country might somehow be considered less-than-a-man. Of course, the debacle in Vietnam would ultimately change that concept for most people. I was the exception. In my mind, the call to arms, regardless of the outcome, was the noblest opportunity a man might ever have.
When I was a little older – like so many other Southern boys whose schoolwork begins to take a back seat to mischievous pursuits – I was parentally threatened with being shipped off to a military prep school.
I had mixed emotions about military school. Most of me had no desire to go. The thought of a shaved head, institutionalized corporal punishment, and a female-free environment was not attractive in the least. On the other hand, there was something secretly appealing about flashing swords, brass-buttoned tunics, and learning more about the heroes with whom I had become so enamored.
In the end, my independent nature and a steady girlfriend overcame my warrior dreams. I promised to work harder in the classroom, my grades gradually improved, and my formal training in the art of war was postponed. But I always knew, as did my friends and all other Southern boys, that military school was an option for substandard performers.
continued...