Reconciliation: 24

Everyone makes decisions. Some are more horrific than others. This month, back in 1944, young men their 20s were facing dreadful choices. Last evening, that came to mind afresh. We watched Twelve O’clock High, the classic Gregory Peck film, and it brought to mind something told me by the late Hal Naylor, a precious friend and hero.

Leaving college during World War Two, Hal became pilot of a B-17 flying from England to Germany before his plane was shot down during, if I recall, something like his sixth mission.

He told me how the young pilots of the squadrons faced one faithful decision even before leaving. They could take off and fly in the opposite direction for some time in order to gain altitude before turning and heading toward the German anti-aircraft emplacements in France. This improved survival odds but expended precious fuel.

Alternatively, they could head straight across the English Channel into enemy fire before gaining relatively safe altitude, but be assured of enough fuel to return to base. In the Eighth Air Force alone, 26,000 did not. Their duty almost rose to the level of suicide missions. I have read where, though they selected volunteers who were small in stature for the job, the space allotted a ball-turret gunner didn’t allow room for a parachute. Hal told me the pilot and co-pilot spaces were so cramped that they tied parachutes to their legs in hopes they could don them if they had to exit.

Decisions. Sometimes I think of the young men and women and the decisions they had to make in those days when I read where modern college students must have “safe places” where they are protected from hearing thoughts and ideas that don’t coincided with their world view. That would probably amaze a nurse who had faced the horrors of medical triage after a battle.

An amazing fact is that, today, less than one-percent of Americans will ever serve in the military. They will never face decisions like having choose between attempting to land a crippled plane and save wounded comrades, or abandoning their craft over the English Channel.

Those who have faced the ultimate sacrifice, those “happy few” as Shakespeare called them, probably have a different view of life because of the experience. The awarding of trophies of excellence to every member of a children’s sports league must seem a little tedious to a “grunt” who had to write that blank check on his life, payable to us, in order to wear the coveted Combat Infantry Badge.

Further, the fact that so few serve, in my opinion, opens all Americans to the danger that we will be drawn into useless wars that will, at first, only affect the children of others. That such adventures may eventually affect us all seems to be lost on so many. If it doesn’t affect me, what do I care? It seems to be more important that I select the best cell phone plan. I read where most of us cannot locate, on a map, the place where the last American soldier died in combat.

Sacrifice? Has it become an obsolete concept? Today we will pay service of some sort to the fallen B-17 crews, along with the sailors, infantry soldiers, medical personnel, and desert fighters who paid the awful prize for serving our country. Will our main decision be what beer to bring to the picnic? A much better decision would be to choose to become aware of the issues facing our great land and to serve, in whatever capacity we can, to solve them.

It should be an honor to serve out country, but any death in a war is a tragedy.

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
- William Shakespeare