October 25: Saint Crispin's Day

[xiphias]

Today, on the 25th of October, 2005, a grim milestone was reached.

Staff Sgt. George T. Alexander Jr became the 2,000 American soldier to die in Iraq.

There's nothing particularly special about the number "2000". Sgt. Alexander's sacrifice was not different from anyone else's. Someone who dies tomorrow will not be mourned any less by his or her family. Those who died last week did not make any lesser sacrifice in the name of duty and patriotism.

But we humans look for milestones. And we look for numbers and patterns. And the Universe is always willing to provide them for us.

Today is, as the blind irony of random chance would have it, St. Crispin's Day.


This is what Shakespeare put in the mouth of his Henry V:

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
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.

And, on that day in 1415, on the fields of Agincourt, the English archers destroyed the knights of France. It was one of the greatest military victories in history. And, of course, one of the greatest military losses. For that's what war is.

Four hundred thirty nine years later, in 1854, Captain Lewis Edward Nolan delivered a message to George Charles Bingham, Earl of Lucan, from Fitzroy James Henry Somerset, Lord Raglan. It instructed Lord Lucan to attack the Russian guns with his Light Brigade. Lord Lucan was unaware that the Russian guns in question were right over the hill he was standing on: the Russians had just captured them, and the Light Brigade was in quite a good position to take them back. The only Russian guns Lord Lucan could see were all the way on the other side of the valley, and heavily defended: to attack them the Light Brigade would have to charge the entire length of the battlefield, through heavy musket fire and artillery.

So, that's what he instructed his brother-in-law, Lord Cardigan, to do.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson had this to say about it:

1.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

Two thousand American soldiers have died in Iraq. More than that, really -- that doesn't count all the "civilian security consultants" who have died -- and they're just as American, and just as dead, as those to whom the names on that AP list belong.

Who were they? Would they have shown off their artificial limbs with pride? "I lost this leg in Falujah", or Tikrit, or Baghdad. "These wounds I had on Crispian's Day."

Do they know someone had blundered? Or is it worse -- as we now know, it wasn't a "blunder" to make false claims that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction -- we now know that the White House knew they were lying. And yet -- "theirs is not to wonder why."

Ours is.

*********

Incidentally, a bit of a post-script:

Rudyard Kipling was very well aware of the difference between "supporting our troops" in words, and giving actual support to the troops. Thirty-seven years after the Charge, he wrote

The old troop sergeant was spokesman, and “Beggin’ your pardon,” he said,
“You wrote o’ the Light Brigade, sir. Here’s all that isn’t dead.
An’ it’s all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin’ the mouth of hell;
For we’re all of us nigh to the workhouse, an’ we thought we’d call an’ tell.

“No, thank you, we don’t want food, sir; but couldn’t you take an’ write
A sort of ‘to be continued’ and ‘see next page’ o’ the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an’ couldn’t you tell ’em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.”

Let's not forget Kipling's lesson, either.

Comments

[noveldevice.livejournal.com]

I have heard half a hundred SCA folk mouth those lines of Shakespeare so often I had forgotten what they meant.

Thank you.

[gingicat]

Amen to your postscript.

[griffen.livejournal.com]

Amen to all of it. Wow.

[marquisedea.livejournal.com]

oh neat woohoo I forgot about it happy st. crispin's! i memorized some o'that there speech once.

[holzman.livejournal.com]

From a more recent poem:

They came to fight for glory in their thousands
Young men with their dreams
They died before the guns for their country
A book of faded pictures, broken dreams

Where are they now
The broken heroes

Uncle Sam is waiting with the draft card
He says you've got to fight the Vietcong
The stations full of flags and rule Britannia
The engine pulls you out towards the Somme

Where are they now
The broken heroes

The pipes are calling young men back to Belfast
The general says you march to Stalingrad
You rode into the valley with the hundred
Seven lonely graves on Goose Green

[backdoor-uk.livejournal.com]

It also reminds me of:

“we pay the price
an addict pays
if oil costs the blood
of a thousand soldiers
we don't care
if it costs the blood
of ten thousand civilians
we don't care
if it costs the blood
of 30,000 traffic deaths
we don't care

we are the vampires of empire
we can eat cherries in winter
we can fly anywhere
everything we do begins
with petroleum
yum yum yum”

http://awakenedwoman.com/grahn_vampires.htm

- Chris

[wcg.livejournal.com]

Thanks for this. Well done.

[docstrange.livejournal.com]

Nice, nice. Very nice.

[sashajwolf.livejournal.com]

*crying*

[pecunium.livejournal.com]

My war poem is by Wilfred Owen:

Apologia pro Poemate Meo

I, too, saw God through mud, -
       The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
       War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
       And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.


Merry it was to laugh there -
       Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
       For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
       Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.


I, too, have dropped off Fear -
       Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
       And sailed my spirit surging light and clear
       Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;


And witnessed exultation -
       Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
       Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
       Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.


I have made fellowships -
       Untold of happy lovers in old song.
       For love is not the binding of fair lips
       With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,


By Joy, whose ribbon slips, -
       But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
       Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
       Knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong.


I have perceived much beauty
       In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
       Heard music in the silentness of duty;
       Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.


Nevertheless, except you share
       With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
       Whose world is but the trembling of a flare
       And heaven but as the highway for a shell,


You shall not hear their mirth:
       You shall not come to think them well content
       By any jest of mine. These men are worth
       Your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

TK

[deerdancer22.livejournal.com]

That is a good poem for the chickenhawks, sending too many to die.

[sethg]

pecunium has another Henry V quote that seems apropos:

"But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath
a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and
arms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join
together at the latter day and cry all 'We died at
such a place;' some swearing, some crying for a
surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind
them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their
children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die
well that die in a battle; for how can they
charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their
argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it
will be a black matter for the king that led them to
it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of
subjection."