11,330. RUDIMENTS, pt. 508

RUDIMENTS, pt. 508

(the prom dress on the battlefield)

As a young kind, a lot of

the phrases and things you

hear or pick up, in school,

stay with you. In my case,

and in this instance, the one

that stuck  -  one of them  - 

was 'The Redcoats are

coming.' Any reference,

actually, to the British

soldiers fighting the American

revolutionists in that almost

unimaginable, to me, war on

the soil here around me, was

incredible. Yet, what always

stood out, and was even

more notable, was, to my way

of questioning  -  what were

they thinking  -  why they'd

have selected an ostentatious

'RED' military garb for the

sort of war or 'defense' against
an insurrection or local fight
on physical territory that was
not theirs, and for which

they were only here to fight.

Think about it for a minute.

Perhaps it was but a notch

beneath wearing a large sign

which read 'Here I am, shoot

me now!' By contrast to today's

warfare, when camouflage

patterns and fabrics are a

studied science, this was like

wearing a prom-dress to the

battlefield  -  let alone the

dumb British propensity

for marching in lockstep

and formation, shooting

in rows (getting gunned

down in rows too), as if

they had no awareness at

all of the terrain or sort of

renegade-fighting and

sidelines shooting they'd

be facing. (Hmmm, sounds

a lot like Vietnam too, with

the Cong everywhere. The

only compensation we had

for that was over-weening

air-power, which made up

the difference, though the

American forces still mostly

got skunked by guerrillas).

-

I've visited West Point a

few times  -  I always now

think twice over it, because

of how I look, and the white

van I'm usually driving. The

guy at the gate-house makes

me stop, and he rifles through

everything and checks my

paperwork, with that Sgt.

McManus scowl that I hate.

(Hey, Buddy, my taxes help

pay for this place, AND for

you too, so pipe down).

The cool thing about West

Point and all that militarism

and formation and marching

is that the reality of the blood

and death is never brought to

the forefront. It's kind of

unspoken. There's a memorial

section out at the very rear,

overlooking the point that

views out over the Hudson,

where the chains were put

across the river to help stop

British frigates from

navigating (the effort mostly

failed, but the 'Seven Chains'

across the Hudson thing is

cool and adds History to 

the view). Anyway, there

are a few graves and 

memorials back there, 

but there's also a 

collection of cannons 

and gun emplacements

and the plaque and 

markers state the (don't 

quote me, I'm working 

from memory) tradition 

of West Pointers taking a

cannon or gun emplacement

from every city they take,

which I suppose means

'conquer.' It's all very 

weird, because the mind 

knows what subtext is 

in that statement : the 

blood and fire, death 

and ruination (can't be 

helped, war is war, and 

all that, I know).

-

I can only speak for myself;

I was never military material;

nor do I share any of that

ethos, to this day. At West 

Point, on a good, weather-wise

day, you can see the cadets 

or plebes or whatever they're 

called, in all their fieldwork 

-   constant, rigorous and 

probably lethal too. All

running through a field of

tires, with the little, jumpy

paces of feet being irregularly

spaced to meet the tires. Girls

and guys, doing sit-ups galore,

fast-runs, slow-runs, assisting

each other. It is, believe me,

very glorious and invigorating  -

in addition to the remainder 

of the curriculum  -  like any

college, halls and arena-seating,

libraries and classrooms and

lecture halls, etc. Unlike, say,

Princeton, where one can easily

sit in on a lecture of 14th century

lyric poetry, at West Point the

study is different. Class headings

are different too  -  War, Military

Tactical History, Great Generals

and their Battlefields, and general

histories of battlefields as well.

Very pointed. Very concentrated.

-

One time, I was walking around,

with my dog on a leash, and I

was more or less daydreaming,

letting my mind stray, looking

at all these things and thinking

about them, and I looked up

to see three or four wonderful,

old-style, well-kept homes, one

of which held the yard and walkway

we'd wandered into. In about a

minute, two MP's came barreling

up. Uh-oh. We'd strayed into

the Commanders' housing area.

We were told (nicely) to leave

and that it was off-limits. So

we walked away, across the

wide, happy lawn.

-

As obvious as if I'd worn a

red jacket to the Summitry Ball,

I must have strode onto that

accidental lawn like a rube.

That's all part of the pomp and

pageantry aspect of the military

format  -  at most base, that's

what bugs me about it. There's a

certain level of reptilian thinking

working through all that. The

oldest part of the human brain,  

the reptilian core, is the deep and

underlying section which controls

the most primitive of our emotional

responses  -  counting, sequence,

rank, title, and pretty much all

of the logical and strict levels of

process and procedure. It really, to

advanced humanity, ought to be the

first to go  -  and the only way it

'goes' (since you cannot 'remove'

it) is to become aware and

conscious of it in its constant 

attempts to rule the thought 

process. In practical terms, it

would be the first effectors of

something like line/file

marching red coats. Get it 

yet? It's not 'smooth,' not cool;

remains rigid and formulaic.

It wears a prom dress, yes, on

the field of battle, and yet expects

to win (because it can only have

the concept of win or lose. With

nothing in between). It's politics.

It's warfare. It's all or nothing.

At all.