by Dan Rather
Service
Many memories will die when those of us who remember the Second World War pass on: the shock of Pearl Harbor, the shifting fortunes in the European and Pacific theaters, the dawning horror of the full scope of the Holocaust. But less dramatic and more personal memories will also disappear forever, like our emotional response to the American war songs that were produced to comfort and rally a nation. To later generations, those songs of the early 1940s, with their simple tunes and lyrics that verge on (or sometimes even surpass) the jingoistic, may at best rise to the level of intellectual curiosity. But if I hear just a few bars of many of them, my eyes sometimes dampen, and it’s hard to sing the lyrics without a quiver in my voice.
The words and music transport me back. I remember so many neighbors waiting nervously for news of loved ones fighting in battles overseas; I remember mourning parents, children left without fathers; and I remember the knocks on doors that changed lives in an instant. The world of my youth was engulfed in a desperate fight for the survival of humanity, but these songs remind me that we remained in some ways oddly innocent. Simple songs of heroism and sacrifice, with evocative titles like “There’s a Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere,” were welcomed and embraced by a grateful public without cynicism.
There is one song that still strikes at me harder than most, “The Ballad of Rodger Young.” It tells the story of a young infantryman who gave his life so that his fellow soldiers could live. Young was a man short in stature but big in heart. Despite his size, he had been a star athlete in high school, until a basketball head injury left him almost deaf. After dropping out of school, he enlisted in the Ohio National Guard and was sent to the Pacific. He rose to the rank of sergeant, but asked to be demoted to private because he could not hear well enough to lead his men into battle. In an ambush in the Solomon Islands on July 31, 1943, Young charged a Japanese pillbox. The citation for his posthumous Congressional Medal of Honor tells of how he was shot twice by machine-gun fire during his push up the hill, and yet “he continued his heroic advance, attracting enemy fire and answering with rifle fire. . . . He began throwing hand grenades, and while doing so was hit again and killed.” Young had recently turned twenty-five years old. His is a story of uncommon valor, but in war, I have found, such stories are not uncommon.
What shakes me to the core in this song is the fourth stanza, which paints a picture of Young’s final resting place:
On the island of New Georgia in the Solomons
Stands a simple wooden cross alone to tell
That beneath the silent coral of the Solomons
Sleeps a man, sleeps a man remembered well.
These words capture the heroism and insanity of war writ large. Who had ever heard of the Solomon Islands? And yet young men were sent to die there for a cause much larger than themselves, just as they were sent to die in the deserts of North Africa, the high seas of the Pacific, the mountain villages of Italy, and so many other distant battlefields. This is not just the story of World War II, of course, but of all wars, across all time.
We live in debt to those who have served and died, a debt tallied in blood. And too often our political leaders who commit our young men, and now young women, into war do not take this truth into account with an adequate fullness of measure. Over the years, I have been to many military cemeteries, and I am always overcome with waves of emotion. This is especially true of the cemeteries that are filled, not with the tombs of long-lived veterans who earned a military burial for their service, but with the graves of the young who perished in battle. For me the most striking hallowed ground is the Normandy American Cemetery in France. I defy anyone to walk through its more than 170 acres of green grass and white crosses and stars and not feel deeply moved. All told, 9,387 American servicemen are buried there, with uniform grave markers, regardless of the rank they held in life. Death strikes us all with the same finality.
The cemetery is one of the most peaceful and beautiful places I have ever visited—a far cry from the pain and torment that led to its creation. Most buried there lost their lives in that fateful landing on the nearby beaches on D-day or in the fierce battles that immediately followed. I am struck by their ages. You quickly do the math, subtracting date of birth from date of death, and invariably arrive at a number in the high teens or early twenties. You cannot help but think: What might they have accomplished if they had lived? What happened to the loved ones they left behind?
Another striking cemetery can be found halfway around the globe, in a volcanic crater in the hills above Honolulu. Nicknamed Punchbowl, it is a tribute to the sacrifice in our Pacific and Asian wars, not only World War II, but also Korea and Vietnam. Above the bustle of Waikiki, it is a place for meditation on the cost of service with the “courts of the missing”—walls of 28,808 names etched in marble of those who went missing in action or were lost and buried at sea. As an inscription at the cemetery reminds us: “In these gardens are recorded the names of Americans who gave their lives in the service of their country and whose earthly resting place is known only to God.” “Known only to God” is a phrase that epitomizes a level of service beyond our full comprehension. In war, most deaths are lonely, and leave loneliness behind.
War turns upside down the normal order of life; being young makes you more likely to die. The attack on Pearl Harbor took place on a Sunday, and I remember my father and his younger brother John going immediately to the recruiting office in downtown Houston. When they arrived, the lines were already long and the office hadn’t yet opened. Most were eventually told to just wait and that the military would be in touch. My father, already in his thirties with three young children and doing what was deemed essential work in the oil fields, would not end up on active military duty (he later volunteered for the civil defense units and became our neighborhood civil watch). My uncle John, already in his late twenties and with flat, slightly deformed feet, also didn’t go off to war. Their offers to volunteer for active military service were declined. My uncle Hartzell Sherrill, who was young and single, volunteered for the navy. He was the quintessential taciturn Texan, and he ended up in the merchant marines. It was the kind of service that did not get the attention or glory it deserved, although as I have since learned in my years reporting on wars, some of the bravest members of our military are the ones who serve in a role supporting those on the front lines. My uncle carried out “suicide runs” to Murmansk, arctic convoys that sent desperately needed supplies to our then allies in the Soviet Union. These were dangerous assignments and dozens of ships were sunk. Uncle Hartzell survived, but he didn’t get many medals for his courageous service, and when he returned he didn’t talk about it much. That was common as well.
And that is how it was during World War II: There was a sense of service that permeated all of society, even down to young boys like me. I remember the rationing of food and materials. The idea that we all had to go without, that we were all asked to sacrifice in even small ways, created a sense of togetherness. It was everyone’s war, and everyone was encouraged to participate. The government sponsored drives to collect spare aluminum, rubber, and the like. Looking back now, I am not sure if all this was actually needed for the war effort, or whether these drives, organized down to the neighborhood level, were meant simply to inspire a unity of purpose. Whatever the reason, my young friends and I were hooked. We would scour the creeks and bayous near our homes for discarded junk. And when I collected more than any other kid in the neighborhood, I was awarded a little ribbon with what I now know to be a cheap metal disk. But to my much younger self it was an important medal, bestowed, I was told, by none other than General Dwight D. Eisenhower himself. Of course there were kids all over town, and across the country, who received the same thing. But to be decorated by the commander of Allied forces in Europe was a big source of pride. And that medal became a prized possession.
What that early experience taught me is that service can come in many forms. Now we, as a nation, are in desperate need o
f expanding and celebrating the notion of service. As a journalist I often confront the Dickensian side of life—in places like prisons, county hospitals, police stations, and homeless shelters. I see despair, desperation, and piercing cruelty—enough to often lead me to question the decency of my fellow man. But I am also struck by the many men and women I find of deep service: doctors, nurses, clerks, social workers, paramedics, police officers, district attorneys, public defenders, and so on. Not everyone I have met in these positions is perfect; far from it. But the vast majority are committed to their work and to making difficult and painful situations less difficult and painful.
And then there are those I’ve met in my travels around the United States who give of themselves every day to strengthen their communities. They are teachers, firefighters, and guidance counselors. They volunteer in nursing homes and youth centers. They are part of an America of largely unapplauded service, but most who do this work have no interest in seeking recognition. They understand that each act of assistance is a vote of confidence in our common humanity.
I am proud that both of my children went into careers of public service, giving up more lucrative paths to help their communities—my son, first as a public defender and now as an assistant district attorney, and my daughter as a leader in environmental and civic causes. My wife, Jean, has provided an example, volunteering for years and bringing children with learning disabilities and from underprivileged homes into our own home to teach them how to read. None of my family members will tell you that they should be recognized for their actions. They understand that they are blessed with much and that others do far more. They see all this as their duty to country. This is how widespread and common service really is.
The act of service is rooted in the purest of our democratic impulses. After we married, I often traveled with Jean to visit her family in Smithville, Texas, and one favorite activity was sitting in on the town’s council meetings, on which my father-in-law served. The council was made up of farmers, small-business owners, and teachers who were elected in nonpartisan elections. I would watch these earnest men and women follow Robert’s Rules of Order and debate substantial local concerns, whether it was to buy a new police car or lay a new water pipe. This was bottom-up democracy, infused with real public service. And it was a beautiful sight to behold.
Perhaps it is not controversial to write glowingly of small-town democracy resembling a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting, but truthfully, this same sense of purpose and service fills our great capital city. “Washington” has become for many a dirty word that connotes self-serving politicians and devious lobbyists. To be sure, they are there, but I remember when I first went to work in the city in the wake of the Kennedy assassination, being struck by how populated the government was with young people from every corner of the nation, there to do the right thing and serve their country. I still feel that way whenever I return. Yes, you see ambition, but also idealism and the desire to work hard. You see purpose and patriotism. It is bipartisan. This is a part of Washington that doesn’t get nearly enough attention.
It isn’t just the young and idealistic. Walk past the Department of Justice, Agriculture, Treasury, or any of the other government agencies at the end of the workday. Watch the men and women stream out in large numbers. Many of them could earn a better salary for less work in the private sector, yet they work here because they believe in service to country. When politicians call our government workers lazy or ineffectual, it is often for cynical political gain. Can government bureaucracies be infuriating and inefficient? Of course. But so can any big organization, whether it be a labor union, a nonprofit, or a private enterprise. Have you ever waited on the phone for an airline or cable company? To be sure, there are problems with Washington, but most of them can be found on Capitol Hill and K Street and in the White House, not in the windowless offices of the Environmental Protection Agency or the State Department.
And then there are all the Americans serving around the globe, representing our nation in official and unofficial capacities. There is our diplomatic corps, not only the political ambassadors, but often more impressively the career workers—the quiet Americans—who toil in difficult and sometimes dangerous locales with little to no recognition for their service. There are the Peace Corps volunteers and leaders of nongovernmental organizations who build schools, treat disease, and deliver clean water. Service to our country is about not only helping us and ours, but also taking care of others around the world. In 2004, just after most of us had gone to bed on Christmas, a massive earthquake shook the Indian Ocean and triggered a tsunami that reached such heights and wreaked such horrors it is almost impossible to comprehend. We will never know the exact loss of life, but it is estimated in excess of 230,000 people. Entire towns were wiped off the map. The rest of the world, preoccupied with end-of-year celebrations, was slow to react. Even at CBS News, I had to convince the president of the news division that this was worthy of intensive coverage.
On December 31, I was on a plane for 60 Minutes, along with my producers Chris Martin and Elliot Kirschner. The United States military had dispatched the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln to the waters off the coast of the Indonesian island of Sumatra. We landed on January 2 on the carrier deck, which was already a beehive of activity as its helicopters were airlifting supplies around the clock. The next morning we took off for the disaster zone. Out my window I could see beautifully vegetated coastlines of steep cliffs, but the trees and plants didn’t reach the sea. Instead, there was a tall band of brown dirt. The wall of water, perhaps as high as eighty to a hundred feet, had struck with such force that it ripped away everything in its path.
We touched down on a big grassy field, and I met Americans of all types, from the foreign service, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), and many others. They were confronting death at a scale I had never seen in a land bereft of services. We took off with supplies for the nearby regional capital of Banda Aceh, where tens of thousands of people had lost their lives. Those who had managed to survive had been cut off for days, undoubtedly wondering if help would ever come. The first outsiders they saw were young Americans handing out food and medicine provided by the U.S. government. It was one of the most difficult stories I have ever covered, but my spirits were soothed slightly by witnessing this level of dedicated service from my countrymen and -women.
It would benefit our republic greatly if we saw these instincts for service more often in our elected officials. There was a time when some form of military service was almost a prerequisite for politicians. While I have great respect for the military, I do not think that should be the only service recognized. But our society would benefit if more of our politicians had at least shown some inclination toward personal sacrifice and the need to help others before they entered office. At a time when we see many elected officials skirting their own scant history of service, military or otherwise, it is nice to meet young men like Seth Moulton.
Moulton is a product of a fancy boarding school who has a degree in physics from Harvard. But he completed four tours in Iraq as a marine officer in combat when he could have had a far easier and more comfortable life. I first met Moulton while reporting on the Iraq War, and as I got to know him over the years, it was clear he felt a deep need to serve. When he decided to mount a primary challenge to a long-sitting Democratic congressman in his Massachusetts district in 2014, I wasn’t sure if he could knock off the establishment. He did, and he went on to win the general election. During the campaign, it was revealed in the Boston Globe that Moulton had received numerous combat medals in Iraq for his service, including the Bronze Star. And he hadn’t even told his parents. “There is a healthy disrespect among veterans who served on the front lines for people who walk around telling war stories,” Moulton told the Globe. There were “many others who did heroic things and received no awards at all.”
How many politicians could you imagine approaching their accomplishments with this
level of humility, especially among our current leaders? That is the benefit of service: It tends to humanize you. People can disagree politically and philosophically on all the issues that confront our nation, but if more of our elected officials had served in causes other than their own advancement, I believe they would approach their jobs with less certainty in their own assumptions and more sympathy for the needs of others. It matters less whether it’s in the military, the Peace Corps, the many programs of AmeriCorps, social services, or legal aid. It’s about the values that drive a person to help by joining a mission that is bigger than they are.
When politicians from their gilded perch in Washington cut funding for foreign aid programs, I am troubled. When they denigrate government workers, I am indignant. And when they send the men and women who volunteered for our armed forces to multiple tours of combat while asking nothing of sacrifice from the rest of us, I am angry. We either choose to be part of a community that stretches beyond ourselves, our material needs, and our creature comforts, or we do not. In our society, it is possible for the selfish and self-centered to live at the expense of the rest of the population. We live in an age where such attitudes are conspicuously apparent. Thankfully most people I have met have chosen to give back to their communities, in ways big and small. On a personal level, service may be considered a virtue. But in a democratic society such as ours, we must consider it a necessity.
CHARACTER
Audacity
It was Abraham Lincoln who authorized the first transcontinental railroad during the Civil War. How audacious. By the time I was born, architecturally stunning train stations bustled at the heart of almost every American city, and as a child I would marvel at the mighty locomotives pulling the nation forward in their billowing wake. I’m old enough to remember with fondness the original Penn Station in New York City, which was modeled on one of the great ruins of Rome. While those ruins remain today, the old Penn Station does not—having been demolished in the 1960s, ostensibly in the service of progress.
