The Red Badge of Courage (1895)
Let's assume that the American public schools haven't completely gone to the dogs and that everyone had to read this book at some point. So you're all familiar with the basic story: young Northern man boldly sallies forth to war despite Mom's entreaties, but then realizes that he has no idea why he's there and fears that he may prove to be a coward. Indeed, given his first taste of battle, he does bolt and then wanders the battlefield too ashamed to return to his unit. But when he finally rejoins them a blow from the rifle butt of another soldier is mistaken for a battle wound and his cowardice is not discovered. Given a second chance, the youth redeems himself gloriously and in the process becomes a man.
The novel's excellent reputation is well deserved; it is brief but brutally powerful. Its descriptions of battle certainly seem realistic and the moral dilemma of the young man is one of the central problems of manhood. There's nothing not to like. So did I miss something? Why does my copy, and why do so many references to the book, refer to it as an antiwar statement? I actually read it as a pro war novel.
Let's go through the steps:
First, we've got the young man doubting his own courage and fearing that this feeling is unique to him. But the words of another soldier demonstrate that his fears are normal:
The tall private waved his hand. "Well", said he
profoundly, "I've thought it might get too hot for
Jim Conklin in some of them scrimmages, and if a
whole lot of boys started and run, why, I s'pose
I'd start and run. And if I once started to run,
I'd run like the devil, and no mistake. But if
everybody was a-standing and a-fighting, why, I'd
stand and fight. Be jiminey, I would. I'll bet on
it."
The youth of this tale felt gratitude for these words
of his comrade. He had feared that all of the
untried men possessed great and correct confidence.
He now was in a measure reassured.
I've argued elsewhere that every male has a little demon within him asking if, when push comes to shove, he will have the physical and/or moral courage to be a man in the face of death. This is one of the reasons that war has always been with us, the desire to find the answer to the demon's question. This is the element of Red Badge of Courage that makes it a universal tale.
At first, the young man is able, like millions of men before and after, to put aside his doubts by subsuming himself within the fighting unit:
He suddenly lost concern for himself, and forgot
to look at a menacing fate. He became not a man
but a member. He felt that something of which he
was a part--a regiment, an army, a cause, or a
country--was in crisis. He was welded into a common
personality which was dominated by a single
desire. For some moments he could not flee no more
than a little finger can commit a revolution
from a hand.
If he had thought the regiment was about to be annihilated
perhaps he could have amputated himself
from it. But its noise gave him assurance.
The regiment was like a firework that, once ignited,
proceeds superior to circumstances until its blazing
vitality fades. It wheezed and banged with a
mighty power. He pictured the ground before it as
strewn with the discomfited.
There was a consciousness always of the presence
of his comrades about him. He felt the subtle
battle brotherhood more potent even than the cause
for which they were fighting. It was a
mysterious fraternity born of the smoke and danger
of death.
He was at a task. He was like a carpenter who has
made many boxes, making still another box, only
there was furious haste in his movements. He, in
his thoughts, was careering off in other places,
even as the carpenter who as he works whistles and
thinks of his friend or his enemy, his home or
a saloon. And these jolted dreams were never perfect
to him afterward, but remained a mass of
blurred shapes.
Presently he began to feel the effects of the war
atmosphere--a blistering sweat, a sensation that his
eyeballs were about to crack like hot stones.
A burning roar filled his ears.
Following this came a red rage. He developed the
acute exasperation of a pestered animal, a
well-meaning cow worried by dogs. He had a mad feeling
against his rifle, which could only be
used against one life at a time. He wished to rush
forward and strangle with his fingers. He craved a
power that would enable him to make a world-sweeping
gesture and brush all back. His impotency
appeared to him, and made his rage into that of
a driven beast.
Buried in the smoke of many rifles his anger was
directed not so much against the men whom he
knew were rushing toward him as against the swirling
battle phantoms which were choking him,
stuffing their smoke robes down his parched throat.
He fought frantically for respite for his senses,
for air, as a babe being smothered attacks the deadly
blankets.
There was a blare of heated rage mingled with a certain
expression of intentness on all faces. Many
of the men were making low-toned noises with their
mouths, and these subdued cheers, snarls,
imprecations, prayers, made a wild, barbaric these
subdued cheers, snarls, imprecations, prayers,
made a wild, barbaric these subdued cheers, snarls,
imprecations, prayers, made a wild, barbaric
these subdued cheers, snarls, imprecations, prayers,
made a wild, barbaric song that went as an
undercurrent of sound, strange and chantlike with
the resounding chords of the war march.
I have often heard it said that when a battle starts, soldiers aren't fighting for themselves or for their countries or for ideas and ideals, fundamentally they are fighting to protect their buddies and fellow soldiers. As long as the young man keeps the battle in this perspective he is okay.
But then, he comes to doubt his fellows and seeks to save himself. And it is this selfish decision to flee which will haunt him and self loathing causes him to hate his victorious comrades:
The youth cringed as if discovered in a crime. By
heavens, they had won after all! The imbecile line
had remained and become victors. He could hear cheering.
He lifted himself upon his toes and looked in the
direction of the fight. A yellow fog lay wallowing
on the treetops. From beneath it came the clatter
of musketry. Hoarse cries told of an advance.
He turned away amazed and angry. He felt that he had been wronged.
He had fled, he told himself, because annihilation
approached. He had done a good part in saving
himself, who was a little piece of the army.
He had considered the time, he said, to be one in which
is was the duty of every little piece to rescue
itself if possible. Later the officers could fit the little
pieces together again, and make a battle front.
If none of the little pieces were wise enough to save
themselves from the flurry of death at such a time,
why, then, where would be the army? It was all
plain that he had proceeded according to very correct
and commendable rules. His actions had been
sagacious things. They had been full of strategy.
They were the work of a master's legs.
Thoughts of his comrades came to him. The brittle
blue line had withstood the blows and won. He
grew bitter over it. It seemed that the blind ignorance
and stupidity of those little pieces had
betrayed him. He had been overturned and crushed
by their lack of sense in holding the position,
when intelligent deliberation would have convinced
them that it was impossible. He, the enlightened
man who looks afar in the dark, had fled because
of his superior perceptions and knowledge. He
felt a great anger against his comrades. He knew
it could be proved that they had been fools.
He wondered what they would remark when later he
appeared in camp. His mind heard howls of
derision. Their density would not enable them to
understand his sharper point of view.
He began to pity himself acutely. He was ill used.
He was trodden beneath the feet of an iron
injustice. He had proceeded with wisdom and from
the most righteous motives under heaven's blue
only to be frustrated by hateful circumstances.
A dull, animal-like rebellion against his fellows,
war in the abstract, and fate grew within him. He
shambled along with bowed head, his brain in a tumult
of agony and despair. When he looked
loweringly up, quivering at each sound, his eyes
had the expression of those of a great criminal
who thinks his guilt and his punishment great, and
knows that he can find no words.
His self centered actions and cowardice have reduced him to an animal state.
His chance for redemption comes when he is unwittingly accepted back into the unit without anyone knowing that he fled. His very survival in the face of what he was sure was certain death actually becomes a source of strength to him:
He did not give a great deal of thought to these
battles that lay directly before him. It was not
essential that he should plan his ways in regard
to them. He had been taught that many obligations
of a life were easily avoided. The lessons of yesterday
had been that retribution was a laggard and
blind. With these facts before him he did not deem
it necessary that he should become feverish over
the possibilities of the ensuing twenty-four hours.
He could leave much to chance. Besides, a faith
in himself had secretly blossomed. There was a little
flower of confidence growing within him. He
was now a man of experience. He had been out among
the dragons, he said, and he assured himself
that they were not so hideous as he had imagined
them. Also, they were inaccurate; they did not
sting with precision. A stout heart often defied,
and defying, escaped.
And, furthermore, how could they kill him who was the chosen of gods and doomed to greatness?
He remembered how some of the men had run from the
battle. As he recalled their terror-struck
faces he felt a scorn for them. They had surely
been more fleet and more wild than was absolutely
necessary. They were weak mortals. As for himself,
he had fled with discretion and dignity.
Steeled by this new confidence, he acquits himself magnificently in the coming battle:
As they halted thus the lieutenant again began to
bellow profanely. Regardless of the vindictive
threats of the bullets, he went about coaxing, berating,
and bedamning. His lips, that were
habitually in a soft and childlike curve, were now
writhed into unholy contortions. He swore by all
possible deities.
Once he grabbed the youth by the arm. "Come on, yeh
lunkhead!" he roared. "Come one! We'll all
git killed if we stay here. We've on'y got t' go
across that lot. An' then"--the remainder of his idea
disappeared in a blue haze of curses.
The youth stretched forth his arm. "Cross there?" His mouth was puckered in doubt and awe.
"Certainly. Jest 'cross th' lot! We can't stay here,"
screamed the lieutenant. He poked his face close
to the youth and waved his bandaged hand.
"Come on!" Presently he grappled with him as if for a
wrestling bout. It was as if he planned to drag
the youth by the ear on to the assault.
The private felt a sudden unspeakable indignation
against his officer. He wrenched fiercely and
shook him off.
"Come on yerself, then," he yelled. There was a bitter challenge in his voice.
They galloped together down the regimental front.
The friend scrambled after them. In front of the
colors the three men began to bawl: "Come on! come
on!" They danced and gyrated like tortured
savages.
The flag, obedient to these appeals, bended its glittering
form and swept toward them. The men
wavered in indecision for a moment, and then with
a long, wailful cry the dilapidated regiment
surged forward and began its new journey.
Over the field went the scurrying mass. It was a
handful of men splattered into the faces of the
enemy. Toward it instantly sprang the yellow tongues.
A vast quantity of blue smoke hung before
them. A mighty banging made ears valueless.
The youth ran like a madman to reach the woods before
a bullet could discover him. He ducked his
head low, like a football player. In his haste his
eyes almost closed, and the scene was a wild blur.
Pulsating saliva stood at the corners of his mouth.
Within him, as he hurled himself forward, was born
a love, a despairing fondness for this flag
which was near him. It was a creation of beauty
and invulnerability. It was a goddess, radiant, that
bended its form with an imperious gesture to him.
It was a woman, red and white, hating and
loving, that called him with the voice of his hopes.
Because no harm could come to it he endowed
it with power. He kept near, as if it could be a
saver of lives, and an imploring cry went from his
mind.
In the mad scramble he was aware that the color sergeant
flinched suddenly, as if struck by a
bludgeon. He faltered, and then became motionless,
save for his quivering knees. He made a spring
and a clutch at the pole. At the same instant his
friend grabbed it from the other side. They jerked at
it, stout and furious, but the color sergeant was
dead, and the corpse would not relinquish its trust.
For a moment there was a grim encounter. The dead
man, swinging with bended back, seemed to
be obstinately tugging, in ludicrous and awful ways,
for the possession of the flag.
It was past in an instant of time. They wrenched the flag furiously from the dead man...
This hardly seems like it could be the same young man, as he rescues and carries forward the battle flag. And indeed he is no longer the same person. His courage has redeemed his cowardice and made him a man:
He saw his vivid error, and he was afraid that it
would stand before him all his life. He took no
share in the chatter of his comrades, nor did he
look at them or know them, save when he felt
sudden suspicion that they were seeing his thoughts
and scrutinizing each detail of the scene with
the tattered soldier.
Yet gradually he mustered force to put the sin at
a distance. And at last his eyes seemed to open to
some new ways. He found that he could look back
upon the brass and bombast of his earlier
gospels and see them truly. He was gleeful when
he discovered that he now despised them.
With this conviction came a store of assurance. He
felt a quiet manhood, nonassertive but of sturdy
and strong blood. He knew that he would no more
quail before his guides wherever they should
point. He had been to touch the great death, and
found that, after all, it was but the great death. He
was a man.
So it came to pass that as he trudged from the place
of blood and wrath his soul changed. He came
from hot plowshares to prospects of clover tranquilly,
and it was as if hot plowshares were not.
Scars faded as flowers.
It rained. The procession of weary soldiers became
a bedraggled train, despondent and muttering,
marching with churning effort in a trough of liquid
brown mud under a low, wretched sky. Yet the
youth smiled, for he saw that the world was a world
for him, though many discovered it to be
made of oaths and walking sticks. He had rid himself
of the red sickness of battle. The sultry
nightmare was in the past. He had been an animal
blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of
war. He turned now with a lover's thirst to images
of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool
brooks--an existence of soft and eternal peace.
Over the river a golden ray of sun came through the hosts of leaden rain clouds.
Now I guess that language is sufficiently ambiguous that you could argue that he's realized that war is stupid and now he won't fight any more. But the more straightforward reading is that, thanks to his show of courage in battle he has faced down the demon within and proven himself a man. Is it possible to read that as any other but a good thing? Doesn't it imply that War is a necessary test in the process of becoming a man, a crucible in which manhood is forged and dross cast aside? I sure as hell read it that way.
GRADE: A
CHARLIE HERZOG'S REVIEW:
Call me shallow (and forgetful of what might have been taught when
I first
read this in high school), but I wasn't aware of Crane's The Red Badge
of
Courage being a powerful antiwar statement until I read your review.
Reading it fresh, I thought the book had some clear benefits-- powerfully
written, soldier's point of view, trials and tribulations of the
battlefield, boy overcomes initial shock of war (and attendant guilt
for
running away) to serve with honor-- and was somewhat dated in a culture
where the war is hell theme has been done to death ever since the Vietnam
war. For example, I thought Red Badge was very similar to Saving Private
Ryan in that the message was about individual acts of bravery in the
face of
mass destruction and was to be read as the making of a hero, not an
indictment of the events that surround the individual.
(Reviewed:01-Nov-99)
Grade: (B+)
