Nice Gun You've Got There, Sir

War requires no motivation, but appears to be ingrained in human nature and is even valued as something noble.

Immanuel Kant (1724-1804)
Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch (1795)

To declare war “normal” does not eliminate the pathologies of behavior, the enormities of devastation, the unbearable pain suffered in bodies and souls. Nor does the idea that war is normal justify it. . . . Though “war is normal” shocks our morality and wounds our idealism, it stands solidly as a statement of fact.

James Hillman (1926- )
A Terrible Love of War (2004)

Late in the afternoon on Saturday, May 21, I watched the Preakness Stakes on TV. As you know, the Preakness is the second of three horse races comprising the Triple Crown. It follows the Kentucky Derby by two weeks and precedes the Belmont Stakes by three. It takes place at the Pimlico Race Course in Baltimore. This year marked the 136th running of the Preakness, and it paid the winner a million dollars.

In it’s inimitable manner, each year the television networks turn the Preakness (and the Kentucky Derby and the Belmont Stakes) into a super-spectacle, the coverage beginning two or three hours before the start of the race. Every conceivable aspect of preparation is the subject of some kind of reporting, from the last workout and final bath of the favored horses to locker room interviews of the leading jockeys as they’re dressing for the race. The coverage goes on and on and on.

Everyone in the crowd of over a hundred thousand seems to enjoy the color, the exuberant atmosphere, and the sheer excitement of this esteemed race — not to mention the drinks, single malt scotch for the well-to-do, bottomless mugs of beer for the blue-collared infielders. On this warm spring afternoon, most of the folks in the wealthy seats are dressed to the hilt: the men in blue blazers or cream-colored suits and yellow ties and many of the women showing cleavage and sporting large colorful, cumbersome hats. The thoroughbred horses are some of the most beautiful animals on the face of the earth. The Preakness is a big deal for horse lovers and sports fans of all stripes, even those like me who don’t know a thing about horses or horse racing, but who nevertheless like to watch the horses and the jockeys and every year try to take in each of the three Triple Crown races.

About 30 minutes before the start of the race, Bob Costas, NBC’s premier sportscaster, stands on a dais where the winning owner will soon receive the coveted Woodlawn Vase (pronounced correctly, "Vase" rhymes with “blahs”) and where the winning horse will be draped with the traditional blanket of Black-Eyed Susans, Maryland’s state flower. Costas says something important about the race, but I’ve forgotten what it was. Later, when the time would come for presenting the Vase and the flowers, the dais would be crowded with owners, family members, the jockey, sportswriters, the Governor of Maryland, and Bob Costas. At this point, however, Bob Costas stands there by himself.

Or almost by himself. For behind him at the rear of the dais, the only other person present, is a soldier standing at rigid attention, his presence ignored by Costas. The solder’s resplendent dark blue uniform is adorned with medals and multi-colored ribbons that cover most of the left side of his chest. He also wears white gloves and a military hat with a polished black visor. I think I spotted a paratroopers’ badge pinned somewhere among his medals, but I can’t be sure. He is a handsome, African-American man. He remains stolidly expressionless and never moves a muscle. He never looks anywhere but straight ahead. In his right gloved hand, he is holding the top part of a gun, a rifle of some kind, the base of which rests on the floor of the dais. Mounted on the gun, directly in front of his chest, is a long silver-colored, shiny, bayonet. It gleams in the bright Maryland sunshine.

Taking this in, I paused and, forgetting Bob Costas, said to myself: “O.K. What’s wrong with this picture? What the hell is a guy with a gun and a bayonet doing smack in the middle of a frigging horse race?”

Well, I thought, you can bet he isn’t there to protect anyone, certainly not Bob Costas. And he isn’t there to protect any particular thing, not even the Woodlawn Vase. They have security people to do things like that, guys in plain dark suits and sunglasses, guys that aren’t exactly known for walking around carrying rifles with fixed bayonets. He is there, I concluded, as a symbol, as a slick and subtle reminder that we Americans are warriors, that we’re a nation of warriors.

Oh, my. A warrior nation? Yep, that's right. Think about it. We Americans have a non-stop torrid love affair with war. We can hardly do without it; we are the military-industrial complex par excellence. It's become so commonplace that we don't realize it, but the fact is that we’ve been at war continuously for the past 70 years and we don’t show signs of stopping. As the Indian writer Arundhati Roy noted soon after we invaded Iraq: “Since the Second World War, the United States has been at war with or has attacked, among other countries, Korea, Guatemala, Cuba, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Grenada, Libya, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama, Iraq, Somalia, Sudan, Yugoslavia, and Afghanistan.” [Arundhati Roy, War Talk (Cambridge 2003)].

I mean, really. A gun and a bayonet at a horse race?