Posted by
stevo on Saturday, February 17, 2007 3:12:49 PM
Over the Christmas season, I became one of the few members of the young “Me Generation” who has taken an interest in the classic TV sitcom, MASH. In the course of viewing the series finale of the show, I learned that though I am now separated by several generations from the Korean and Vietnam Wars, their grim legacies live on. These wars, though justifiable in purpose (in my opinion), carried with them the horrific tragedies brought about by war—so aptly displayed by MASH.
It is one thing to see villages bombed from afar and tracers lighting up the night sky, but quite another to see an 18 year old boy on an operating table—recalling picturesque memories from his childhood and crying for the family of his lost youth—before the bullet lodged in his chest fulfills its purpose. A few years ago, my brother in the 82nd Airborne was almost lost in Iraq. I didn’t fear for him at the time, but every time I see an 18 year old actor in a gurney, a lump forms in my throat.
Perhaps the most poignant moment of the MASH series finale was in a storyline crafted around the pompous New England blue-blood, Charles Winchester. For the viewer, this man typically served as an irritating comic foil to the more popular Hawkeye and Honeycutt. In this last episode, however, he showed such depth as to stir the soul. It begins with Charles listening to Mozart—his snooty escape de jour in the series. At several points while listening to his record, Charles was distracted by the incessant racket of Chinese POW’s playing their homemade instruments.
Having received enough of their distractions, Charles rushes outside and screams at them, telling them that he is listening to Mozart. The only word these POW’s recognize is “Mozart”, and they begin playing one of his classical pieces. At this display, Charles marvels and takes it upon himself to teach these talented men. After conducting these men through several rehearsals, Charles is dismayed by the announcement that these POW’s would be shipped out. His great sadness in losing them was at least assuaged in part by knowing that he had for a brief time found soul-mates in his hellish compound.
As Charles ran to receive the last batch of wounded ever to grace the tents of the 4077, he found the dying corpse of one of the instrumentalists. In utter shock, he asks about the others—none of whom had even survived as long as this poor soul before him. Dead. All of these men with whom he shared Mozart. After a few operations, Charles returned to his ascetic escape and began his record of Mozart. A few measures in, he picked up the record and smashed it to pieces. At a final toast before leaving Korea, Charles grimly announced that his love of music had become nothing but a source of pain.
Perhaps what is most often lost in the debates over the current war in Iraq is the humanity of its participants. While Rick and Bonnie enjoy a Sunday dinner at their home in Michigan, the son they prayed for in church that morning is gurgling out incoherent final words at a medical post in Fallujah. Meanwhile, the car bomb that went off just south of Baghdad—briefly reported on an American newscast—has ended the life of a bright, young student named Whalid, whose father Bashir will eat dinner alone tonight without his beloved son for the first time in 16 years.
Perhaps as we hear the cries of these bereaved parents, we will understand the cost of freedom. It is a price extracted in blood and tears from those who are naturally tight-fisted. If the war in Iraq in lost, it will amount to tens of thousands of meaningless deaths which resulted in a meaningless future for an entire Arab nation. If that occurs, may every piece of music carry for us the minor chord of pitiable, meaningless death.