Stoicism and War

It had been on my mind lately what was mentioned earlier this week about Stoicism and association with the military, and while I wandered through religion and philosophy section at the library today I found a book simply titled Stoic Warriors that was authored by Nancy Sherman. It seemed like a fairly interesting read from what I was able to flip through. The author touched on the connection between Military determination, dedication, and drive (summed up in phrases like "Suck it up!" and "Have a stiff upper lip" as the Brits would say) and the writings and thoughts of Roman Stoics such as Seneca, Epictetus, and Marucs Aurelius just to name a few. Anyhow, the book seemed worthwhile however Boethius and Philosophy weighed heavily upon me so I set the book down with hopes of returning to it. The author did reference poems that touch on the subject matter and I particular found interesting so I'll post one of them up now.

"Insensibility"

I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.

II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.

III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.

IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.

V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.

VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.

-Wilfred Owen (1893 - 1918)