Not long after landing in France in 1918, my grandmother's brother, Cpl. Everett Shores, was killed in action during what came to be called The Second Battle of the Marne. This was part of the three-phased offensive strategy of German Imperial Chief of Staff Eric Ludendorff, who was using the million men released from fighting the Russians to blow through the western lines. The first phase saw the greatest artillery barrage in history (until the North Korean opening barrages 32 years later) completely destroy the British lines across a miles-wide swath. The second saw the Germans pushing against a combined French-American presence at the hinge of their combined forces. The third was an attempt to blow through this hinge. During this time, a replay of the opening month of the war, when the Germans seemed destined to capture Paris and the French army was taken to the front in a fleet of taxi cabs, even as the British pounced on their right flank, slowing their progress to a crawl, one company of American doughboys was hit by German artillery. Company "M" was pretty much obliterated, and one of their young NCOs was killed by a concussion blast from a massive German shell.
My great-uncle's death was the first of two major blows to my grandmother's family. In the first place, his mother spent the rest of her life blaming herself, because she encouraged her only son to enlist. Ten years later, my grandmother's oldest son, her brother's namesake, Everett Safford, would die after lingering in a hospital bed from injuries sustained during a traffic accident. The names of both Everett's (the younger had the nickname "Ikey", my father's family being great at giving family pet names) were not to be mentioned. Their existence disappeared from family lore, except for a brief mention that they had died. Who they were, what they did - all that was off limits. I was in my mid-20's before my father gave me some details of the traffic accident; it was only this past March that I heard more details.
Nearly a century has passed since those events (90 years, actually), and the ripples still flow out. My own feelings about the death of a man whose chin and eyes I inherited, but who does not exist as a person because the only individual who knew him died 23 years ago without ever telling anyone what kind of man he was, are slightly different. I am angry the Cpl. Shores, like tens of thousands of other young men, went to France only to end up cannon and machine gun fodder, in a useless exercise in European cultural and national suicide. This is not to argue that the war had no rationale; it is only to say that, by 1918, the war was continuing because of its own inner logic, not for any gains either side could have or actually did achieve from it. Killing as many of the "enemy" as possible became an end in and for itself, not a means towards achieving victory. Like our own war-without-end, victory is a meaningless word, best banned from discussion by rational people who see the conflict for what it is, and seek to end pointless deaths.
I have on my wall here two different pieces of paper, sent originally to my great-grandmother. One was an acknowledgment of Shores' death by the Army, signed by Gen. Pershing (it is for that signature, in ink, that I prize that particular piece). The other is a tribute from the French government, signed by Pres. Poincare (again, it is for that signature that I prize this piece; these were the days when people signed things, not machines or stamps). I think four generations of my family would have benefited from these men, and others like them, opening their eyes and realizing that ending war, even if no goal is achieved, no victory is declared, no parades or memorials are celebrated, is a goal to work toward in and for itself.
