Chain of Command
(Trigger Warning: Descriptions of violence, warfare, and mental health)
This story is an exploration into the results of our militarized world and Moral Licensing. Its objective is to promote conversation towards hope, not a statement of finality.
Do not read without later discussion.
Private Smith was horrified at his own hands; covered in the blood of a child he had killed. The power of this moment, and the depth of guilt couldn’t be handled, so he had to release it through a series of chaotic reactions. First drink, then girls, then therapy. These did nothing to numb him from the thoughts boiling inside, ‘Is this my fault? But I was ordered to… But I didn’t know… What do I do? How could this happen? This poor kid. The blood won’t wash out.’ He thought to himself. The flurry of pain, anger, fear, disgust, and all other possible turmoils brewed within him.
As with any brew, it leads to some sort of new product, good or bad. For him the brew produced a quest. A quest that sought out the source of responsibility for this heinous situation. He wanted to believe his innocence, but his conscious wasn’t convinced. For comfort’s sake he aimed all his thoughts and energy towards two outcomes; justice or freedom. He could believe for the first, but the second seemed unlikely.
As with any matter of conscience, though, complex is an understatement, and binaries are absurd. Don’t tell him that though.
The next day, the quest began. Stepping into his nearest superior’s presence, he asked the question, “Sir, who is responsible for the death of that child? Is it me? I just followed your orders. Is it you, Sir? I must find out.”
He had a jovial relationship with this nearest superior who was only a Army Private First Class. Army Private First Class Jacobs was his official name. These titles always go hand in hand with these types of positions. The bigger the name, the less you have to do.
This young guy was shocked by the question, as if there was no sense to it. As a model military man, he found this question as useless as asking “why?”, especially when said to an order. Through his friendship and compassion for this inferior of his, he decided to gently answer, “You’ll destroy yourself asking questions like that. If you want to survive, just obey your orders. You’re not responsible for what happens. It’s on your superi…” in a split second he realised that his statement made him responsible, he quickly added, “And I received that order from my superior, so he’s responsible, I guess.” He paused for a few seconds.
“But as I said, you will destroy yourself asking questions like this. Let it go, and don’t let that kid get to you. Wash your hands of it.”
This last sentence haunted Private Smith. A flurry of thoughts came and went. ‘What am I, Pontious Pilote? Wash my hands? Whose hands is the blood on?’ His mind raced and raced around these tracks.
And so the quest accelerated to the next level of rank. He appealed to Army Private First Class Jacobs’ superior, Corporal Wilson. He was a man who always stood by justice being served. So when he met Private Smith, the questions about where the blame should go and his quest to see justice, Corporal Wilson passed him on to the next rank up. He assured the Private that he wasn’t responsible, before he sent him on his way upward.
The so called ‘ladder’ of leadership was full of amazing titles held by men who were very clear in stating they held no responsibilities and made no choices. Sergeant, Captain, Staff Sergeant, Army Sergeant First Class, Master Sergeant, Colonel, Generals of many types, he continued until he reached The President.
This was the final ring of the ladder, the end of his quest. His body shook with excitement and nerves for what answer he might receive. It was two years since the quest began, and now there would be relief from his agony.
As is expected the president met him with respect and all the right words. “Thank you for your service Private.” He began. “I’ve been briefed by my aides that you have been searching through the whole army to find out who is responsible for the blood of an innocent child you shot. Is that correct?”
Private Smith loudly said “Yes, Mr. President, Sir!!!”
“And this quest through all the ranks has led you here without an answer yet?”
Again he belted, “Yes, Mr. President, Sir!!!”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I am not responsible. I was following the advice I got from many experts and others in the lower ranks, and I had no control over what building you would shoot or any misinformation you received in your orders. You must know that in the military, no one is responsible. You just do what you’re told. Then you are free from the result.”
Private Smith was speechless. He was quickly ushered away before the presidents next meeting. On his way back to the field of duty, he pondered the quest and its results. The agony now turned to a cold chill.
He sat on his bed thinking through what he found. ‘If I’m not responsible for shooting the child because it was an order, and my superior isn’t responsible because it was an order, and his superior isn’t… And at the top, the president isn’t responsible because he didn’t know the details on the field nor can he be held responsible for some soldier’s choices. Then this entire military system is the worst evil of all. It has no conscience, justice, or accountability. The blood of that child cried out, and like all blood, it requires recompense.
So Private Smith with the coldest of nerves, found the only freedom he knew from the blood’s cry. Giving thanks to the child, he said, “This gun was meant for me not you.”
Bang!!!
