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Content FEAR AND DILEMMA IN THE WAR STORIES
OF AMBROSE BIERCE
by
Richard Luke Kocher
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(English)
June 1978
UMI Number: DP23062
All rights reserved
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U N IV E R S IT Y O F S O U T H E R N C A L IF O R N IA
T H E G R A D U A T E S C H O O L
U N IV E R S IT Y P A R K
LO S A N G E L E S , C A L IF O R N IA 9 0 0 0 7
Ph.p.
b
2:
This dissertation, w ritten by
Richard Luke Kocher
under the direction of h£s.... Dissertation C o m
mittee, and approved by a ll its members, has
been presented to and accepted by The Graduate
School, in p artial fu lfillm e n t o f requirements of
the degree of
A
O C T O R O F P H I L O S O P H Y
Dean
D ate IkilR 2 k :..
DISSERTATION COMMITTEE
7 S M 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
Chapter
I. INTRODUCTION---------------------------- 1
II. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL BASIS OF FEAR AND
ITS EFFECT ON THE COMBAT SOLDIER------ 10
III. BIERCE’S FEAR STORIES----------------- 53
"One Officer, One Man"----------------- 59
"One of the Missing"------------------- 77
"A Tough Tussle"------------------------ 101
"Parker Adderson, Philosopher"--------- 119
"George Thurston"---------------------- 126
"Chickamauga"--------------------------- 137
"An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" 151
IV. BIERCE'S DILEMMA STORIES....... 167
"The Affair at Coulter's Notch"------- 171
"The Story of a Conscience"------------ 180
"A Horseman in the Sky"---------------- 186
"An Affair of Outposts"---------------- 202
"Killed at Resaca"--------------------- 211
"The Coup de Grtce"-------------------- 226
"The Mocking-Bird"--------------------- 237
V. CONCLUSION-------------. ---------- 248
BIBLIOGRAPHY-------------------------------- 254
ii
ABSTRACT
In this study I analyze Ambrose Bierce’s treatment
of fear and the psychologically damaging effect of combat-
induced fear in his Civil War stories. In chapter I,
I briefly discuss Bierce's war fiction relative to his
career and contend that his war stories are his greatest
literary achievement. I contend also that his keen under
standing of fear is the greatest quality of his war
stories. Bierce was an innovator in concentrating his
attention on* the defeated soldier, rather than the victor
ious warrior. Moreover, he anticipated many discoveries
later made by psychiatrists regarding fear. Chapter II
provides background information on the psychological basis
of fear and its debilitating effects on the combat soldier.
Post-World War II studies of psychiatric casualties suf
fered by American ground troops and aircrew members con
stitute the basis of this discussion. The nature of fear,
in both its normal and pathological aspects, is discussed
in psychoanalytic terms. Specifically, this chapter dis
cusses the causes of fear, the psychologically destructive
nature of combat, the general pattern of psychological
breakdown, defense mechanisms most commonly used, mal
adaptive behavior of fear victims, pathological symptoms,
i i i
and the nature of courage. In chapter III, I analyze
Bierce's treatment of fear and his protagonist's reactions
to fear in seven stories ("One Officer, One Man," "One of
the Missing," "A Tough Tussle," "Parker Adderson,
Philosopher,” "George Thurston," "Chickamauga," and "An
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge"). Individual analyses of
these stories suggest that Bierce believed man is isolated,
trapped, and even'tually destroyed by an inherent suscepti
bility to fear. In Chapter IV, I discuss dilemma as a
psychological aspect of fear in seven other stories ("The
Affair at Coulter's Notch," "The Story of a Conscience,"
"A Horseman in the sky," "An Affair of Outposts," "Killed
at Resaca," "The Coup de Grace," and "The Mocking-Bird").
My analysis of these stories suggests that dilemma, like
simple fear, can destroy man's psyche. As in the fear-
dominated stories, the protagonists of the dilemma stories
are isolated, trapped, and eventually destroyed from within,
In Chapter V, I briefly discuss two of Bierce's other war
stories ("A Son of the Gods" and "One Kind of Officer"),
neither of which reveals much in the way of fear or
dilemma. The stories discussed earlier (in chapters III
and IV) demonstrate that although Bierce was extremely
pessimistic regarding the possibility of human happiness,
he did not despise man. Life for Bierce was a hopeless
battle in which man is pitted against hostile and
i v *
overwhelming forces. Even though Bierce considered life
a no-win affair, he admired those men who faced life on
its own terms. In his war stories Bierce demonstrates
respect, sympathy, and even affection for his soldier
protagonists. He deplored what he considered man's innate
and fatal susceptibility to fear, but he was no
misanthrope.
Chapter I
INTRODUCTION
Ambrose Bierce was many things to many people:
Bitter Bierce, the devil's lexicographer, the ultimate
misanthrope, and others as well. During his life he rose
from the obscurity of the back woods of Indiana to become
successively a Civil War hero, a watchman in the San
Francisco mint, an occasional contributor to San Francisco
newspapers, premier journalist for William Randolph
Hearst's Examiner, and literary dictator of the West
Coast. Finally, he wandered off into a Mexican revolu
tion, leaving a mystery that he himself would have enjoyed
immensely.
Bierce started his literary career in the late
1860's by writing miscellaneous essays and poems for local
San Francisco newspapers. Joining the staff of the San
Francisco News-Letter and California Advertiser in 1868,
he soon became editor, and within a couple of years earned
the reputation of being "the wickedest man in San
Francisco," principally on the basis of his satirical
column the "Town Crier." During that period of his
literary career, he contributed miscellaneous articles
1
to the Californian and Overland Monthly, and he associated
with the literary circle which included Bret Harte, Ina
Coolbrith, Joaquin Miller, Charles Warren Stoddard, and
Prentice Mulford. After his marriage in 1871, he spent
three years in London, writing grim humor for Tom Hood's
Fun and Figaro, all the while enjoying the camaraderie of
Hood and his literary friends. While in London Bierce
published his first three books: The Fiend's Delight
(1872), Nuggets and Dust (1872), and Cobwebs from an
Empty Skull (1874). All three were made up of grim
fiction, selections from his "Town Crier" column and his
contributions to Fun and Figaro. Much against his own
desire, Bierce left London because of family circumstances
and returned to San Francisco, where he soon became
associate editor of the Argonaut. In that paper he
initiated a new column entitled "Prattler," much in the
same vein as the earlier "Town Crier." Later he became
editor of the Wasp, writing satirical definitions which
were later used to make up The Devil's Dictionary. By
1888 Bierce had joined William Randolph Hearst's Examiner
and had become the autocratic dean of West Coast letters
and criticism. Indeed, Bierce had become a rather big
fish in a rather small pond.
All the time Bierce was working his way up the
ladder of San Francisco journalism, he was writing Gothic
tales, war stories, and autobiographical essays based on
his Civil War experiences. He reached the peak of his
literary creativity in 1891 with the publication of
Tales of Soldiers and Civilians, which was soon followed
by an English edition entitled In the Midst of Life.
After publication of In the Midst of Life, Bierce's liter
ary power diminished rapidly. Black Beetles in Amber
(1892) , a collection of satirical verse gleaned from his
newspaper columns, was followed by Can Such Things Be?
(1893), a group of stories similar in both subject and
tone to the civilian tales of In the Midst of Life. His
only other significant publication from 1893 until the
twelve-volume Collected Works came off the press (1909-
1912) were Fantastic Fables (1899) , Shapes of Clay (1903),
The Cynic's Wordbook (1906) , and The Shadow on the Dial
(1909).
The vast majority of his work was journalistic,
and the sheer bulk of his satirical newspaper work tended
to overshadow for a considerable time the achievement of
his military fiction. When his friend Walter Neale
offered to publish the Collected Works, Bierce demonstra
ted his customary lack of restraint and frequently poor
judgment in selecting and editing the material. He simply
could not resist the temptation to include virtually
everything he had written. As a consequence, of the
3
twelve volumes that were eventually published, there are
perhaps four volumes which deserve serious attention:
Volume I, Ashes of the Beacon and other e.ssays;
Volume II, In the Midst of Life; Volume III, Can Such
Things Be?; and Volume Vll^j The Devil's Dictionary
(published earlier as The Cynic's Wordbook). The
remainder can be dismissed as representative of his
journalistic endeavors --much of it vituperative sniping at
small targets with an elephant gun. In any event, it
appears that Bierce's place in American literature will
eventually be determined by his short fiction and The
Devil's Dictionary, and that his war stories will be
regarded as his highest achievement.
Bierce's greatest accomplishment is, in fact, his
stories about the Civil War, and the reason for this is
not difficult to determine. At its core, Bierce's mili
tary fiction is about fear, that elusive emotion which
everyone has experienced, but few have described well. In
a handful of short stories based on his Civil War experi
ences, Bierce tells us as much about anxiety, frustration,
terror, and fear as we should ever want to know. His
tales provide a deep understanding of the psychologically
debilitating effects of these emotions when man is sub
jected to unbearable internal conflicts.
Although fear is a common and fundamental experi
ence, it is enormously complex. Fear includes the
4
traditional gradations of concern, apprehension, anxiety,
uneasiness, nervousness, fright, panic, and terror, but
just as these general terms suggest varying intensities of
the emotion, fear is equally complex in its causes,
symptoms, and reactive states. Everyday life is permeated
with fear. The student is afraid that he will fail the
examination, the mother is anxious about her rebellious
child, the executive is apprehensive about a business
account, the truck driver feels uneasy about poor weather
conditions on the highway, the wife is disturbed because
her husband is late for dinner. Very often such common
emotional reactions, which may be classified under the
general heading of fear, are not simply the result of a
menace that threatens harm. More often than not, the
emotional disharmony is caused by frustration and dilemma,
as well as the threat of danger itself.
Just as fear is one of man's most profound emo
tions, war is the most powerful stimulus for generating
fear. Nothing in human experience': rivals war in whole
sale destruction of lives and painful injury. Bierce's
selection of war as the prototypical environment in which
to test man's strengths and weaknesses is most appro
priate because war has always been considered the ulti
mate test for man. From the time of Homer's Iliad to the
present, great wars have spawned great accounts of those
5
wars. War provides the stimulus for fascinating stories
by freeing man from his tiresome quotidian chores and
turning all of his energies to the accomplishment of
heroic feats. Nothing parallels the power of war to
transform man's condition because war is the ultimate
test for man.
Whatever else war is, it is the most exacting test
of survival. Those who pass the test are usually granted
the status of hero, of one kind or another; and those who
fail, at least psychologically, are written off as cowards,
misfits, weaklings, or "non-sats." Until modern times,
the chroniclers of war showed a decided preference for
dealing with the heroes, while using the failures for
little more than dramatic foils. Although Homer devoted
more than a little attention to the defeated Trojans, and
even though the Pearl Poet showed unusual insight into
Sir Gawain’s doubts and fears, it was not until Bierce
wrote his Civil War stories that the -psychological
destruction of the defeated warrior became the central
focus of the war story. In the twentieth century most
serious writers have emphasized the vanquished rather
than the victors. Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms,
Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front, and more
recently Caputo's A Rumor of War are representative of the
way in which most modern writers have followed Bierce's
6
habit of dealing with the defeated soldier.
In describing the psychological degeneration of
his soldier-protagonists, Bierce predicted many of the
discoveries made later in psychoanalysis. There are, in
fact, many parallels between the psychology of Bierce's
protagonists and Freud's theory of psychoanalysis.
Fundamentally, both Freud and Bierce agree that all mental
activity is determined in the sense that all of man's
thoughts and emotions are determined by specific causes.
Although many of these causes are not apparent even after
careful study, thoughts and emotions do not simply occur
in random fashion; they are always caused. Throughout his
war stories Bierce emphasizes the causal connection between
the protagonist's thoughts and emotions, and he never sug
gests a random sequence in the mental activity of the
protagonist. Bierce also agrees with Freud’s assertion
that conscious thoughts constitute only a small portion
of man's total mental activity. Most thoughts and impul
ses are not revealed to the conscious mind, but remain
hidden in the subconscious. Bierce repeatedly suggests
that his military protagonists are consciously aware of
only a part of their total mental activity. Very often
Bierce devotes extended passages to the examination of
thoughts which occur almost instantaneously. "An
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" illustrates the way in
in which Bierce suggests both the causal connection that
7
controls mental activity, and also the subconscious nature
of much of that mental activity. Because of these and
many other similarities between the psychological compo
sition of Bierce’s soldiers and psychoanalytic theory,
the psychological aspects of the individual stories will
be discussed in psychoanalytic terms.
Our scientific understanding of the psychologically
damaging effects of combat on man has increased immensely
during the twentieth century. World War II was par
ticularly productive in revealing much about combat-
induced psychoses and neuroses. That advancement in the
knowledge of man's psyche would surely appeal to Bierce's
cynical sense of humor. The second chapter of this
study provides fundamental background information for the
reader who is not familiar with the basic technical aspects
of combat psychology and the psychological problems
created by combat.
\
Bierce's attitude about the human condition was
indeed bleak. Anyone familiar with even his more popular
works, such as The Devil's Dictionary, cannot miss his
bitter pessimism. Bierce deplored the human condition,
but he did not hate man. He hated stupidity and cruelty,
but he was not, as Clifton Fadiman suggests, a
misanthrope.'*' Bierce plainly recognized that there are
■^Clifton Fadiman, "Abrose Bierce: Portrait of a
8
both good men and bad men in this world; the good men he
respected, and the bad he despised. Bierce was appalled
that both the good and the bad suffer indiscriminately;
that is what he deplored in the human condition. Much of
his journalistic work (including the definitions from his
"dictionary") is permeated with universal cynicism, but in
his military stories he projects a personal philosophy
that is enormously more complicated than the. indiscrimi
nate cynicism of The Devil’s Dictionary. Bierce's war
stories reveal that he eventually came to view life in
terms of combat in which all men are soldiers and all are
at war with a hostile universe. As hostile and destructive
as the external world may be, the greatest menace is man's
susceptibility to fear and the disastrous consequences of
that emotion. Although many of Bierce's soldiers suffer
violent deaths at the hands of their enemies, Bierce was
not particularly interested in physical annihilation. His
primary concern was always focused on fear and the psycho
logical conflict that destroys man from within. Bierce
repeatedly suggests in his war stories that while man
struggles with external forces, he is inevitably isolated,
trapped, and destroyed by his own inherent susceptibility
to fear.
Misanthrope," in The Collected Writings of Ambrose Bierce
(New York: The Citadel Press , 1946) , p. xi.
9
CHAPTER II
THE PSYCHOLOGICAL BASIS OF FEAR AND ITS
EFFECT ON THE COMBAT SOLDIER
In "The Battle of Maldon" the narrator remarks:
Then there retired from the battle those who did
not wish to be there. The son of Odda was the
first to flee: Godric went from the fight and
left the good man that had given him many a
steed. He leaped upon the horse that his lord
had owned, upon trappings that he had no right
to, and both his brothers galloped with him,
Godwine and Godwig cared not for battle, but
went from the war and sought the wood, fled to
its fastness and saved their lives.
All wars have those who "cared riot for battle," and the
American experience in Korea and Vietnam strongly suggests
that there will always be those soldiers who prefer flight
to fight.
Bierce's war stories represent one of the first
successful attempts to probe deeply into the problem of
combat-induced fear. The neurotic and nonadaptive
behavior of his protagonists anticipate with surprising
accuracy what modern psychology has discovered through
clinical research. Much of what Bierce observed in the
M. H. Abrams et al., "The Battle of Maldon," in
The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Rev. ed.
(New York: W. W ~ . Norton, 1968) , 1^ 97.
10
Civil War battles seems to have changed very little in
the past one hundred years. Although there are distinct
differences in initial combat motivation, weapons, and
specific conditions of combat, between the Civil War and
World War II, there seems to have been no significant
change in human nature and man's reaction to the stress
of comba’ t.
History of the Study of Fear
The first modern development in ^thjs^sjcigntdfic
study of fear was conducted by Freud around the
turn of the century. Some of the first comprehensive
studies of fear in combat were written during
World War II which provided the impetus for further
studies of war-induced fear. In 1942, R. D. Gillespie
published Psychological Effects of War on Citizen ~and
2
Soldier. Two years later, John Dollard wrote Fear in
3
Battle, a pamphlet intended to provide American combat
2
R. D. Gillespie, Psychological Effects of War on
Citizen and Soldier (New York: W. W. Norton, 1942).
3John Dollard, Fear in Battle (Washington: The
Infantry Journal, 1944) .
11
troops with a rudimentary knowledge of fear, along with
techniques for its control. The basis of Dollard's study
is indicated in his introductory statement:
When this study was begun 18 months ago battle-
wise riflemen were hard to find. . . . The
research therefore sought men who had experience
under modern combat conditions and found the men
of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade . . . ready to
cooperate. (Dollard, p. 1)
Based on interviews with about three hundred Loyalist
veterans of the Spanish Civil War, Dollard's study was
necessarily very limited, but much of the information that
it provided was later confirmed by more comprehensive
studies.
written by Roy R. Grinker and John P. Spiegel, two
psychiatric flight surgeons working at Army rehabilitation
hospitals during the World War II. Published at the end
of the war in 1945, Grinker and Spiegel's Men Under
4
Stress is an exhaustive study of the effects of fear and
anxiety on combat veterans, especially aircrew members
who had suffered neurotic reactions as a result of their
combat experience. Four years later the comprehensive
three-volume Studies in Social Psychology in the World
An unusually interesting study of combat fear was
-------- 4
R. R. Grinker and John P. Sp' 1 , Men Under
Stress (Philadelphia: Blakiston, 194
12
War lf-£ was published. The second volume of this study,
The American Soldier: Combat and its Aftermath, added
further to the understanding of combat - induced stress and
the debilitating effect of fear and anxiety on combat
soldiers. The information contained in this chapter is
heavily indebted to these latter two studies.'
Fear as a Normal Reaction
There is general agreement that fear is a natural
reaction for all higher animals, including man, and that
survival in a hostile environment is impossible for men
without some degree of fear. Fundamentally, moderate
fear functions as a psychological warning system that
alerts y man to the presence of danger; it primes his
offensive; and defensive faculties when he is confronted
Frederick Osborn et al., Studies in Social
Psychology in World War II, Vol. II of The American
Soldier: Combat and its Aftermath (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1949).
^Two chapters from The American Soldier: Combat
and its Aftermath are especially pertinent to the study of
anxiety and fear. Those chapters, "Combat Motivations
Among Ground Troops" (Chapter 3, pp. 103-91 of Volume II)
and "Problems Related to the Control of Fear in Combat"
(Chapter 4, pp. 192-241 of Volume II), were written by
M. Brewster Smith. Accordingly, Smith will hereafter be
cited for quotations and references taken from The
American Soldier.
13
with a threat. v The problem of fear and its effect on man
is complicated immeasurably by the fact that fear is rela
tive, and a threat that may cause moderate fear in one man
may very well cause intense fright in another. Every
normal man has his psychological breaking point, or an
absolute limit beyond which he cannot endure a frightening
situation (Grinker § Spiegel, 1945 a, )p, vii). That limit
varies widely among men, and it is often difficult to
distinguish normal fear reactions from pathological
reactions (Rachman, p ' . ‘ 52). Even though the pathological
reaction of fear is relative, psychologists ordinarily
consider a fear reaction to be pathological when it seri
ously impairs the individual's functional efficiency. In
combat, that point is reached when the soldier's efficiency
is reduced to the degree that his behavior constitutes
a threat to his own safety or that of his group. As can
be seen in so many of Bierce's war stories, the protago
nist often falls prey to fears that are not just normal,
but pathological.
Moderate fear has an adaptive value which induces
the individual to seek means of coping with a threatening
situation. Excessive fear, on the other hand, can
seriously impair the individual's ability to find the
^Stanley Rachman, The Meanings of Fear
(Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England: Penguin, 1974),
p. 100.
____________ 14
necessary means of thwarting the menace. Specifically,
excessive fear "leads to psychomotor and intellectual
errors, and disturbances of concentration and memory. At
the other extreme, an absence of appropriate fear can
foster dangerously careless behavior" (Rachman, p. 100).
Occasionally soldiers in battle suffer impairment of the
psychophysiological systems that stimulate fear reactions.
This disability, known as "old sergeant's syndrome," can
make a soldier completely oblivious to danger in the
g
most menacing situations. Although this kind of behavior
O
In order to understand how physical damage to the
neurological system can result in psychologically abnormal
behavior, the following elementary information is provided.
The thalamus, which is the central collecting nucleus for
external and internal sensations, transmits stimulation
signals to the diencephalon, which integrates, regulates,
and reinforces the motor visceral expressions of emotion.
The diencephalon, in turn, transmits signals to the cerebra.
cortex, which interprets the meaning of the signals and
evaluates the severity of the threat. The cerebral cortex
damps those excitations which it determines to be only
moderately threatening, and transmits back to the dience
phalon those signals which it determines to be more
threatening. The diencephalon, which is a central regulat
ing apparatus, effects the coordination of many responses
within the sympathetic nervous system and the endocrine
glands that characterize emotional expression. Crude sen
sory stimuli (such as pain, sudden loud noises, or sudden
loss of stable support) stimulate automatic reflexes.
These automatic reflexes cause an alerting or startle
response, which is effected without the intervention of the
Cerebral cortex. Accordingly, such automatic reflex
actions are not interpreted or damped by the inhibitory
power of the cerebral cortex. They are purely reflex
actions.
Physical damage to the neurophysiological system
can cause serious malfunctions in the normal stimulus-
response behavioral patterns. Damage to the cerebral cor
tex, the diencephalon, or the connections between these
is often mistaken for extraordinary courage, the life
expectancy in combat of one affected with this
disability is usually very brief (Grinker § Spiegel,
1945a, p . ' : . 128).
Psychological Complexity-of Fear
In order to clearly understand the problems of
fear reactions in combat soldiers, it is essential to
differentiate between fear and anxiety. Grinker and
Spiegel make this distinction:
Fear is an emotion in response to a stimulus
in reality that either threatens the individual
at the moment or portends actual danger. The
signal of fear is experienced consciously
by the organism. Anxiety is an anticipation
of danger. The signal is experienced by the
ego,9 which is reminded of traumatic experiences
two organs can result in either over-stimulation or under-
stimulation of the alterting or anxiety response. For
example, if the cerebral cortex loses its inhibiting power
(or if it is short-circuited) the signal from the thalamus
will be transmitted directly through the diencephalon,
producing an automatic and excessive ’’sham rage.” On
the other hand, damage to the neurological system
can produce a reverse situation in which no warning
signal is transmitted by the diencephalon, even though
the thalamus has received sensory stimuli that indicates
the presence of great danger. (For a more detailed
description of the neurophysiological system and
neurophysiological malfunctions, see Grinker 8 Spiegel,
1945a, pp. 142-45.)
9
Kagan and Havemann provide the following
descriptive definitions of the id, the ego, and the
superego:
The Id. The core of the unconscious . . . is the
16
id, composed of raw, primitive, inborn forces that con
stantly struggle for gratification. Even the baby in his
crib, Freud said, is swayed by two powerful drives. One
is what he called the libido, embracing sexual urges and
such related desires as to be kept warm, well fed, and
comfortable. The other is aggression--the urge to fight,
dominate, and when necessary, destroy.
The id operates on what Freud called the pleasure
principle, insisting on immediate and total gratification
of all its demands. ..... As the child grows up, he learns
to control the demands of the id, at least in part. But
the id remains active and powerful throughout life; it
is indeed the sole source of all the psychic energy put
to use in behaving and thinking. It is unconscious and
we are not aware of its workings, but it continues to
struggle for the relief of all its tensions.
The ego. The conscious, logical part of the mind
that develops as the child grows up was called by Freud
the ego-- the ''real" us, as we like to think of ourselves.
In contrast to the id, the ego operates on the reality
principle; it tries to mediate between the demands of
the id and the realities of the environment. Deriving
its energies from the id, the ego perceives what is
going on in the environment and develops the operational
responses (such as finding food) necessary to satisfy
the demands of the id. The ego does our logical think
ing; it does the best it can to help us lead sane and
satisfactory lives. To the extent that the primitive
drives of the id can be satisfied without getting us
into danger or harm, the ego permits them satisfaction.
But when the drives threaten to get us rejected by society
or jailed as a thief, the ego represses them or attempts to
satisfy them with substitutes that are socially acceptable.
The superego. In the ego's constant struggle to
satisfy the demands of the id without permitting the de
mands to destroy us, it has a strong but troublesome ally
in the third part of the mind as conceived by Freud--the
superego. In a sense the superego is our conscience, our
sense of right and wrong. It is partly acquired by adopt-
ing the notions of right and wrong that we are taught by
society from the earliest years. However, Freud's concept
of the superego represents a much stronger and more dynamic
notion than the word conscience implies. Much like the id,
the superego is mostly unconscious, maintaining a far
greater influence over our behavior than we realize.
(Kagan § Havermann, pp..'-405-06) .
17
previously endured and thus behaves as if the
danger were present. The experience is thus an
expectation of danger and a mild repetition of
it. The signal of anxiety not only prepares the
organism for danger, but also starts defensive
maneuvers against it. The stimuli in reality,
evoking anxiety, do so as symbolic situations to
which the individual on the basis of past exper
ience has learned to attribute dangerous results,
to which it reacts in a sensitized manner. The
interpretation of these symbolic significences
is unconscious, but the feeling of anxiety may
become conscious and the defensive maneuvers or
symptoms are expressed either in conscious thought
or in behavior, although their connections with
the evoking stimuli are lost. Yet anxiety is
rarely accepted as a feeling without being attrib
uted to some real outward source (projection).
The above differences between fear and anxiety
are less important than their similarities, since
the feeling-tone and the physiological concomitants
in anxiety and fear are identical. Furthermore,
there are no pure fears inasmuch as all external
dangers also have symbolic significance. How
much is real (fear) and how much is apprehension
(anxiety) is the problem. (Grinker § Spiegel,
1945a, p. 120)
All fears have in common one basic cause: the
probable impending loss of something that is highly
valued. That something may be as insignificant as a
child’s toy or it can be as portentous as a soldier’s
life. The probability of loss also varies widely from
remote possibility to near certitude. Whatever the
nature of the fear--the severity of the deprivation and
the probability of its occurrence--the individual facing
such a situation becomes alarmed. His initial reaction
is one of undifferentiated hostility and anxiety (Grinker
§ Spiegel, 1945a, pM22). Most normal individuals appraise
18
the situation to determine the degree of threat and
whether they have sufficient countermeasures for thwarting
the menace. If the loss can be averted by hostility,
persuasion, or some other means, the individual adopts
that • means and the fear and anxiety subside. If,
however, it appears that the loss cannot be avoided, the
individual continues to experience anxiety. If the
impending loss is serious, as in the threat of painful
injury or death, the individual may resort to flight
because it is only through escape that the loss can be
avoided.
Combat is virtually unparalleled in its power to
generate fear and anxiety. Moreover, the combat soldier--
particularly the infantryman-- is subjected to intensely
frightful situations on a continual basis over a pro
longed period of time. Soldiers dominated by the instinct
for self-survival are the most vulnerable to the poten
tially incapacitating effects of fear (Grinker & Spiegel,
1945a, pp.39740). The instinct for self-survival in all
normal men is exceedingly strong, and if that instinct is
not alloyed with concern for anything else, it usually
becomes an obsession that can seriously impair the
functional efficiency of the fighting man.
19
Group Identification as
Countermeasure Against Fear
According to Grinker and Spiegel, the most
effective countermeasure against the debilitating effects
of excessive fear is group identification, a feeling of
being an integral part of an organization, of belonging
10
to a group, of being the same as the group. This
Grinker and Spiegel place almost all emphasis
on group identification as the most effective counter
measure against fear, although they do mention other
techniques. Smith agrees that the "informal group" or
group identification is the best technique for control
ling fear, but he discusses other techniques at greater
length than do Grinker and Spiegel. Smith suggests that
some soldiers can reduce fear by personal philosophies,
reliance on luck, or praying, while others resort to
bitter humor or distractions of various kinds. The simple
desire for survival, present in virtually all soldiers,
may also be useful in controlling fear. Most of the
information provided by Smith is either in the form of
generalization or tabulated information collected from
combat veterans in interviews. His remarks on the
efficiency of prayer may serve as an example: "To be
sure, the more frightened men were ’standing in the need
of prayer,' and the data could be said to indicate . . .
that those men actually found prayer most helpful who
needed it most. On the other hand, prayer, it might be
said, could not in fact have been too helpful to them,
as they remained the more frightened men" (Smith, 1949a, p.
180). Smith also remarks that patriotism of the "flag-
waving" variety as a motivational device was scorned by
combat troops: "The usual term by which disapproval of
idealistic exhortation was invoked was ’bullshit,’ which
conveyed a scornful expression of the superiority of the
combat man's hard-earned, tough-minded point of view"
(Smith, 1949a, p.150). In this regard it is virtually
impossible to determine if the soldiers engaged in the
Civil War were any more idealistic in their combat moti
vation than were the soldiers of the World War II.
Although some highly romanticized and nostalgic accounts of
2H
identification is normal as a person grows from infancy
to maturity. As an infant, he is utterly ego-centric and
concerned exclusively with his own welfare. Almost any
threat, even mock threats, will stimulate hysterical
reaction. As the child grows older, two things happen
which make him more resistant to threats. First, the
physical nerve connections become more fully developed
between the diencephalon and the cerebral cortex. This
allows the cortex to perform its function of interpreting
danger signals received from the diencephalon and damping
those excitations which are only moderately threatening.
Secondly, if the child's needs are reasonably gratified,
the Civil War suggest that Federal soldiers were strongly
motivated by idealistic desires to preserve the Union or
free the slaves, the seemingly more realistic accounts--
such as those written by Crane and Bierce--clearly indi
cate that the men who fought at Shiloh and Chickamauga
felt much the same about war as those who fought at Tarawa
and Malmedy.
Dollard's study is somewhat at odds with Smith's
estimate of the value of idealistic aims in controlling
fear. Dollard learned in his interviews with the
Loyalist veterans of the Spanish Civil War that the vast
majority of those interviewed felt that "belief in war
aims" was the single most important factor in counter
acting the adverse effects of fear in combat. This
discrepancy or difference may be explained at least par
tially by the fact that Dollard derived all of his data
from members of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, which was
made up entirely of volunteers who felt strongly enough
about their war aims (to combat fascism) that they were
willing to fight in defense of a country that was not
their own. The data used by Smith was derived from men
who for the most part had been conscripted to fight in
defense of their own country.
21
he becomes more resistant emotionally to threats because
he feels more secure in his own resources and loses much
of his preoccupation with his own welfare. If he receives
an abundance of love and security as he matures he can
invest the surplus of this love and interest in others.
As he devotes love and interest to others external to
himself, he identifies himself with them--first his mother,
then other members of the family, and eventually school,
community, and nation. Naturally, he never loses all self-
interest, but rather invests whatever love and interest he
does not need for himself.
Military life in general and combat experience in
particular facilitate group identification. With few
exceptions, soldiers fight as members of a team, and
although combat may provide unusual opportunities for indi
vidual feats of bravery, the necessities of the battlefield
demand the sacrifice of most individualistic qualities.
When a man is assimilated into a military unit, his life
undergoes a basic change; he gives up some things that are
taken for granted in civilian life, and he receives some
things in consideration from the group that are peculiar
to military life. Specifically, the individual gives to
the group his labor, obedience, loyalty, much of his per
sonal freedom, and his personal interest in the group. In
return for this he is given care, affection, support, and
22
protection by the group. The consideration flows both
ways. In one way, a man becomes more mature when he
assumes a military career because he relinquishes much of
his personal freedom and gives up at least temporarily the
fulfillment of many ego-centric needs. At the same time,
he becomes less mature in that he becomes more dependent
on the group, (and thus less self-reliant) and subject to
a more exacting authority. The degree to which the soldier
willingly accepts the demands of his military unit is
reflected in his superego. That is, as he becomes an
integral part of the group, the group’s demands are
internalized. Grinker and Spiegel explain this phenomena
as an obligation.
Thus a feeling of obligation, a social feeling,
is born which, if the identification is strong,
is powerful and can overrule all of his selfish,
personal interests. The pressure to conform
to the demands of the group is almost a compulsion,
of which the individual is largely unaware and
probably could not explain even to himself.
(Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, p. 40)
Thus when a soldier has become thoroughly assimi
lated into a combat team, his primary concern in the face
of danger is not an overriding preoccupation with per
sonal survival, but rather a concern for the welfare and
safety of his immediate group. Ordinarily, the degree
of loyalty to the group is directly related to the size
and composition of the group. Soldiers feel much closer
to and identify much more closely with small, tightly
___________ L3
knit groups such as infantry squads, platoons, and com
panies, than they do with larger, heterogeneous groups such
as battalions and regiments. Whatever the size of the
unit, the soldier is assisted in his fight with fear,
first because his concern for the group reduces the pos
sibility that_self-survival will become obsessive, and
secondly, because he feels that he is not just an isolated
individual going up against the enemy, but rather an
integral part of an effective and potent fighting unit.
Not all men are capable of near-absolute loyalty
to anyone but themselves. Such men may give every indi
cation of being able to function effectively as members
of a combat team, but in moments of extreme stress, their
concern for the group vanishes and they become obsessed
with the thought that their own personal survival is
imperiled. Private Jerome Searing, the protagonist of
Bierce's "One of the Missing," is such an individual, as
the analysis of that tale will indicate. In view of the
significance of group identification in countering the
adverse effects of fear, it is of paramount importance
to recognize that all of Bierce's military protagonists
are psychologically isolated, and thus deprived of the
advantage of group identification.
24
Psychiatric Casualties in Combat
What happens when a soldier’s resistance to fear
collapses? Just how and why do men crack up in combat?
First, it is important to remember that psychopathic
behavior is relative. Grinker and Spiegel clearly
point out the difficulty of distinguishing normal from
abnormal behavior:
Under sufficient stress any individual may
show failure of adaptation, evidenced by
neurotic symptoms. Such symptoms then are
pathological only in a comparative sense, when
contrasted with the symptoms of those still making
successful adaptations . . . a hair divides the
normal from the neurotic, the adaptive from the
nonadaptive. The failures of adaptation of the
soldier . . . mirror Everyman’s everyday failures
or neurotic compromises with reality.
(Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, p. vii)
Two factors are used to classify psychiatric com
bat casualties: (1) the severity of the symptom, and
(2) the kind of stress and the duration required to pro
duce the reaction. Thus it is possible to classify
psychiatric casualties into two broad categories. The
soldiers of Group I, who develop severe symptoms after
only minimal stress, and the soldiers of Group II, who
develop neurotic symptoms (both mild and severe) only
after prolonged exposure to stress. As most psychological
misfits are screened out before being sent into combat,
the vast majority of psychiatric casualties come from
25
Group II. Almost any kind of screening process for select
ing combat soldiers will eliminate chronically unstable
men who will be more of a hindrance in combat than a help.
Even so, the army is notorious, especially during times
of national crisis, for accepting any "warm body" into
its ranks, and some men with extremely poor psychological
preparedness do eventually find themselves at the front.
These men are the ones most liable to crack under minimal
stress, as demonstrated by Captain Anderton Graffenreid,
of Bierce’s tale "One Officer., One Man."
The soldiers of Group II demonstrate severe
neurotic behavior only after prolonged stress. These men,
who are psychologically well prepared for combat, with
stand intense stress for long periods of time, but they
too eventually reach the ultimate limit of their personal
tolerance and suffer the debilitating effects of fear and
anxiety. The titular protagonist of "George Thurston"
is probably this kind of psychiatric casualty. Psycho
logical problems associated with the soldiers of Group II
will be discussed in greater detail in the next section
of this study.
There are three reasonably well-defined types of
casualties of Group I (these classifications are based on
Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, pp. 55-6). Most of the early
psychiatric failures show every conceivable neurotic
26
symptom. They are insecure, their weak ego is in con
flict with a strong superego, and they are subject to
great anxiety and depression. They express the desire to
stay at the front to fight and remain a part of their
military unit, but in spite of their pitiable attempts to
act bravely, they are, like Captain Graffenreid, woefully
unprepared for the psychological stress of combat. A
second kind of failure of Group I is the soldier who is
commonly called the out-and-out coward. Like the first
type--who has neurotic tendencies even before combat--this
kind of soldier is very insecure. He is strikingly dif
ferent from the typical neurotic, however, in that he has
a weak superego, and therefore little or no sense of
duty. He is also unlike the typical neurotic in that he
suffers no internal conflict, and he rarely shows any
neurotic symptoms when not in a combat situation. Quite
simply, his conflict is between his ego and reality, and
he does whatever he can to remove himself from combat.
A third kind of failure of Group I is the sort of soldier
who breaks down, not because he cannot face the dangers
of combat, but because his anti-social tendencies make
him incompatible with military life and combat. Such an
individual does not exhibit the usual anxiety symptoms
shown by other early failures because the source of
his problem is not the danger of combat, but rather the
27
inability to take orders and work as a member of a combat
team. Although soldiers such as these have the capability
of performing efficiently on detached duty, such as scout
ing, they invariably cause discipline and group morale
problems when confronted by the necessities of working
as part of an interdependent team.
Psychologically Destructive Effect of Combat
General Psychological and Physiological Effects
The effect of combat on the psyche of soldiers in
Group II is cumulative, especially for the infantryman,
who is forced to undergo long, unrelieved periods of
stress under incredibly unpleasant, uncomfortable, and
fatiguing situations. Prolonged stress can affect any
part of the mind or body, and it produces a wide variety
of symptoms: loss of interest, replacement of temporary
fear by permanent anxiety, lack of muscular coordination,
restlessness, insomnia, nightmares, loss of appetite,
vomiting, diarrhea and other gastrointestinal disorders,
persistent headaches, asocial behavior, irritability,
memory lapses, brooding and depression, preoccupation
with morbidity, and eventually a behavior that is com
pletely inappropriate and utterly bizarre (Grinker §
Spiegel, 1945a, p. 54; Smith, 1949b, p. 201; Dollard,
28
p. 11; Rachman, p. 37). Under extreme stress, for
example, men sometimes "behave like sucklings again,
drooling, incontinent, with fetal postures.
Soldiers who fail after prolonged stress of com
bat often reach their psychological breaking point after
a single catastrophic experience that overwhelms their
tolerance to fear. Others break down after "repeated,
prolonged exposure to moderately fearful situations--
what one might describe as repeated sub-traumatic exper
iences" (Rachman, p. 80).
Process of Psychological Breakdown
The process by which most psychiatric casualties
reach their breaking point varies considerably, but a
general pattern may be discerned just the same. The
inexperienced soldier usually overestimates or under
estimates the reality of combat. Whether he has been
encouraged by romanticized fictional accounts of battle
or intimidated by the wild and sometimes exaggerated
reports of veterans, his understanding of the reality of
combat is superficial. Initially, he is often fascinated
by the spectactular aspects of combat, but he usually
tries to make an objective evaluation of the situation.
J. A. M. Meerloo, Patterns of Pan'f5 (New York:
International Universities Press, IP50), p^ ( kT.
29
His initial fascination and calm soon vanish as he rea
lizes the magnitude of the danger and the wholesale
destruction. The unstable and quixotic nature of combat
complicates his learning,'cori‘ side;phb,ly> Overestimating the
danger induces excessive anxiety, which limits his func
tional efficiency, and underestimating the danger leads
to unrealistically cavalier attitudes which unnecessarily
increase the danger.
Combat teaches an important lesson, and if a
soldier is to survive in such a hostile environment, he
must learn quickly, and he must continue to learn as long
as he remains in combat. The nature of combat is such
that the soldier does not ordinarily have time to make
leisurely decisions, as he does in most civilian pursuits.
His reactions to the sound of an incoming artillery pro
jectile must be quick and sure. The soldier soon learns
the price of hesitancy in battle, and he learns to react
quickly. His interpretation of danger signals in battle
becomes virtually automatic. However, if his reactions
become so automatic that they are involuntary, no new
learning can take place. The soldier’s learning must not
stop after the acquisition of various reflex actions
stimuluated by danger signals. Combat, like other hazard
ous occupations, continually produces new conditions and
situations that the soldier must learn to cope with.
30
If the soldier's resistance to increasing stress
and hostility breaks down, he suffers what is commonly
called "operational fatigue" or "battle fatigue." These
terms refer rather loosely to various kinds of symptoms
which result from a neurotic compromise. Grinker and
Spiegel define this condition as "a reactive state in
which the ego loses its power to control intense anxieties
and hostilities . . . and to maintain its functional
efficiency" (Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, p. 83).
Loss of Group Identification
Earlier I pointed out that the most effective
countermeasure against fear is group identification, but
under prolonged exposure to stress, this technique too can
lose its effectiveness, rendering the soldier easy prey
to neurotic disorder. As long as the group is recognized
by the soldier as an efficiently functioning unit, the
soldier's anxiety is held at a minimum and he sustains
his confidence in both himself and the group. But when
the group gives indications of breaking down, the soldier
loses confidence and his anxiety increases. Factors that
tend to diminish the soldier's confidence in the group
include high combat losses within the group, the loss of
close personal friends, repeated narrow escapes by the
individual, malfunctioning equipment, poor support, and
incompetent leadership.
31
Conflict of Id, Ego, and Superego
The problem of fear for the combat soldier lies in
the internal conflict between id, ego, and superego. The
id (that part of the psychic apparatus which is the source
of instinctive energy) urges the soldier to preserve him
self regardless of consequence. The ego (that part of the
psyche which mediates the primitive drives of the id and
the demands of the superego) is aided in its struggle with
the id by the learned social and moral standards of the
superego. Those learned social and moral standards, which
12
Brenner calls "parental prohibitions," are an essential
part of the ego’s resistance against the instinctive urges
of the id. The ego, however, relinquishes much of its
independence of action in accepting the aid of the super
ego. Brenner explains this as follows:
The ego has acquired not merely an ally in the
superego, it has acquired a master. Thencefor
ward the demands of the superego are added to
those of the id and of the external environ
ment to which the ego must bow and among which
it must try to mediate. (Brenner, p. 129).
Thus the ego is preyed upon by both the id and the super
ego. As the ego expends psychic energy in mediating the
conflicting demands of the id and the superego, the ego
itself becomes less,resistant to stress and anxiety.
Charles Brenner, An Elementary Textbook of
Psychoanalysis (New York: International Universities
Press, 19 57), p. 129.
32
There is no way to determine the degree of stress
and regression of the ego at the various levels of con
sciousness, because these elements are in constant vari
ation. One thing that seems certain, however, is that
"regression [of the ego] is usually incomplete, and that
a large part of the superego remains firmly identified
with the group" (Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, p. 134). The
superego continues to urge the soldier to persevere, and it
demands that he perform his duties to the group. If
regression is complete or if the superego is completely
dominated by the ego, there is no conflict and no contest
within the soldier’s psyche: he just turns and runs away.
The usual state of affairs with psychiatric casualties
who fail after prolonged exposure to combat is that there
is sufficient conflict between the ego (and the desire
to survive) and the superego (and the desire to be loyal
to the group) in order to sustain an inner conflict and
disturb the psychic harmony of the individual. Thus, the
problem may be resolved into a question of how the soldier
controls the anxiety that is produced by that inner
conflict.
Loss of Ego Functions
Loss of confidence in the group brings about a loss
of identification with the group and a weakening of the
___________________________________________ 55
superego. Psychologically, the soldier’s ego is in con
flict with the reality that it perceives: the group is
unreliable, but the ego is helpless because it is subject
to the group (and also to the formal authority of the
commanding officer) and consequently the ego cannot act
independently to effect personal survival. The specific
process by which the soldier moves from fright to flight
follows a general pattern. (1) The ego regresses and
becomes relatively impotent. (2) The ego withdraws the
trust and affection previously devoted to the group and
reinvests that trust and affection in the self. (3) The
ego then develops an increasingly greater concern for the
safety of the self and finds that it has no control over
its fate. (4) Confidence in the group is further dimin
ished by the loss of friends, causing the soldier to
become acutely aware of his personal vulnerability. (5)
The situation is aggravated by fatigue, physical discom
fort, excessive heat or cold, lack of food or drink,
illness, injury, and the loss of sleep. These factors
trigger alarm signals that warn the soldier that he must
take care of himself because he is not being properly
cared for by the group. (6) Intense anxiety results from
the helplessness of the ego. (7) The soldier perceives
that the protection expected from the group has vanished
and that nothing can be expected to replace it, (8) He
34
determines that the only alternative to personal destruc
tion is precipitous flight from the menace (Grinker §
Spiegel, 1945a, pp. 129-30).
Free Floating Anxiety
Most soldiers successfully deal with the problem
of combat-induced anxiety by simply putting up with a
large part of this emotional disturbance. This causes
the soldier to experience what is called "free floating
anxiety,” but it does not necessarily lead to severe,
incapacitating anxiety. In most successful adaptations,
"the ego makes every effort consciously to repress or con
trol the anxiety . . . [and] to inhibit the sympathetic
signs of anxiety, the tremor and the sweating" (Grinker
§ Spiegel, 1945a, p. 135). By controlling the symptoms
and maintaining an outward calm, most soldiers feel that
they are better equipped to perform their tasks. Combat
veterans usually feel that it is easier to control fear if
they are permitted to discuss openly before combat their
feelings of fear and insecurity (Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a,
p. 135; Smith, 1949b, pp. 201-05). They are equally
convinced that it is even more important to suppress
fearful behavior once the battle has commenced (Dollard,
p. 28).
35
Anxiety is always present in combat, but it need
not become a serious problem. It is common to all normal
combat soldiers, but rarely does it interfere with their
functional efficiency. "Only when the ego becomes seri
ously depleted and weakened from the many strains it must
withstand . . . [does] anxiety escape control and become so
severe that it interferes with efficient work" (Grinker
§ Spiegel, 1945a, p. 136). In addition to the few tempor
ary countermeasures which the ego can call upon to con-
13
trol fear, the ego has several subconscious defenses
13 ^ -
There are h"_fjew^st',p.p- gaP''c'duntermeasures" that
soldiers occasionally use to stem the tide of overwhelming
anxiety. (1) :He can adopt an attitude of personal invul
nerability, a feeling that is usually fostered by fortun
ate experiences from civilian life that he carries over
into combat. Although this attitude is not uncommon in
initial combat experiences, it rapidly diminishes in the
face of high casualties and the loss of close personal
friends. Feelings of personal invulnerability are rarely
found among seasoned veterans. (2) Another counter
measure against intense anxiety is the fatalistic belief
that the soldier will die when it comes to "his turn,"
but that he is "safe" until that predetermined time
occurs. This resignation to the worst that can happen is
postulated on belief in an unswerving predetermining power
that controls the soldier's fate, regardless of his own
actions. According to Grinker and Spiegel, such bitter
resignation is "actually closer to a masked depression
than to a successful adaptation, but it does protect the
individual against anxiety" (1945a, p. 132). This kind
of fatalism has its disadvantages , however, because the
soldier usually loses all sense of value in either the
past or future, living only for the present. It can
lead to dangerously careless behavior and frequently
results in the loss of personal moral values, and commonly
makes the man difficult to get along with. (3) A third
countermeasure against fear, related in some way to the
fatalism described above, is the belief that the
36
which can be used to avert the total stripping of the ego
by severe anxiety. Several of Bierce's military protag
onists resort to these subconscious defense mechanisms:
phobia, conversion, psychosomatic reaction, depression,
and denial.
Defense Mechanisms
These defense mechanisms create conditions within
the soldier that make it possible for him to withdraw
from the fearful situation and at the same time placate
the forces that demand that he persistin his attemp(tsCto
repress anxiety. These demanding forces are both external,
in the form of the informal military group and the officer-
authority, and internal, in the form of the superego. The
superego is often so demanding that the soldier do his
soldier's life span has been fixed by an all-knowing and
all-powerful benevolent being, and that the soldier is in
some way protected by a supernatural power. "From a psycho
dynamic point of view, such men have exchanged an uncertain
dependence on the group for a dependence on a more reliable,
supernatural power" (Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, p. 130).
(4) Reliance on superstitious devices and luck is common
among soldiers, who are just like any other group in this
respect. Any number of charms are available, and although
superstitious attitudes are usually treated jokingly, there
seems to be considerable belief in their efficacy just the
same.
^There is no universal agreement among psychol
ogists in regard to a complete list of defense mechanisms.
Those defense mechanisms discussed in this chapter were
selected because they are particularly appropriate to the
behavior of Bierce's military protagonists. Few individuals
fit neatly into any one of the defense mechanism cate
gories; ordinarily an individual will resort to more than
one defense mechanism.
37
duty to the group that it creates a severe conflict within
the psyche of the soldier, even though there is little or
no external pressure on him. One of the most important
functions of the defense mechanism, therefore, is to allow
the soldier to escape from and evade the tyranny of the
superego.
Phobia
The first subconscious defense mechanism is phobia,
which is a neurotic symptom resulting from a situation in
which the individual suffers from general anxiety but
attributes that anxiety to one particular.aspect of the
fearsome environment. Although it may be clear to others
that the source of the phobic victim’s anxiety is the
combat experience generally, the soldier experiencing
phobic reaction insists that he is incapable of facing
only that aspect which he identifies as frightening. In
an effort to gratify his basic desire to escape the threat
and also to placate internal and external authority, he
argues that he is a competent combat soldier, and that he
can and will perform satisfactorily if he is allowed to
withdraw from and operate outside of the clearly-defined
phobic environment. All phobic victims inevitably display
symptoms of intense anxiety when facing the phobic environ
ment or situation, and they remain convinced that their
38
anxiety will disappear if they are allowed to avoid the
phobic environment. Combat phobias are unlike most phobias
of civilian life because they are usually based on some
thing that is objectively dangerous, whereas most civilian
phobias are related to things that most normal individuals
do not find even moderately fearful. What distinguishes
combat phobias from normal fear reactions is that the
phobia is clearly circumscribed and the intensity of the
fear is so very great.
Phobic reaction is a kind of psychological sub
terfuge by which the individual attempts to manage the
increasing stress of anxiety and to placate authority by
erroneously attributing his anxiety to only one aspect of
the environment, when in reality his anxiety is due to a
more general cause. In Bierce's tale "A Tough Tussle,"
Lieutenant Byring's "unreasoned antipathy" for corpses
is a clear example of phobic reaction.
Conversion;
Conversion is another subconscious defense mechan
ism used by the ego to protect itself from severe anxiety.
Soldiers with weak egos and strong superegos are par
ticularly susceptible to this neurotic symptom. Typically,
^ i
this kind of psychiatric casualty suffers considerable
39
anxiety, but he is afraid that all will be lost if he
openly admits fearAccordingly, he tries to repress all
sympathetic physiological symptoms. Eventually the
weakened ego expresses its refusal to face the frightening
situation by producing a physical defect in the organism.
Conversion usually manifests itself in some part of the
body upon which the soldier is dependent for the execution
of his duties. The infantryman’s legs collapse, the
reconnaissance scout’s vision blurs, the gunner's hands
refuse to do their work. Among contemporary soldiers, it
is not uncommon to find combat pilots who experience
blurred vision as soon as they enter enemy airspace, or
paratroopers who suffer temporary paralysis of their legs
(Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, pp. 104-07). Conversion symp
toms thus make it physically impossible for the soldier
to do his duty, and this naturally facilitates his removal
from the feared situation.
Conversion, however, "is not a conscious or
deliberate deception. The actual physical symptom is
always based either on an antecedent real defect resulting
from illness or injury, or on a functional symptom
resulting from anxiety" (Grinker § Spiegel, 1945a, pp. 138-
39). Thus, the physical defect is actual in the sense that
the soldier may temporarily lose control of some part of
his body, but the cause of the defect is psychological,
40
not physical. Unlike the soldier who experiences phobic
reaction, those who suffer conversion symptoms do not
have to admit any fear or anxiety; they justify their
incapacity on the basis of a physical defect that they
correctly believe is beyond their control. As in the case
of phobia, the function of this symptom is to effect a
withdrawal from the traumatic environment, while at the
same time placating both internal and external authority.
Psychosomatic Reaction
Another relatively common neurotic symptom related
to combat - induced anxiety is psychosomatic reaction. This
symptom is similar to conversion in that it manifests
itself in a physical defect that has a psychological cause,
and that the soldier who suffers from this reaction
erroneously attributes his anxiety to the symptom, rather
than correctly attributing the symptom to his anxiety.
Attempts to repress all signs of combat-induced anxiety
often result in somatic reactions such as excessive sweat
ing, shaking, and the sudden urge to defecate or urinate.
The gastro-intestinal tract is affected by psychosomatic
reaction more than any other organ or system (Grinker §
Spiegel, 1945a, p. 108). Even though psychosomatic reac
tion can become so severe that it is incapacitating, most
soldiers realize that it is caused by anxiety and they
41
tolerate the discomfort that it brings. Some soldiers,
however, mistakenly insist that there is an organic
source of the somatic disorder. In addition, they mis
takenly believe that their signs of nervous anxiety are
the result of their concern over their "injury" or
"illness." If the psychosomatic reaction is sufficiently
severe, it can serve the ego's desire to withdraw from
combat much in the same way that conversion does.
Depression
Severe depression is another common neurotic
reaction to the stress of combat. Ordinarily it occurs
later than other neurotic symptoms, and it is usually
accompanied by anxiety. Combat conditions are often so
bad that it would be unusual if a soldier were not
depressed. Severe depression usually occurs after the
loss of close friends in battle; the soldier begins to
feel that he has virtually no chance of surviving; more
importantly, he often feels that he is in some way respon
sible for the death of his comrades. Depression is closely
related to feelings of guilt, even though the sufferer
has done nothing shameful. This neurotic reaction can
develop into an intense desire to escape, not merely
the danger of combat, but from life itself and its ter
rible conflicts. If the depression is sufficiently
42
severe, the soldier may resort to behavior that is
increasingly dangerous and even suicidal. Bierce's George
Thurston gives hints of depression, and Lieutenant Brayle,
of ’’Killed at Resaca,” is even more assuredly a victim of
extreme depression, as he courts death to prove to his
undeserving lover that he is not a coward, but a hero.
This kind of behavior is not uncommon among psychiatric
casualties who feel compelled to choose between a "hero’s"
death and a life of guilt and inner conflict.
Denial
Denial is a relatively common defense mechanism
used to cope with a threatening or unpleasant reality.
Barclay Martin describes denial as a neurotic substitution
of illusion for reality:
When a person confronted with a situation that
may result in aversive consequences for himself
interprets the situation in a way that denies
the features associated with the aversive out
come, he is employing the denial mechanism.
Usually the person does not just deny some
unpleasant truth, but asserts some contrary or
opposite belief. For normal or neurotic indi
viduals to employ denial effectively, the
information must be incomplete or ambiguous to
some extent. If the unpleasant truth is based
on incontrovertible fact, then short of psychotic
delusion, a person simply has to believe it.15
■^Barclay Martin, Anxiety and Neurotic Disorders
(New York: John Wiley § Sons, 1971) , p. 90.
43
Several of Bierce’s military protagonists resort to some
degree of denial in their attempts to avoid extreme anxiety
or threatening situations. The federal spy and "philoso
pher" Parker Adderson steadfastly denies his fear of death
to General Clavering as long as he can believe he has a
few more hours to live, but when Clavering orders his
immediate execution, the spy can no longer maintain his
denial, and, as a consequence, breaks down completely.
Peyton Farquhar, on the other hand, seems to deny the
reality of his execution up until the very instant of
death. Perhaps his denial is an example of psychotic
delusion. Although psychological denial is a simple
defense mechanism often used by normal individuals, it can
become so exaggerated in times of extreme stress that an
individual is capable of completely disregarding reality
and substituting an utterly illusionary world in its
place.
Severe Anxiety
Most soldiers, of course, successfully withstand
the stress of combat even after they are exposed to
terrible conditions over a long period of time. Even so,
every man has an absolute limit to his tolerance. If a
soldier’s defense mechanisms fail, and if he is subjected
to the strain of intense combat for a sufficiently
44
prolonged period, he will eventually suffer the effects
of intense anxiety. This d-sl^not 3the~s'ame/ -asr’"free'.f loating
anxiety" that is almost invariably present in a stressing
situation. Free anxiety, or ordinary "nervousness," is
not dangerous unless it becomes so intense that it
interferes with the functional efficiency of the soldier.
When the soldier is subjected to intense fear, the ego
becomes fatigued and is unable to suppress anxiety and
take adaptive action. Judgment is lost, the soldier
makes increasingly serious mistakes, and he becomes as
much a hazard to himself and to his comrades as to the
enemy. In extreme cases, intense anxiety over a prolonged
period can produce "regression of the ego, confusion in
regard to the environment, mutism and stupor" (Grinker
§ Spiegel, 1945a, p. 84).
Severe anxiety results in a regression that is
both psychological and emotional. Psychologically, he
regresses by losing ego functions.
One by one; various ego functions may disappear.
Intelligent' thought and action become impossible
when the weakened ego can no longer appraise
reality, and are replaced by panicky or bizarre
behavior. In some, the ego cannot effect coordi
nated motor functions, which give way to severe
tremors and wobbly, staggering gaits and
stuttering speech. Sensory functions, such as
sight and hearing, vanish when the ego can no
longer tolerate the stimuli they subserve. The
ego may even lose its connection with past and
present reality entirely . . . relapsing into an
amnesia or a stuporous state. In the latter,
45
intense quantities of anxiety acting upon the
exhausted ego produce complete disintegration.
As the ego's functions fail and especially when
its inhibitory power collapses, various released
reactions on lower neuroloigical levels appear.
Infantile attitudes and postures are exhibited
in combination with signs of uncontrolled activity
. . . such as a continuous coarse tremor, [and]
muscular rigidity. . . . (Grinker § Spiegel,
1945a, pp. 136-37)
Emotional regression can be as drastic as psychological
regression, and the soldier can regress to the dependent
and helpless condition of a child.
People in fear may behave like sucklings again,
drooling, incontinent, with fetal postures.
They show the startle reactions of babies, they
have to be fed. Others prattle and giggle and
show the helplessness of little children.
(Meerloo, p. 63)
In the extreme states of severe anxiety, a
soldier may become completely immobile. According to
Meerloo, such "freezing" or "sham death" is a primitive
defense mechanism, a camouflage--"a sudden identification
with the dead environment" (Meerloo, p. 28). Surprisingly
enough, this primitive defense does have some physiological
advantage because "in the so-called frozen or cataleptic
phase a peculiar change in the economy of energy takes
place. There is a minimum loss of energy, no hunger is
felt, almost no oxygen is consumed" (Meerloo, p. 28).
Nevertheless, severe anxiety remains one of the greatest
psychological dangers to the combat soldier.
46
Death by ’ ’Fright"
More than a few of the protagonists of Bierce’s
Gothic tales die from fright itself, and at least one of
his military characters ^Jerome Searing of "One of the
Missing”) seems to die from this cause. There are a
variety of explanations for such deaths. Death may be
caused by ”a disastrous drop in blood pressure” or it may
be caused by "asphyxiation, in which the necessary oxygen
supply to the brain is cut off by the sudden cataleptic
rigidity of muscles and breathing" (Meerloo, p. 37). The
heart rate of phobia patients has been observed to double
from seventy to one-hundred forty beats per minute within
seconds (Rachman, p. 105). Whatever the ultimate cause
of death, it seems relatively clear that "death by
fright” is brought about by a disorder in the cardio
vascular system.
Courage and Its Limitations
The concept of bravery is closely related to the
problem of fear, but modern psychology has very little to
say about bravery. Courageous behavior has always
received more attention from literary writers than from
scientists. Whereas the brave heroes of literature are
usually treated in laudatory style, the entire concept
of courage is considered somewhat ambivalently by
47
psychologists. Courage is commonly equated with the
quality of mind or spirit that enables a person to face
difficulty or danger with firmness and without fear.
Clinical psychologists recognize the deficiency of such a
definition, for how can we consider an individual to be
courageous if the obstacle of fear need not be overcome?
If an individual is capable of confronting an object or a
situation generally deemed fearful--and if he faces
such a menace without the subjective feeling of fear and
the sympathetic physiological signals--is such a person
courageous? According to some psychologists, such an
individual would be better described as someone who
shows "an absence of fear rather than the presence of
courage" (Rachman, pp. 23-24). Is a man brave if he
experiences an inward calm in a frightening situation but
clearly manifests signs of physiological distress?
According to Rachman, such an individual "can be said to
possess a brave autonomic system" (Rachman, p. 24).^
Rachman continues, "perhaps we should reserve the descrip
tion of ’true courage' for those people who are willing
and able to approach a fearful situation, despite the
presence of subjective fear, psychophysiological
„
The autonomic nervous system is the system of
nerves and ganglia that innervates (that is communicates
nervous energy to) the blood vessels, heart, smooth mus
cles, viscera, and glands; it also controls their involun
tary functions, consisting of a sympathetic and para
sympathetic division.
_________48
disturbances and intense bodily reactions" (Rachman,
p. 24).
Rachman also points out that literary writers
have been much more successful than psychologists in
describing that dull ache known as fear. Novelists and
short story writers have also been more successful than
psychologists in describing courage and its limitations.
Bierce’s autobiographical essay "The Crime at Pickett’s
Mill” sheds considerable light on the problem of courage
and its limitations. Bierce explains that he had often
wondered about the absolute limit of bravery, and that his
experience in the battle of Pickett’s Mill at least
partially resolved his doubt.
Bierce writes:
Early in my military experience I used to ask
myself how it was that brave troops could retreat
while still their courage was high. As long as
a man is not disabled he can go forward; can
it be anything but fear that makes him stop and
finally retire? Are there signs by which he can
infallibly know the struggle to be hopeless?
In this engagement [at Pickett’s Mill], as in
others, my doubts were answered as to the fact;
the explanation is still o b s c u r e .17
In the "crime" at Pickett's Mill, General Hazen’s brigade
(of which Bierce was topographical officer) was ordered
to move around the right flank of the Confederate army
Ambrose Bierce, "The Crime at Pickett’s Mill," . . "
in. Bits /of Au to biographyVol. I of The Collected Works of
Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale Pub1ishing Company, 1909) ,
pp. 290-91.
49
and attack. At best, the plan was extremely hazardous
because it required Hazen's men to move through nearly
impassible terrain and pit his weakened brigade of 1500
troops against two divisions of Confederates. The element
of surprise was soon lost, and the Federal infantry was
decimated as they courageously charged uphill through
incredibly rough terrain toward the entrenched
Confederates. The Federal attack was, of course, repulsed
with terrible losses.
The peculiar phenomenon of this battle was not the
extraordinarily high losses, but the position of most of
the Federal dead in relation to their objective, the
Confederate entrenchment. The vast majority of the
Federal dead had fallen in a clearly circumscribed area
near the Confederate front line, but not one Federal
soldier had moved forward beyond an imaginary line that
was just a few paces short of the Confederate trenches.
Bierce's own words best describe the implications of this
unusual phenomenon:
Most of our men fought kneeling as they fired,
many of them behind trees, stones and whatever
cover they could get, but there were considerable
groups that stood. Occasionally one of these
groups, which had endured the storm of missiles
for moments without perceptible ^reduction, would
push forward, moved by a common despair, and
wholly detach itself from the line. In a second
every man of the group would be down. There had
been no visible movement of the enemy, no audible
change in the awful, even roar of firing--yet all
________50
were down. . . . 0£ the ’hundreds of corpses
within twenty paces of the Confederate line,’ I
venture to say that a third were within fifteen
paces, and not one within ten. (Bierce, 1909,.Vol.
I, P. . . 292)
Bierce explains this extraordinary phenomenon as the
absolute limit of the soldier's psychological tolerance.
It is the perception--perhaps unconscious--of
this inexplicable phenomenon that causes the
still unharmed, still vigorous and still
courageous soldier to retire without having come
into actual contact with his foe. He sees, or
feels, that he cannot. His bayonet is a useless
weapon for slaughter; its purpose is a moral one.
Its mandate exhausted, he sheathes it and trusts
to the bullet. That failing, he retreats. He
has done all that he could do with such appli
ances as he has. (Bierce, Vol.'d , •1909 , pp.; 292-95
Bierce was not a psychologist, but he had
a rare insight into man's psychological strengths and
weaknesses in the face of fear. Although man may often
display uncommon valor in terrible conflicts, he can
endure only so much psychological pressure. Ultimately,
his defenses--both conscious and unconscious--fail him,
and he finds himself isolated, trapped, and destroyed.
Combat, with its unparalleled Capability of
generating psychic conflict, becomes the ultimate test of
man's endurance. As Bierce points out in "The Crime at
Pickett's Mill"--and also in his war stories--man is
capable of extraordinary courage and endurance, but that
courage and endurance in all men have an absolute limit.
51
Once that limit has been reached, man must either retreat
or be destroyed. "He has done all that he could do with
such appliances as he has."
52
CHAPTER III
BIERCE'S FEAR STORIES
Several of Bierce's fictional soldiers form a
discrete group united in their inability to deal with
fear. They are greatly varied in their appearance, and
obviously not cast from the same mold. The protagonists
who constitute this group are the untried Captain Anderton
Graffenreid of "One Officer, One Man," the competent
Private Jerome Searing of "One of the Missing," the brave
Lieutenant Brainerd Byring of "A Tough Tussle," the
titular protagonists of "George Thurston” and "Parker
Adderson, Philosopher," the unnamed warrior-child of
"Chickamauga," and the patriotic Peyton Farquhar of-"An
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge."^ One would be hard-
pressed to gather together a seemingly more heterogeneous
Six of the stories discussed in this chapter
appear in In the Midst of Life, Vol. II of The Collected
Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale; Publishing Co.,
1909) : "One Officer, One Man," pp. 197-208 ; "One of
the Missing," pp. 71-92); "George Thurston," pp. 209-17;
"Parker Adderson, Philosopher," pp. 133-45; "Chickamauga,"
pp. 46-57; and "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"
pp. 27-45. The remaining story, "A Tough Tussle,"
appears in Can Such Things Be?, Vol. Ill of The Collected
Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York: NealetPublishing Co.,
1910) , pp. 106-20 .
53
group of soldiers.
Many of Bierce’s stories follow established
patterns, and as one might suspect, this is true of the
fear stories also. There are definite similarities among
these tales, but the similarities never become so great as
to constitute a formula. In all of these stories, Bierce
concentrates most of his attention on the incapacitating
effects of anxiety and fear on man. Fear comes in many
ways, however, and these tales show the several ways man
is weakened and eventually destroyed by anxiety, fear,
and terror. The similarity in pattern in these stories
tells much about Bierce’s general estimate of the human
condition: life is a trap, man is all alone in the
world, and the greatest threat to man is his own suscepti
bility to fear. The similarity in pattern also provides
a matrix for the individual stories, which in turn reveal ,
Bierce’s deep understanding of fear.
There are three general aspects of the fear
stories which show established patterns: situation,
character, and action. The patterns are never rigid,
however, and always provide for substantial variation in
each of these three aspects.
Isolation of the protagonist is the most invari
able aspect of the fear stories, whether that isolation be
physical, psychological, or social. He may be alone in a
______54
wild forest (as Searing and Byring) or he may be cut off
from his comrades (as Graffenreid and Thurston) or he may
find himself alone in a crowd of enemies (as Adderson and
Farquhar). Either by choice or necessity, he must bear
his burden without the support of helping hands or
sympathetic hearts.
The situation is often determined by the setting
of the tale, and very often that setting is the wild and
the unfamiliar--probably a forest. The environment lacks
clear definition, frequently concealing the menace, and
thereby suggesting an illusory world that the unnerved
protagonist may shape according to his fantasies.
Although the forest often suggests a mental journey,
implying ignorance, confusion, and disorientation, it does
not function as a consistent metaphor; its meaning may
change within the story, adding to the confusion of the
protagonist, and encouraging him to create an illusionary
world. The situation almost invariably involves some kind
of trap which immobilizes the protagonist, either phys
ically or psychologically. Although he is never required
to perform any heroic or unusual action, the protagonist
is not allowed to extricate himself from his predicament
by taking direct action. Thus, he must simply wait and
endure.
55
It is perhaps a misnomer to refer to a typical
Biercian protagonist because there is more variation in
the characters of these tales than either the situations or
the actions. Whatever the protagonist may be, he is never
a strawman. Bierce did not concern himself with overly
emotional soldiers who, like Henry Fleming, simply turn and
run in fright at the first threatening gesture of the
enemy. Some of these protagonists may be naive, ignorant,
and ill-prepared, but most of them are resourceful, com
petent, well-trained, brave, efficient, sensitive, disci
plined, and even intrepid. In spite of his admirable
qualities, the protagonist always lacks something essen
tial to his survival. He may be admirably well-prepared
for most situations, but a flaw in his preparation or
character makes him vulnerable to the menace that he must
face. Whatever his strengths and weaknesses are, he
nearly always overestimates his capabilities. Somewhat
paradoxically, the seemingly most intrepid protagonist of
this group, George Thurston, is the only protagonist who
does not have a heroic conception of himself. Even more
revealing, the child-protagonist of ’’Chickamauga" has the
most exaggerated conception of his heroism.
Bierce's protagonist ordinarily relies heavily
on his rational faculties , rarely acting on purely emo
tional impulse. He calmly assesses the situation and
56
plans his course of action in an almost disconcertingly
rational manner. His tendency toward rational delibera
tion leads him into heavy introspection and conjecture,
and this usually gets him into trouble.
The typical action of the fear story must be dis
cussed in connection with the protagonist because all too
often the only significant action in the story is that
which occurs in the protagonist’s mind. The seemingly
interminable delays in "One Officer, One Man," "One of the
Missing," "A Tough Tussle," and "An Occurrence at Owl
Creek Bridge" clearly illustrate how the very absence of
significant action causes the protagonists to lose their
grasp of objective reality. Because these men did not
have the option of taking decisive action and getting
it over with, they could only wait and endure and specu
late. Their speculation of the actual, the probable, and
the possible leads to mental confusion that is augmented
by the natural confusion of the setting and the man-made
confusion of the external action. Anxiety follows con
fusion, and fear follows anxiety. The combination of con
fusion, anxiety, and fear induces the protagonist to deny
the objective reality of the situation and substitute an
illusionary world.
Each of Bierce's protagonists reacts in his own
way: Captain Graffenreid suffers hallucination, Private
57
Searing becomes obsessed with the muzzle of his rifle which
he assumes is loaded, Lieutenant Byring is driven to sui
cide by his phobic reaction to the Confederate corpse,
Parker Adderson suffers a complete psychological break
down when his repressed fear is explosively liberated,
and Peyton Farquhar sustains his denial of reality until
the very end. None of Bierce’s protagonists represent
clear-cut examples of any singular psychic disorder. They
all exhibit, in varying degrees, several symptoms of
neurotic compromise.
Occasionally the protagonist’s denial of reality
and acceptance of an illusionary world is caused not
because the illusion is less threatening, but because it
is more definite and understandable. Under stress, the
protagonist finds an illusionary forest full of imaginary
enemies more acceptable than a real but vague, undefined
forest that in fact does not contain any enemies at all.
Thus, Captain Graffenreid assumes that the forest is full
of Confederates, even though they have withdrawn and he is
faced with little more than a pastoral scene.
Bierce suggests that there is virtually no limit
to the imagined menace once the protagonist has denied
reality. Indeed, the menace becomes greater than the
threat of death itself, and no man can withstand virtually
infinite terror. Frequently the ultimate defeat of the
58
protagonist comes in the form of ignominious death, more
often than not by his own hand. Four of the protagonists
from this group of stories die by suicide, two are exe
cuted, and only the child-protagonist of "Chickamauga"
survives--and his survival is truly pitiable.
All of this is, of course, merely a summary of the
general pattern of elements common to Bierce's fear sto
ries. Only in an analysis of the individual stories can
we appreciate Bierce's remarkable achievement in describ
ing the psychological effect of fear on man.
"One Officer, One Man"
Among Bierce's military protagonists, none shows
more clearly than Captain Graffenreid, of "One Officer,
One Man," the insidious manner in which man is isolated,
trapped, and destroyed. The trap in which Graffenreid
finds himself is not as tangible as those which hold the
protagonists of "One of the Missing," "Parker Adderson,
Philosopher," and "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"
but it restrains him just as effectively. Quite simply,
Graffenreid is held in check by a compulsion to prove him
self to his comrades. Similarly, Graffenreid suffers a
peculiar isolation which alienates him socially from his
comrades, even while he stands in their midst. He is
nevertheless isolated, trapped, and destroyed by fear,
59
thus underscoring Bierce's contention that man's most
lethal enemy is not the concealed enemy across the field,
but the insecurity that every man tries to hide.
"One Officer, One Man" is unique among Bierce's
military tales in its presentation of the psychological
break-down of a soldier during his initial combat exper
ience. The tale presents a classic case of the early
psychiatric casualty who demonstrates a variety of neurotic
reactions as a result of minimal combat stress. Although
the duration of this tale is very short --probably not
exceeding a matter of a few minutes--the protagonist
quickly moves from what appears to be a relatively normal
state of mind to psychotic collapse. His psychological
degeneration is extremely rapid, but nevertheless credible
because Bierce carefully substantiates each step of the
deterioration. Although the protagonist shows no signs
indicative of psychological instability at the beginning
of the tale, the narrator introduces early in the story
two factors that will have a pronounced effect on
Graffenreid's behavior later in the tale: his inexper
ience and his isolation.
This tale narrates Graffenreid's initial combat
experience, and as a consequence, he suffers the inherent
disadvantages of both ignorance and inexperience. These
disadvantages, however, are common to all initiates and
60
are in no way necessarily catastrophic.
Significantly more important, Graffenreid is iso
lated from his comrades. He had been unjustly considered
a shirker by the officers and enlisted men of his regi
ment because he had long been an administrative officer
far from the battlefield. Because of his undeserved repu
tation as a shirker, his fellow officers have isolated him
socially and the enlisted men do not consider him worthy to
lead them. Cut off socially, he finds himself psycholog
ically isolated: there is no one to whom he can turn to
confide his doubts and fears. Graffenreid is in the unfor
tunate position of being an "outsider," and thus he is
deprived of group identification, the strongest counter
measure against the adverse effects of fear. For Bierce,
this isolation is just another typical situation in which
man finds himself alone in the world with no one to help
him. For Graffenreid, the isolation is virtual disaster
because he has the kind of personality (very strong
superego, but very weak ego) that desperately needs the
approval and support of his comrades. Graffenreid*s
isolation is, for example, much more serious than that of
Private Searing, of "One of the Missing," because Searing
is a strong individualist and habitual "loner.*'
Bierce clearly points out that Graffenreid*s
isolation is compounded by inexperience and ignorance.
61
Although Graffenreid has had the advantages of a mili
tary education, he has never experienced combat. The
narrator remarks that Graffenreid had never seen an enemy
soldier under arms, and it is one of the ironies of this
tale that he will never see an armed enemy. His two-
year tour of duty in the state capital as an administra
tive officer has probably done more harm than good in
preparing him for combat. His regiment had been in
action for a Tong time, and it is reasonable to assume
that in that time casualty reports had lost most of their
dramatic effect. Graffenreid's overconfidence is under
standable, but it will nevertheless be fatal, because the
fundamental illusion of this story is Graffenreid’s
belief that he can be a competent combat soldier.
Actually, he is one of those men whose resistance to stress
is so very weak that their ego functions are stripped
by the initial onslaught of anxiety.
Early in the tale, the narrator unmistakably pre
dicts Graffenreid's unsuitability for combat in a
detailed description of the army as it prepared for
attack, emphasizing the differences between the front
and rear echelons. Backing up the first and second lines
of combatants are the reserves, a "vast multitude of non-
combatants" who are assigned the "inglorious but important
duty of supplying the fighters' many needs" (Bierce,
Vol. II, .1909 , p. 198).
62
An army in line-of-battle awaiting attack, or
prepared to deliver it, presents strange con
trasts. At the front are precision, formality,
fixity, and silence. Toward the rear these
characteristics are less and less conspicuous,
and finally, in point of space, are lost
altogether in confusion, motion and noise. The
homogeneous becomes heterogeneous. Definition
is lacking; repose is replaced by an apparently
purposeless activity; harmony vanishes in hub
bub, form in disorder. Commotion everywhere and
ceaseless unrest. The men who do not fight are
never ready. (Bierce, Vol. . II, 1909 , p. 198)
Clearly, Graffenreid does not belong in the front
line of combatants. Whereas the front line troops are
characterized by precision, formality, fixity, silence,
homogeneousness, sharp definition, repose, resolute pur
pose, and harmony, Graffenreid reflects none of these
qualities. He cannot stand still, he is confused, he
groans aloud, he moves his hands and fidgets with his
clothing, he is a heterogeneous element in his company, and
his mind is a hubbub of confusion, commotion, and cease
less unrest. It is apparent that he should have remained
at his administrative post at the state capital.
Graffenreid1s precarious position is intensified
by his personal isolation. Although he is in command of
a company of Federal infantry, he is not an integral
part of that group. He is considered by both his fellow
officers and the enlisted men "as one who had shirked his
duty, until forced unwillingly into the field" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 200). Of course, the reader knows that
63
this harsh judgment is unfounded and unjust, but
Graffenreid is "too proud to explain, yet not too insensi
ble to feel, he could only endure and hope" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 200). Like all the other protagonists
of Bierce’s fear-dominated stories, Graffenreid can only
"endure and hope" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 200). Along
with Private Searing of "One of the Missing," Lieutenant
Byring of "A Tough Tussle," and George Thurston of the
story "George Thurston," he does not have the option of
making a decision and then acting on that decision to
extricate himself from his predicament. He can only wait
and try to control himself and hope.
Even without the dangers of combat, Graffenreid1s
physical position in the front rank of the army can be
more than a little disconcerting. Standing at attention
with eyes firmly fixed straight ahead in the front rank of
a large body of troops, either in combat formation or on
parade, can induce strange feelings. In such a position,
the soldier knows that he is in the midst of many men, yet
his senses--his eyes and ears in this case--give him the
impression that he is completely alone. He can see no
one and he can hear no one. Thus he has the peculiar
sensation of being utterly isolated and at the same
time exposed to the scrutinizing glare of a thousand eyes.
64
One of Graffenreid’s greatest problems stems from
his isolation, for he does not have the support of his
fellow-officers and men. Psychologically, he is going
up against the entire Confederate army. What’s more, he
is not an integral part of his group, and as a consequence
he is not concerned with anyone’s safety but his own.
As he faces the enemy, he has but one purpose in mind:
that "he should prove himself a soldier and a hero; he
should vindicate his right to the respect of his men and
the companionship of his brother officers--to the con
sideration of his superiors" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
pp. 200-01). He is so preoccupied with becoming an
accepted member of the group that he can hardly think of
their safety, or even his own--at least until the first
artillery shell roars overhead. Once he suffers the
initiating experience of that "hideous rushing sound"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 201), his attitude undergoes a
profound change, and he operates in the confusion of a
double fear: fear that he will fail as a man, and fear
that he will be killed.
As in many of Bierce’s war stories, delays play
a prominent role .in "One Office^, One Man." Graffenreid
had suffered impatiently under his "hateful duties"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 200) as a non-combatant for two
years. During that time "Death had been busy in his
65
distant regiment" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 199) and he
had ample opportunity to think about war. Reading and
hearing about combat, of course, will never be the same
as experiencing it. During his two year tenure at the
state capital, Graffenreid had conceived of combat and
his role in battle without the benefit of a realistic
standard for estimating the terror of combat or his power
of withstanding such terror. His tour of duty as
administrative officer was not the only delay in this
tale. Almost the entire action of "One Officer, One Man"
is one prolonged delay in which Graffenreid awaits the
enemy and the opportunity to prove himself.
Graffenreid1s initial state of mind is a perfectly
natural reaction to the stirring situation as his body
responds to the effect of the increased adrenaline in
his system. He is joyous and bouyant, "his faculties
[are] riotous" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 200). Impatient
for the battle to start, he strides forward to his
assigned position "with what a light tread, scarcely con
scious of the earth beneath his feet" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 201). This airy feeling is the 'first illusion
that he experiences that day, but perhaps the only pleasant
one.
Graffenreid1s initial conception of battle is
disarmingly altered by the sound of the incoming
66
Confederate artillery shell:
Suddenly, from the forest a half-mile in front--
apparently from among the upper branches of the
trees, but really from the ridge beyond--rose a
tall column of white smoke. A moment later came
a deep, jarring explosion, followed--almost
attended--by a hideous rushing sound that seemed
to leap forward across the intervening space within1
conceivable rapidity, rising from whisper to roar
with too quick a gradation for attention to
note the successive stages of its horrible pro
gression! A visible tremor ran along the lines
of men; all were startled into motion. Captain
Graffenreid dodged and threw up his hands to one
side of his head, palms outward. As he did so
he heard a keen, ringing report, and saw on a
hillside behind the line a fierce roll of smoke
and dust--the shell's explosion. It had passed
a hundred feet to his left! (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, pp. 201-02)
This passage is typical of one of Bierce's tech
niques and the way that he frequently manipulates time
and duration. As may be seen in "One of the Missing,"
Bierce interrupts the action with an extended passage,
and thereby increases, rather than diminishes, the
reader's interest. Here also he interrupts the action
with a passage of about one hundred and fifty words,
between the time of departure of the projectile from the
Confederate cannon and the time of its arrival amidst the
Federal lines. One of the effects of this interruption
is suspense, as the reader hurriedly moves through the
passage to discover what calamity will result when the
shell finally explodes. The interruption also allows
67
the reader to do precisely what Graffenreid cannot do:
the "too quick a gradation" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 201)
of the shell’s "inconceivable rapidity, rising from
whisper to roar" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 201) is pre
sented in slow-motion so that the reader is capable of
noting "the successive stages of its horrible progres
sion" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 201). This helps the
reader to appreciate more fully the catastrophic effect
on Graffenreid, and to accept as credible the "profound
change" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 202) that the shell
brings to "his conception of war" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 202). This skillful manipulation of time is typical
of Bierce, reaching its perfection in "An Occurrence at
Owl Creek Bridge."
Shamed by his panicky movement, Graffenreid hears
or fancies that he hears "a low, mocking laugh” (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 202). Turning in the direction of his
company, he sees the eyes of his company lieutenant fixed
upon him in an "unmistakable look of amusement" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 202). The men are laughing, but are
they laughing at him? Graffenreid is sufficiently
frightened and confused to begin substituting illustion
for reality, imagining that they are indeed laughing at
him.
68
The,delay continues, but now Graffenreid is "con
scious of a sense of gratitude" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 202) that the Federal gunners have not been provoked
into answering the Confederate artillery. Rather than
feeling impatient for the battle to commence, he is thank
ful that he has time to reorganize his thoughts. This
delay, of course, will bring about his undoing. The pro
longed postponement of action is precisely the thing that
will provoke even greater anxiety. "His new feeling was
manifesting itself in visible perturbation" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 202). He displays a wide variety of
physiological symptoms of anxiety:
His blood was boiling in his veins; he had a
choking sensation and felt that if he had a
command to give it would be inaudible, or at least
unintelligible. The hand in which he held his
sword trembled; the other moved automatically,
clutching at various parts of his clothing. He
found a difficulty in standing still and -fancied
that his men observed it. Was it fear? He
feared it was. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 202-03)
As Graffenreid stands nervously waiting, an inter
mittent sound strikes his ear. At first he believes that
it is the beating of blood in his ears. In reality, the
battle has opened on the Federal right flank, and the
irregular throbbing is the sound of musket and artillery
fire from the distant combatants. Confusion and fear are
now making it increasingly difficult for him to distin
guish illusion from reality.
_________ 69
Suddenly the forest beyond the clearing erupts
in a volley of rifle fire. As the soldier standing next
to him falls dead, someone shouts the order, "Lie
down!" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 204). The illusory
world becomes more pronounced to the prone Graffenreid;
the living men are hardly distinguishable from the dead
one, and it appears that a single volley has felled ten
thousand men. Graffenreid finds himself lying next to
the corpse of the dead soldier and looking directly at
it. Appalled by the sight of blood and its odor, he
imagines that the dead man’s face, crushed into the soil,
has been flattened, and that it is already turning yellow.
The corpse has a hypnotic effect on Graffenreid, in much
the same way that the rifle muzzle will mesmerize Searing
in "One of the Missing."
Eventually he succeeds in averting his eyes, and
soon he has them fixed on the forest from which the enemy
had fired. Only a few moments earlier, before the
arrival of the Confederate artillery shell, he "could
imagine nothing more peaceful than the appearance of
that pleasant landscape" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 198),
but now,
He tried to imagine what was going on there--
the lines of troops forming to attack, the guns
being pushed forward by hand to the edge of
the open. He fancied he could see their black
muzzles protruding from the undergrowth, ready
70
to deliver their storm of missiles--such
missiles as the one whose shriek had so
unsettled his nerves. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, pp. 204-05)
Here Graffenreid actively cooperates with the nemesis
that will eventually bring him down. As he stares into
the woods, the distention of his eyes increases, and "a
mist seemed to gather before them; he could no longer see
across the field" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 205). This
failure of his sensory organs' is most likely an occur
rence of neurotic conversion or perhaps psychosomatic
reaction. In either case, GraffenreidTs ego is being sub
jected to such anxiety that it is revolting against the
frightening situation through physical channels. And, as
his physical senses begin to fail, he continues to sub
stitute an illusionary world for the real one.
Graffenreid’s morale falls to a new ebb as the
delay drags on. The delay induces rationalistic intro
spection, which eventually results in despair and
depression.
The fire of battle was not now burning very
brightly in this warrior's soul. From inaction
had come introspection. He sought rather to
analyze his feelings than distinguish himself
by courage and devotion. The result was pro
foundly disappointing. He covered his face
with his hands and groaned aloud. (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 205)
71
At this point in the narrative, Graffenreid is almost
assuredly suffering from depression. His superego con
tinues to drive him relentlessly, insisting that he
prove to himself and his comrades that he is a man and
a competent combat soldier, but his weakened ego cannot
bear the anxiety that he is experiencing. Graffenreid’s
"failure" to distinguish himself and the resulting
internal conflict are now pushing him dangerously close
to complete psychological collapse.
As the sounds of battle on the right flank grow
more distinct, it becomes apparent that the enemy is
being driven back in that sector, and that Graffenreid's
unit will soon be ordered to advance. Eventually the
battalion is ordered to stand and prepare to advance
across the clearing toward the menacing forest, but the
final order is not given. "The delay was hideous,
maddening! It unnerved like a respite at the guillotine"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 206). The strain on Graffenreid
becomes insupportable: "He grew hot and cold by turns.
He panted like a dog, and then forgot to breathe until
reminded by vertigo" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 206-07).
These reactions are, of course, typical physiological
symptoms of a man suffering extreme anxiety. He can
sustain the anxiety no more. Suddenly he grows calm.
The foreshortened sword in his right hand suggests the
72
short blade of a Roman soldier. "The fancy was full of
suggestion, malign, fateful, heroic!" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 207) Graffenreid has denied reality completely
and has substituted an illusionary world in which he
stands in line-of-battle as a Roman soldier. His course
is clear at last. Up until this last moment he has not
been allowed to act decisively, but now he can play the
hero’s role and escape at the same time. He does exactly
that.
The final irony, of course, is that Graffenreid and
the lone soldier killed in the initial volley are the
only casualties sustained by the entire left corps of the
Federal army. The "pleasant landscape" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 198) which Graffenreid had populated with a
multitude of illusionary enemies had been vacated by the
Confederates by the time Graffenreid fell on his own
sword.
Summing up the basic problem posed by "One
Officer, One Man" involves several aspects of the story.
Captain Graffenreid is not depicted as a coward, nor does
he seem to have any personal flaw that triggers the
catastrophe. There are no strange coincidences in the
tale, other than the fact that the soldier standing next
to the protagonist is killed, but that is not so far
fetched as to seem artificia’ llyCco,ntr.ivecl. Fate plays a
_______73
significant role in this tale, but the coincidence is
thoroughly credible and.aesthetically acceptable for
two reasons. First, fate does not function as a perverse
deus ex machina that appears from nowhere just to destroy
or save the protagonist. Secondly, the fateful withdrawal
of the Confederate forces from the concealing forest is
essential and integrally related to the action of the
rest of the story. That is, the withdrawal caused (or
at least heavily contributed to) the prolonged delay, which
in turn induced Graffenreid’s introspection, confusion,
anxiety, terror, and eventual suicide.
The situation that Graffenreid confronted was
certainly not pleasant, but by combat standards, it was
not particularly awesome in its power to arouse fear.
As the incoming Confederate shell roared through the air,
"a visible tremor ran along the lines of [even the battle-
seasoned] men; all were startled into motion" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 201). This is a perfectly normal
"startle" reaction in which the cerebral cortex is by
passed and therefore cannot exercise its normal function
of inhibiting signals and controlling the alerting
response. But Graffenreid did more than tremble; he
dodged and threw out his hands. Even the laughter among
the troops can be interpreted as the release of nervous
energy or free-floating anxiety which often accompanies
74
the immediate and brief relaxation that follows a stress
ful experience. All the same, it is not possible to
attribute Graffenreid’s failure to overcome his fear to
the inherent power of the experience itself.
Psychologically, it can be said that Graffenreid
had a very weak ego which was dominated by a very strong
superego. His reactions indicate that his failure can be
attributed to four principal factors: (1) his personal
isolation, (2) his inexperience and ignorance, (3) the
delay and its effect of increasing his anxiety and,
finally, (4) the fact that Graffenreid had an extremely low
threshold for tolerating anxiety.
The overall structure of the story and the way
in which Bierce manipulates time suggest that the pro
longed delay is of paramount significance to the meaning
of the tale. As in so many of his successful stories,
Bierce here takes an extremely brief episode, expands the
narration into several pages, and gives the impression of
compressing an eternity into an unbelievably brief story.
Time moves rapidly for the reader, but for the protagonist
it moves at a maddeningly slow pace.
Captain Anderton Graffenreid is only one of the
several suicides among Bierce’s military protagonists.
The others are Lieutenant Byring ("A Tough Tussle"),
Lieutenant Thurston ("George Thurston"), Parrol Hartroy
75
("A Story of a Conscience"), and presumably Private
Grayrock ("The Mocking-Bird"). For practical purposes,
we may also include Private Searing ("One of the Missing"),
who is frightened to death while trying to commit suicide,
and Lieutenant Brayle ("Killed at Resaca") and the unnamed
hero of "A Son of the Gods," both of whom willingly expose
themselves to certain death. Even Captain Armistead
("An Affair of Outposts") qualifies for Bierce's suicide
club because he joins the army in an attempt to find an
?
honorable death.
In view of the high suicide rate among Bierce's
soldiers, it should come as no surprise that Bierce con
doned suicide, under certain circumstances, in an essay
entitled "Taking Oneself Off."^
. . . suicide is always courageous. We call
it courage in a soldier merely to face death--
say to lead a forlorn hope--although he has a
chance of life. . . . But the suicide does
more than face death; he incures it, and with
certainty, not of glory, but of reproach. If
that is not courage we must reform our
vocabulary. (Bierce, Vol. XI, 1912, p. 341)
2
The stories discussed here appear in Ambrose
Bierce, In the Midst of Life, Vol. II of The Collected
Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale Publishing Co.,
1909: "A Story of a Conscience," pp. 165-77; "The Mocking-
Bird," pp. 218-29; "One of the Missing," pp. 71-92; "Killed
at Resaca," pp. 93-104; "A Son of the Gods," pp. 58-70;
"An Affair of Outposts," pp. 146-64.
7
Ambrose Bierce, Antepenultimata, Vol. XI of The
Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale
Publishing Co., I9TZ7; pp. 338-44.
76
What makes Graffenreid1s suicide somewhat singular
is the terrible irony that the menace which drove him to
kill himself was purely imaginary. And, of course, there
is the added ignominy of killing oneself in plain view of
an entire army. There is a certain ridiculousness in
Graffenreid's suicide that could have been easily and
understandably turned into a sardonic joke. It is a
tribute to Bierce's restraint and sensitivity that he
treats Graffenreid with compassion and sympathy. Ridicu
lous or not, Graffenreid is given the same understanding
that Bierce gave his "braver" heroes.
"One of the Missing"
Whereas "One Officer, One Man" systematically
examines the psychological degeneration of a man patently
ill-equipped to deal with the stress of battle, "One of
the Missing" accomplishes essentially the same task with
a man who seems ideally suited to resist such stress.
Private Jerome Searing, the protagonist of this tale, is
resourceful, experienced, self-reliant, and "insensible
to fear"(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 71-72), and yet he too
falls prey to overwhelming terror in the face of a purely
imaginary threat. Like Graffenreid, he too eventually
chooses to attempt suicide. Bierce clearly indicates in
this tale that every man's tolerance to fear--regardless
77
of his strengths--has an absolute limit, and once that
limit has been exceeded, man is destroyed from within.
There are two basic problems in "One of the
Missing" which impinge directly on Bierce’s concept of
fear and its effect on man. The first is the problem of
human isolation, and the second is the question of
determinism. Both of these problems must be adequately
investigated if the reader is to understand how it is pos
sible for an experienced and thoroughly competent combat
soldier to be frightened to death by an empty rifle.
Human isolation is a universal condition in Bierce's war
stories, and it reflects his fundamental belief that man is
all alone in the world, and cannot hope for others to
share the burden of fear. The problem regarding determin
ism is equally important in this tale, but it is much
more complicated than the issue of isolation. On the sur
face, "One of the Missing" can easily be read as a tale
of simple and unalloyed determinism. A closer reading of
the story, however, will reveal that the deterministic
aspect of the tale is heavily qualified, and that Private
Searing’s strong individualism and his natural curiosity
bring about his fall.
In this story, Searing sets off into a forest to
learn the position of the enemy. After discovering that
the enemy have withdrawn, Searing extends his
78
reconnaissance farther than he should and is trapped in
the debris caused by an artillery shell. Unable to extri
cate himself, he gradually falls prey to fear that he will
be killed by his own rifle. Terror eventually overcomes
him, and he dies of fright as he unsuccessfully tries to
commit suicide.
"One of the Missing," like several other Bierce
stories, is a tale of both initiation and termination.
Unlike the ordinary city-dweller who goes off into the
forest to confront his nemesis, Searing passes through
the forest and into the open to confront his initiating
experience. As is usual with most initiates, the pro
tagonist in "One of the Missing" is isolated. Even the
title of the story suggests singularity and isolation.
In the tale itself, Searing is always alone or at least
set-off from the others. The scouting journey into the
forest in search of knowledge of the enemy is, of course,
solitary. And at the end of the story, his isolation
is taken a step further, as his corpse is unrecognized by
his own brother, and he becomes just an unknown soldier,
another "one of the missing." Thus, Searing moves
ironically from marked individuality to utter anonymity
in less than half an hour. This is only one of the many
ironies of the tale.
79
We are told that Jerome Searing is a private in
the Federal Army, but he is no ordinary private: he
carries the peculiar classification of '’orderly,” a clas
sification that embraces "a multitude of duties. An
orderly may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer’s servant--
anything. He may perform services for which no provision
is made in orders and army regulations” (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 71). Because Searing is "an incomparable marks
man, young, hardy, intelligent and insensible to fear"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 71-72), and because he is known
for "his woodcraft, his sharp eyes, and truthful tongue"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 72), he is employed as a scout.
Indeed, Searing is admirably well qualified to perform
the duties of one who must work alone with a high degree
of self-reliance in menacing situations. He is a scout
par excellence.
From the very beginning of the tale, Searing is
set apart from the others. We first see him as he "turned
his back upon a small group of officers with whom he had
been talking in low tones, stepped across a light line of
earthworks, and disappeared in a forest" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 71). His isolation is emphasized by the fact
that "none of the men in line behind the works had said
a word to him, nor had he so much as nodded to them in
passing" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 71). The narrator
80
does not repeat one word of dialogue between Searing and
the others. Soon Searing arrives at the Federal picket
line, his solitary situation emphasized subtly by the
position of the Federal pickets "lying in groups of two
and four" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 72). Searing pauses
a moment to apprise the pickets of his mission, and then
departs. Still emphasizing Searing's isolation, the
narrator provides the reader with no dialogue between the
scout and the pickets. After Searing has moved on, one
of the pickets remarks ruefully, "That is the last of
him. I wish I had his rifle; those fellows will hurt some
of us with it" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 73). From
what we already know, that brief remark is both prophetic
and ironic. Throughout the early part of the story Searing
is depicted as socially isolated. Once he leaves the
Federal picket line, his isolation will increase until
he dies in utter personal isolation beneath a pile of
debris.
His forest journey proceeds smoothly as he creeps
stealthily forward into the ominous forest, "so solemn and
silent that only by an effort of the imagination could it
be conceived as populous with armed men. . . " (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 72). As we shall see, the forest was
indeed without real menace. It will not be until Searing
is buried in rubble that "by effort of the imagination"
81
he will conceive of his discharged rifle .to be a death-
dealing menace. Throughout the forest journey the reader
takes pleasure in Searing’s skill, as he adroitly advances
with confidence through the covering brush.
After some little time he cautiously raised his
head, inch by inch, then his body upon his hands,
spread out on each side of him, all the while
intently regarding the hillock of clay. In
another moment he was upon his feet, rifle in
hand, striding rapidly forward with little
attempt at concealment. He had rightly
interpreted the signs, whatever they were; the
enemy was gone. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 74)
The narrator suggests that throughout the brief
forest journey Searing is in his natural habitat. "The
danger made it exciting, but by no physical signs was the
excitement manifest. His pulse was as regular, his nerves
were as steady as if he were trying to trap a sparrow”
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 73). The unpopulated forest
is indeed Searing’s real home. It will not be until he
gets into the clearing around the abandoned plantation that
his fortune will suffer a reversal.
His downfall results principally from his igno
rance, his carelessness in unguarded moments, and his
excessive individualism. All three of these aspects,
especially the first two, are frequently found in typical
initiates, so it should come as no surprise to find them
in Searing.
82
First, there is his ignorance. Searing is in
search of knowledge, and although confident of his abili
ties to work alone and gather information, he is not
aware of the danger of his situation. This in itself is
not damning, for anyone in search of knowledge is by
definition "ignorant.” But Searing compounds this with
carelessness. To be sure, he is not careless while he
stealthily advances through the forest. As long as he
is in the woods, his actions are careful and faultless.
But as soon as he arrives in the clearing, he changes
from professional scout to amateur sight-seer. Although
it may be argued that Searing was doing his duty by
extending his reconnaissance mission beyond the forest
and across the abandoned planatation, it seems more likely
that he was taking unnecessary risks by exposing himself
and endangering his mission. As he advances into "the
more open forest" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 74) he can
no longer depend upon his natural sealth as an expert
woodsman, but must run "from cover to cover" (Bierce, Vol.
II, 1909, p. 74). Not satisfied that the Confederates
have completely withdrawn, he advances farther into the
open.
After a keen reconnaissance from the safe seclusion
of a clump of young pines Searing ran lightly
across a field and through an orchard to a small
structure which stood apart from the other farm
buildings, on a slight elevation. This he thought
________________________83
would enable him to overlook a large scope of
country in the direction that he supposed the
enemy to have taken in withdrawing. (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, pp. 74-75)
Even common sense would indicate that he would get a
better view of the countryside from the elevation, but
common sense would also indicate--especially to a profes
sional scout--that the elevation would silhouette him
against the skyline, or at least make his presence sub
stantially more visible. By this point in the story it
becomes clear that Searing's principal motivation is
natural curiosity, rather than professional regard for his
duty as a scout. This is perhaps the first, albeit minor,
hint that Searing's strong individualism makes him less
than a perfect soldier.
Searing's excessive individualism eventually
triggers his catastrophe. As already noted, his indi
viduality and isolation had been emphasized by his per
sonal characteristics, his position as scout, and the
nature of his mission. Now those factors will heavily
influence the central episode of "One of the Missing."
Earlier in the story the narrator pointed out that
Searing had gained all the information required of his
mission: he had discovered that the enemy had vacated
the forest. At that time it was his responsibility as a
soldier--especially as a scout--to report back immediately
______________ 84
to his officers. Later on, as Searing stood in the
clearing beyond the forest, observing the retreating
columns of Confederate troops, the narrator remarks that
"Searing had now learned all that he could hope to know.
It was his duty to return to his own command with all pos
sible speed and report his discovery" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 7 5). That is what a regular soldier would have
done, and that is what Searing would have done if he had
the normal instincts of a rank-and-file soldier. But he
is not just a rank-and-file soldier; he is a scout; he
is an individual; and he has the instincts of an indi
vidual at war, not with the enemy in general, but with
individual enemies.
Even if Searing's personality were not strongly
individualistic--and it is difficult to imagine an effec
tive scout without a strongly individualistic personality--
it should come as no surprise that he was tempted to pick
off one of the retreating Confederates. Scouting in any
sort of military service, whether it be on the land, sea,
or in the air, is a highly specialized operation, and it
requires more than individualism and the ability to work
alone. One of the most important requirements is that the
scout keep uppermost in mind the purpose of his mission:
to gather information. More often than not this forces
the scout to refrain from shooting at "targets of
__________ 85
opportunity" because such action will probably reveal his
presence. Like any other scout, Searing had in all
probability chafed under the restraint of not firing unless
fired upon. As he stands in the open ground of the aban
doned plantation, watching the distant Confederate army
withdrawing, he is probably thinking: "Finally--this
is my chance to get a shot off."
Quite simply, he is understandably tempted to pick
off one of the retreating Confederates before returning
to his lines with his valuable intelligence. The nar
rator remarks that the intended killing would not affect
the outcome or duration of the war, "but it is the busi
ness of a soldier to kill. It is also his habit if he is
a good soldier" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 76). Without
getting into an extended, and necessarily digressive, dis
cussion of Bierce’s complex and ambivalent attitudes toward
war, it must be stated that the narrator in these remarks
is both unreliable and ironic. In an essay entitled,
"The Nature of War"^ Bierce speaks through a persona (the
"Bald Campaigner") about the pragmatic prosecution of
warfare, and unequivocally dispells the popular notion
that killing is a primary purpose of war:
^Ambrose Bierce, "The Nature of War," in
The Opinionator , Vol. X of The Collected Works of Ambrose
Bierce (New York: Neale Publishing Co., 1911) , pp.
336-341
86
"War is made, not against the bodies of adult
males, but against the means of subsistence of
a people. The fighting is incident to the
devastation: we kill the soldiers because
they protect their material resources --get between
us and the fields that feed them. . . . We
cannot hope to kill a-great proportion of them
at best; the humane thing is to overcome them
by means of hunger and nakedness. The earlier
we can do so, the less effusion of blood. Leave
the enemy his resources and he will fight forever.
He will beget soldiers faster than you can
destroy them." (Bierce, Vol. X, 1911, pp. 339-40)
In that same essay, the "Bald Campaigner" continues his
speech:
"Do you cherish the delusion that in our great
civil war, for example, the South was subdued
by killing her able-bodied males who could bear
arms.h. . ? As long as our main purpose was
bloodshed we made little progress. . . .
Wisdom came of experience: we adopted the more
effective and more humane policy of devastation.
With Sherman desolating the country from
Atlanta to Goldsborough and Sheridan so wasting
the Shenandoah Valley that he boasted the impos
sibility of a crow passing over it without
carrying rations, the hopes of Confederate success
went up in smoke." (Bierce, Vol. X, 1911, pp.
340-41)
In view of Bierce’s plain logic, Searing's desire
to kill cannot be accepted as either practical or mili
tary, even though it is understandable. Indeed, as soon
as Searing cocks his rifle and sets the trigger, the
narrator remarks that "Private Searing was not to murder
anybody that bright summer morning [emphasis added]. V
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 76). Bierce emphasizes
87
Searing's anti-social savagery by implying Searing's
"hope of making a widow or an orphan or a childless
mother.--perhaps all three . . ." (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 78). He then adds immediately after these telling
words that "although he [Searing] had repeatedly refused
promotion, [he] was not without a certain kind of
ambition . . ." (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 78). This
sinister and provocative suggestion is abruptly inter
rupted by the "hoarse and horrible roar" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 78) of a Confederate artillery shell that buries
Searing in the trap. The reader is left to ponder just
why Searing had refused promotion and wonder what his
strange ambition was. Although the evidence is incomplete,
it suggests something chilling and perhaps anti-social in
Searing's personality.
Before moving on to a discussion of the rest of
the tale, it is appropriate to take up at this point a
very important passage that occurs, significantly enough ,
at the very moment that Searing is cocking his rifle and
the Confederate artillery shell is hurtling toward him.
But it was decreed from the beginning of time
that Private Searing was not to murder anybody
that bright summer morning, nor was the Confederate
retreat to be announced by him. For countless
ages events had been so matching themselves
together in that wondrous mosaic to some parts
of which, dimly discernible, we give the name of
history, that the acts which he had in will
would have marred the harmony of the pattern.
88
Some twenty-five years previously the Power
charged with the execution of the work accord
ing to the design had provided against that
mischance by causing the birth of a certain male
child in a little village at the foot of the
Carpathian Mountains, had carefully reared it,
supervised its education, directed its desires
into a military channel, and in due time made
it an officer of artillery. By the concurrence
of an infinite number of favoring influences
and their preponderance over an infinite number
of opposing ones, this officer of artillery had
been made to commit a breach of discipline and
flee from his native country to avoid punishment.
He had been directed to New Orleans [instead of
New York), where a recruiting officer awaited him
on the wharf. He was enlisted and promoted, and
things were so ordered that he now commanded a
Confederate battery some two miles along the
line from where Jerome Searing, the Federal
scout, stood cocking his rifle. Nothing had
been neglected--at every step in the progress
of both these men’s lives, and in the lives of
their contemporaries and ancestors, and in the
lives of the contemporaries of their ancestors,
the right thing had been done to bring about the
desired result. Had anything in all this vast
concatenation been overlooked Private
Searing might have fired on the retreating
Confederates that morning, and would perhaps have
missed. As it fell out, a Confederate captain
of artillery, having nothing better to do while
awaiting his turn to pull out and be off, amused
himself by sighting a field-piece obliquely to
his right at what he mistook for some Federal
officers on the crest of a hill, and discharged
it. The shot flew high of its mark. [Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, pp. 76-77)
Indeed, the shot flew just high enough to strike the
rickety building that Jerome Searing was using for
cover.
There are several ironies in this passage, some
more subtle than others. No one will miss the obvious
89
irony that the refugee artillery officer landed in New
Orleans rather than New York. Another irony is the
Confederate artillery officer’s motivation for firing.
Somewhat curiously, both Searing and the artillery
officer were bent on amusing themselves by taking
potentially fatal pot shots at men who posed no personal
or immediate threat to themselves. Also, the narrator
remarks that even ijE Searing had fired he very well might
have missed. Another irony is the possibility that the
somber and fatalistic tone of the entire passage is in
itself ironic.
The real question that the quoted passage poses
is, "Just how fated was Jerome Searing?" If the
"wondrous mosaic" is quite simply a series of inevitable
causes and necessary effects, then the world is a vast
clock-work, and its "history" may be predicted in advance
with clock-like regularity and precision. The usual
interpretation of this passage (and necessarily the
entire story itself) is that it is clearly deterministic.
In his analysis of Bierce's short stories,
Stuart Woodruff points out the similarities in fatalistic
attitude between "One of the Missing" and Thomas Hardy's
"The Convergence of the Twain." He notes that both
90
Bierce and Hardy have to rely on "coincidence'' to enforce
their particular vision.
Both story and poem, moreover, point up the futility
of any assertion of human will. But in a way
"coincidence" is a misleading term, for Hardy
and Bierce are careful to show at work an intricate
pattern of causal connection, unseen by those
involved but all too discernible to the detached
gaze of an omniscient author.5
Woodruff refers to The Devil's Dictionary for the Biercian
definition of accident: "an inevitable occurrence due to
the action of immutable natural laws" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 168). Woodruff concludes that "the mysterious con
nection [that] events have with each other becomes the
moral of the tale. And in Bierce, the plot becomes
the trap that snaps shut on the helpless protagonist"
(Woodruff, 1964, pp. 28-29).
Such an interpretation suggests an inevitable pre
determination of Searing's demise, and it is consistent
with the generally fatalistic tone of the passage quoted
from Bierce. The message is clear and simple: the great
"Power" entrusted with working out the "wondrous mosaic"
according to a predetermined design had from the beginning
decreed that Searing would be destroyed, in spite of any
^Stuart C. Woodruff, The Short Stories of Ambrose
Bierce: A Study in Polarity (Pittsburgh: University of
Pittsburgh Press, 1964), p. 28.
91
assertion of his will. Such an understanding is neat and
easy, but it poses problems not readily answered.
"One of the Missing" is a very complicated story,
and if we are to come up with a satisfactory interpreta
tion, it must be consistent with all the facts of the
story. Admittedly, the tale can be interpreted as a
completely fatalistic lesson in the capriciousness of fate
and the helplessness of man in the face of overwhelming
power. It would appear that a fatalistic interpretation
depends on the reliability of the narrator when he remarks
that Searing's inclination to kill was natural for a good
soldier. As militarily unsound and morally reprehensible
as that remark seems, if we accept it as reliable, then it
is possible to understand the tale as deterministic. But
this understanding requires the reader to disregard as
insignificant or dismiss as coincidental the following
facts: (1) Searing's personal isolation is emphasized
throughout the story, (2) the narrator refers to Searing's
intended act as "murder," (3) the narrator implies Searing
was not without unnamed ambitions, (4) the narrator sug
gests Searing desired to make a widow or an orphan or a
childless mother, and (5) Searing's fate is triggered at
the very instant that .he makes his first serious mistake.
There is another way of looking at this story, and
it is consistent with not only the fatalistic passage, but
92
with all other aspects of the tale. If we assume that
Searing does have substantial control over his fortune,
then everything in "One of the Missing" makes eminent
sense. Throughout the early part of the tale Searing
assures his own safety by his adroit passage through the
forest. As long as he acts consistently, he is safe, but
as soon as he makes a mistake, he sets in motion those
"immutable natural laws" that result in the "inevitable
occurrence" that is his accident. If we accept the pre
mise that Searing himself triggered the action of the
"immutable natural laws," then the central episode becomes
the key to explaining the significance of the story.
Of course, Searing is no more aware of the dire conse
quences of his act than was Oedipus. But by making Searing
responsible for his transgression (against both normal
human instinct and army regulation) he becomes a genuinely
tragic character who suffers at his own hand, rather
than a helpless creature who does not have a chance,
regardless of what he does.
A purely deterministic reading of this tale
requires that an inordinately large number of seemingly
important facts in the story be disregarded as insignifi
cant. It seems more reasonable to interpret the story
as one of qualified determinism in which the protagonist
unwittingly sets off a series of events which ultimately
93
brings about his doom. Such an interpretation is consist
ent with all the facts of the story, and requires the
protagonist to assume responsibility for his careless and
cruel action and share in the responsibility of his own
destruction.
Notwithstanding the complex deterministic elements
of this story, the real subject of "One of the Missing"
is death by fright, and Bierce’s principal interest is
the effect of fear on man, particularly on the combat
soldier.
Once Searing is buried in the debris, his journey
from calm self-possession to terror and death begins. His
first sensation is that of confusion and incoherence: he
believes that he is dead and buried. The debris on top of
him seems an immeasurable distance away. He feels trapped,
but remains amazingly calm, showing no anxiety whatever.
He takes his first rationalistic step by opening his eyes
"to reconnoitre, to note the strength of his enemy, to plan
his defense" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 80). Each step
along this journey will be characterized by a total
dependence on his rational faculties, an attempt to
repress all anxiety, and a gradual drifting from reality
toward an illusionary world. Although he feels that he
has been buried in the debris for some time, the dust of
the explosion has not yet settled, and the period of his
94
unconsciousness has lasted but for a few moments. Time
seems to pass very slowly because Searing is trapped in an
unfamiliar situation and he is virtually immobile.
After failing to remove the heavy timbers lying
across his chest, he calmly desists and "began to think
whether he could reach any of the debris piled upon his
legs" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 81). So far, he is in no
real danger of losing self-control, and he is acting in a
purely rationalistic manner. Searing soon realizes that
"a ring of shining metal immediately in front of his eyes"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 81) is the muzzle of his rifle.
He calmly determines the trajectory of the rifle by look
ing first with only one eye and then with only the other.
The rifle is aimed directly at his forehead.
The first feeling of anxiety affects him as he
recalls that he had cocked the rifle and set the hair-
trigger just before the artillery shell hit. He recalls
"with something like amusement" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 83) an incident in which he looked into the gaping
muzzle of an enemy cannon, having barely enough time to
step back out of the way before it fired. The narrator
remarks that it is not unusual for a seasoned veteran to
have viewed a weapon from this point of view, even "with
malevolent eyes blazing behind them" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909.
p. 83). Perhaps the sight of the menacing rifle is even
95
more sinister without the "malevolent” eyes behind it.
Searing begins to lose control of his anxiety: he "did
not altogether relish the situation, and turned away his
eyes" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 83).
As he tries to dislodge some of the debris with
his legs, it occurs to him that he might accidentally dis
charge the rifle. Again, his imagination starts to work
as he recalls a time when once in combat he had held a
loaded and cocked rifle by the end of the barrel to club
an enemy. He recalls that he had smiled at his "close
call," but he is not smiling now. His imagination is
actively at work, and what was originally a mildly
threatening situation has become truly menacing. By this
time he has mistakenly assumed that the rifle is in fact
loaded and cocked. As his anxiety and fear increase, he
becomes more confused. "He turned his eyes again to the
muzzle of the rifle and for a moment fancied that it had
moved: it seemed somewhat nearer" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 84). Searing is now hallucinating.
In an attempt to distract himself, Searing looks
away from the muzzle. He can see the tops of the trees
and the color of the sky; he notes the position of his
body relative to the sun; he thinks of his wife and
children. This attempt at distraction fails, so he tries
to reassure himself that he will soon be found by the
_____________96
advancing Federal troops. When he closes his eyes to
sleep, he becomes sensible to a dull, penetrating, and
increasingly uncomfortable ache in his head. When he
opens his eyes, the pain subsides, but he becomes further
confused. Already he is beginning to imagine the pain of
the bullet as it makes an imaginary and infinitesimally
slow passage through his head.
His mind shifts to memories of his idyllic child
hood, but those memories lead him to the "sombre forest"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 85). In a revery he stands
with "audible heart-throbs before the Dead Man's Cave"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 85). Half in revery and half
in consciousness, he observes a metal ring around the mouth
of the cave. Of course, by now his hallucination is merg
ing in his mind the cave opening and the muzzle of the
rifle, and the "audible heart-throbs" are real. The dream
vanishes, leaving him staring into the muzzle, but now it
seems "an inconceivable distance away, and all the more
sinister for that" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 86). He
cries out, and the unmistakable note of fear alarms him.
He is now experiencing increasing anxiety, but he again
resorts to his rationalistic defenses by denying the fear:
"If I don't sing out I may stay here till I die" ’ (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909 , p. 86) .
97
The muzzle is by now exercising a hypnotic effect
on Searing as he makes no further effort to divert his
eyes. Occasionally his eyes wander, but always "to return,
obedient to the /imperative fascination" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 86). When he tries to close them, the pain,
"the prophesy and menace of the bullet" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 86) force him to reopen them. The tension
becomes so great that he is occasionally relieved by
brief periods of unconsciousness. Feeling a sharp pain
in his hand and sensing a wet and slippery feeling, he
discovers that he has unconsciously beaten his hand into
the splintered debris. Pulling himself together, he
resolves to control the sympathetic signs of his anxiety
and "meet his fate more manly" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p.
87). Even so, he is unnerved by the fact that he could
not know when to expect the fatal shot.
He is momentarily distracted by some rats, but
his attention soon reverts to the muzzle, and from this
time on he will be incapable of unfixing his gaze. The
pain of the imaginary bullet making its way slowly through
his head has become insufferable, and he has pounded his
bleeding hand against the splintered wood. By this time
the tremendous anxiety that he had so effectively repres
sed is being liberated, and his ego is rapidly losing its
rational power.
98
The whole record of memory was effaced. The
world had passed away--not a vestige remained.
Here in this confusion of timbers and boards is
the sole universe. Here is immortality in time--
each pain an everlasting life. The throbs tick
off eternities.
Jerome Searing, the man of courage, the
formidable enemy, the strong, resolute warrior,
was as pale as a ghost. His jaw was fallen;
his eyes protruded; he trembled in every fibre;
a cold sweat bathed his entire body; he screamed
with fear. He was not insane--he was terrified.
(.Bierce, Vol. II, 1909 , p. 88)
These are the symptoms of severe anxiety at its extreme
limit.
Regaining enough composure to make a last attempt
to save himself, he slowly pulls at a board with his
partially free hand. Perhaps he can move the board so
that it will partially deflect the bullet. By now, the
menacing rifle has taken on human qualities, and *Searing
fears that it--the rifle--"might perhaps now hasten to
improve its waning opportunity" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 89). Some unseeable obstacle makes it impossible for
Searing to maneuver the board between the muzzle and his
forehead. His imagination now endows the muzzle with
vengeful qualities, as it "appeared to threaten a sharper
and more imminent' death in punishment of his rebellion"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 90). The fear and anxiety, the
trembling and anguish increase with his last defeat.
Suddenly he again becomes calm. Searing has what he con
siders "another plan of battle" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
99
p. 90), another "means of defense" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 90). Slowly he maneuvers the board past the trigger-
guard, and thrusts it with all of his remaining strength
against the trigger.
Of course there is no explosion because the rifle
had already discharged when the building fell. "But,"
the narrator adds, "it did its work" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 91). In an effort to escape the torturing menace
of the rifle muzzle, Searing frightened himself to death.
The irony here is not only in learning that the rifle was
not loaded, but also that Searing's tormented mind could
be brought to conceive of suicide as "a plan of battle"
and one last "defense" against his nemesis.
There is one additional irony that should be
noted. Bierce was fond of playing with the names of his
characters, and such names are occasionally significant
and even symbolic. "Searing" naturally suggests the act
of burning something, or of making something callous or
unfeeling. There is an even more appropriate meaning
associated with the protagonist's name: "sear" is a noun
referring to a pivoted piece that holds the hammer at
full cock or half cock in the firing mechanism of a small
arms weapon, and is released by a pull on the trigger, the
sear then releasing the firing pin to be driven into the
cartridge base by the spring.
100
"One of the Missing" unmistakably illustrates
Bierce's thesis that man is isolated, trapped, and ulti
mately destroyed, not by an external force, but by his own
inherent susceptibility to fear. This story also illu
strates Bierce's incisive understanding of the human animal
and the delicacy of its psychic apparatus. Searing's
real nemesis was neither the Confederates nor even his own
rifle; it was fear. His confusion, augmented by delay,
increased his anxiety until he began to substitute illu
sion for reality. Depending exclusively on his rational
faculties, he tried to repress his anxiety completely, and
in the process lost his grasp of the real world. When the
repressed anxiety was liberated at a single stroke, Searing
was completely overwhelmed and his ego was stripped of
virtually all its functions. Once terror had him in its
grip and his ego had been demolished, he could easily con
ceive of suicide as victory.
"A Tough Tussle"
The basic problem explored in "A Tough Tussle"
is similar to that of "One Officer, One Man" and "One of
the Missing" in the sense that this tale chronicles the
psychological disintegration of a soldier under the stress
of extreme anxiety, but there are essential differences as
well. Whereas Graffenreid's breakdown results primarily
101
from his extremely low threshold to anxiety, and Searing’s
collapse is due in large part to his excessively indi
vidualistic personality, Lieutenant Byring, the protagon
ist of "A Tough Tussle," suffers from neither of these
defects. Like Searing and Graffenreid, he is intensely
frightened by a menace which is not inherently fearsome.
And like Graffenreid and Searing, he eventually suffers an
ultimate psychological collapse as a result of an internal
conflict. BuSp Byring's situation is different in that the
catalyst that initiates his psychic disintegration is
phobic reaction.
His inner conflict consists of a terrible struggle
between two elements of his personality which are utterly
incompatible when he is in a phobic environment. The
narrator describes Byring as young, brave, efficient, and
almost boringly normal in all respects but one--he had
"a kind of reasonless antipathy" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910,
p. 108) for the dead.
The exhilaration of battle was agreeable to him,
but the sight of the dead, with their clay faces,
blank eyes and stiff bodies, which when not
unnaturally shrunken were unnaturally swollen,
had always intolerably affected him. He felt
toward them a kind of reasonless antipathy that
was something more than the physical and spiritual
repugnance common to us all. Doubtless this
feeling was due to his unusually acute sensi
bilities- -his keen sense of the beautiful,
which these hideous things outraged. Whatever
may have been the cause, he could not look upon
a dead body without a loathing which had in it
102
an element of resentment.' What; others have
respected as the dignity of death had to him
no existence --was altogether unthinkable. Death
was a thing to be hated. It was not picturesque,
it had no tender and solemn side--a dismal thing,
hideous in all its manifestations and sugges
tions. Lieutenant Byring was a braver man than
anybody knew, for nobody knew his horror of that
which he was ever ready to incur. (Bierce, Vol.
Ill, 1910, pp. 108-09)
It will be recalled that military phobias are character
ized by two qualities: (1) the phobic environment is
defined and circumscribed with unusual exactness, and
(2) the phobic environment is capable of generating in the
phobic victim a remarkably intense fear and anxiety,
while outside the defined environment the phobic victim
appears quite normal and rarely manifests any symptoms of
anxiety.
Byring’s "reasonless antipathy" for the dead seems
to be a clear manifestation of phobic reaction. As long
as he remains free from the disconcerting presence of the
dead, he is not bothered by anxiety and enjoys the
"exhilaration of battle." When inescapably confronted
with a corpse, however, he suffers increasing anxiety,
and as the tale indicates, is susceptible to complete
psychological collapse. "A Tough Tussle" carefully
details the process by which that psychological collapse
occurs, and the tale reiterates Bierce’s thesis that any
man, regardless of his individual strengths, can be
isolated, trapped, and destroyed by fear.
______________________ ro3
Bierce describes Byring's inner conflict as if
two opposing elements were struggling for control of the
protagonist's body. In psychoanalytic terms, Byring's
ego is desperately attempting to maintain control of
the psyche against the instinctive promptings for sur
vival by the id. Byring's ego "knows" that the Confederate
corpse is harmless and that he must remain at his mili
tary post, but the subconscious and nonrational id
identifies the corpse as a menace and insists that Byring
flee. The beleaguered ego is assisted in its conflict
with the id by the superego, with all of its ingrained
social, moral, and even military values. Just as
insistently as the id demands that Byring flee, the super
ego insists that he remain at his post. The ego, however,
is weakened in trying to mediate the conflicting demands
of the id and superego. The ego resorts to various
rational arguments to resolve this psychic dispute, but
eventually it is overcome by severe anxiety and becomes
impotent. No longer restrained by the ego, the aggres
sive component of the id takes control of Byring and
asserts itself as Byring savagely attacks the corpse.
As the tale opens, Lieutenant Brainerd Byring
sits alone in the heart of a dark forest, but his isola-
lation is qualified by the presence of several thousand
Federal and Confederate troops in the vicinity.. He is
104
in command of a line of Federal pickets who are stationed
several hundred yards in advance of his position. The
peculiar isolation suggested by this tale is emphasized
by the fact that the enemy's number and position are
unknown, and the pickets themselves are isolated from one
another by distances of fifteen to twenty paces. Byring
has stationed himself at the fork in a forest road, the
two branches of which extend forward into the obscure
forest in the direction of the enemy. The narrator
remarks that Byring was "something of a strategist"
(Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 107) in the disposition-.of his
pickets, adding perhaps facetiously that if Napoleon had
planned as well at Waterloo he would have won that battle.
Bierce adds, somewhat significantly, that Napoleon would
have been defeated later, suggesting that even rational
strategy is not invincible.
Byring is characterized as "brave and efficient,"
but "young and comparatively inexperienced." He had
enlisted as a private without the benefit of a military
education, but he had been rapidly promoted due to the
unlikely combination of his formal education, his "engag
ing manner," and the combat death of his captain. There
is nothing particularly exceptional about him; he had
"borne himself with such gallantry as not to attract the
attention of his superior officers" (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 108). Quite simply, he was an ordinary man who
105
found the army and the war useful means to advance
himself.
Byring enjoyed the excitement of battle, but as
indicated earlier, there was one aspect of the war that
he detested--the dead. He was deeply and adversely
affected by the incompatibility of battle and death,
which is an almost inevitable product of battle. This is
the first suggestion that "A Tough Tussle*' is concerned
with an internal conflict that will eventually destroy
the protagonist.
Throughout the tale Byring relies totally on his
rational faculties to repress his anxiety and to counter
act the effect of fear and anxiety, but his rationality
is not adequate to resist ’’the portentous conspiracy of
night and solitude and silence,.Illusory nature works
on his imagination until he breaks down. As he sits
at his solitary post, he watches and listens with an
intensity that makes him susceptible to the deceiving
moonlight that transforms the illusory forest into a
world of phantoms. The moonlight accentuates the dark
ness, and Byring's imagination finds it easy "to people
[the darkness] with all manner of unfamiliar shapes,
menacing, uncanny, or merely grotesque" (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 110).
Although "surrounded at a little distance by
armed and watchful friends, By.ring felt utterly alone.”
106
As his isolation increased, he moved further away from the
real, sensible world and further into a world that is
contemplative, speculative, and immaterial. "Yielding
himself to the solemn and mysterious spirit of the time
and place, he had forgotten the nature of his connection
with the visible and audible aspects and phases of the
night" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 111). This imaginative
wandering constitutes his first practical, rational, and
unsoldierly mistake, but it is a minor error compared to
the gross mistakes that he later makes. Byring continues
his meditative speculation as the forest becomes an
infinite "primeval mystery of darkness, without form and
void" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 111). Nature has
become so awesome ;that Byring is caught up in its sub
limity which removes him further from the material, sensi
ble world. Lost in his speculative cosmos, he is not
conscious of the passage of time.
Gradually, the moonlight brings changes to his
illusory world: "patches of white light . . . had under
gone changes of size, form and place" (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 111). The transforming power of the moonlight
reveals to Byring an object that he had not seen before.
Instinctively, he steps back into the real world--"again
he was in a world of war" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, pp. 111-12)
The unfamiliar object is gradually revealed to be the
107
corpse of a Confederate soldier, partially concealed by
the darkness. Byring shudders and turns from it "with a
feeling of sickness and disgust" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910,
p. 112). Although he thinks that he has successfully
repressed this irrational and therefore unacceptable
feeling, he is sufficiently disturbed to forget his normal
"military prudence" by stiking a match and lighting a
cigar. This is the first of several major transgressions
against his rational code.
Deceiving illusory nature takes advantage of
Byring’s mistake as "sudden darkness . . . followed the
extinction of the flame." Rather then being disturbed by
the temporary loss of his night vision, he is relieved
that "he could .no longer see the object of his aversion"
(Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 112). The comfort that Byring
takes in the temporary disappearance of the corpse clearly
indicates that his fear is not normal. If the corpse
did, in fact, represent an objective threat, it is dif
ficult to believe that Byring could take comfort in the
fact that the menace was still present but no longer
visible. The emotional satisfaction of his momentary
blindness is short-lived, for soon his eyes gradually
begin adapting to the darkness. Keeping his eyes fixed
on the corpse, he sees it with "growing distincthess."
Byring imagines that "it seemed to have moved a trifle
108
nearer" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 112). Clearly, his
imagination is now actively at work, and the phobic
nature of his aversion becomes more apparent.
The repressed anxiety makes him feel increasingly
uncomfortable. He is visibly disturbed, as he utters,
"’Damn the thing! What does it want?1" (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 112). In an effort to distract himself, Byring
again lays aside his rational "military prudence" and
begins humming a tune. Byring’s ego is by now caught
between and preyed upon by both his id and superego. The
id urges him to flee the source of his fear, while the
superego steadfastly insists that he remain at his post.
The weakened ego finds increasing difficulty in mediating
the conflicting demands of id and superego, and as a
result, begins to lose its rational power. Byring does
not become aware, even after the fact, that the striking
of the match and the humming are dangerous and irrational.
Not only is Byring annoyed by the corpse, but
he becomes conscious of a "vague, indefinable feeling
that was new to him. It was not fear, but rather a sense
of the supernatural--in which he did not at all believe"
(Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, pp. 112-13). It is not sur
prising that this "vague, indefinable feeling" would seem
new to anyone as rationalistic as Byring. As his id and
superego continue to compete for control of his psyche,
109
his ego attempts to maintain control by the simple denial
that "he did not at all believe" in the supernatural.
Byring next tries to reestablish rational control by
indulging in a long monologue in which he advances a con
sistently reasoned anthropological explanation for fear
of the dead. Fundamentally, he argues that man has
inherited from distant ancestors an unreasonable aversion
for the dead, either because it was "sedulously taught.by
their priesthood" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 113) or
perhaps because they did not bury the dead and were
thereby susceptible to pestilences caused by putrifying
flesh. Whatever the validity of Byring's interesting
theory, his monologue clearly reveals that he is ration
alizing as a defense against his fear. He compares
"reasonable conviction” with inherited "superstitions"
and he refers disparagingly to "some awful form of
religion” (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 113) and the
"chief doctrines, sedulously taught" by both ancient and
modern priests. Byring derives little comfort from his
philosophizing, for the net result of his effort is no
more than a momentary distraction from the corpse.
Nature continues its seditious campaign against
Byring, and when he next looks at the corpse, it is fully
luminated by the moonlight. Closely observing the body,
Byring is convinced that its whole posture has been
110
"studied with a view to the horrible" (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 114). He resorts to crass cynicism, uncon
sciously attributing human intention to the corpse:
"'Bah! . . . he was an actor--he knows how to be dead,'"
Nevertheless, he is even more disturbed by the
body, so he averts his eyes and continues his philosophical
monologue on the desirability of burial customs: Even- c
tually, he becomes so apprehensive that he decides to get
away from the corpse. Realizing that he has instructed
his troops where they could find him, and that his absence
from his post might be interpreted as fear of the dead, he
stares boldly at the corpse to prove his courage. This
is his undoing, for this rationalistic bluffing results in
Byring becoming fascinated by the body and virtually
hypnotized. He remains in this rigid position until he
becomes aware of a pain in his right hand. The pain
distracts him enough that he realizes that he had been
"leaning forward in a strained attitude” (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 116) and grasping the hilt of his sword so
tightly that the pressure has become painful. His teeth
are clenched, his breathing hard, and his muscles taut.
The superego and the id are now locked in a desperate
struggle for control. The ego makes one last effort to
maintain control by relaxing his muscles.
Then Byring makes his third major mistake: he
laughs aloud. The strained tone of the laughter is so
111
foreign that he doesnTt recognize his own laugh. The
ego has been completely defeated now, and the' id rapidly
takes full control. "He could no longer conceal from
himself the horrible fact of his cowardice; he was
thoroughly frightenedSM (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 116)
Fright quickly develops into terror: his legs refuse to
support him (very likely the result of neurotic conver
sion) , he trembles uncontrollably, he is soaked in cold
sweat. He hears behind him a "stealthy tread," but he is
now completely hypnotized by the corpse, and cannot turn
around. As the wind blows through the boughs of the
overhanging trees, "a strongly defined shadow passed
across the face of the dead, left it luminous, passed
back upon it and left it half obscured" (Bierce, Vol. Ill,
1910, p. 117). His ego has been stripped of its normal
functions and can no longer interpret simple natural
phenomena. The shifting shadow and light caused by the
wind in the trees convince him that "the horrible thing
was visibly moving!" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 117)
Byring is suddenly released from his trance by a
single shot from the picket line--"a lonelier and louder,
though more distant, shot than ever had been heard by
mortal earl . . . With a cry like that of some great
bird pouncing upon its prey he sprang forward, hot-
hearted for action!" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 118)
112
In the ensuing tumult, the Federal pickets fire and
retreat, and a squadron of Confederate cavalry thunders
by. The intruders are repulsed by the Federal reserves,
and in a short time they gallop back in full retreat.
The following morning a group of Federal soldiers,
accompanied by a captain and a surgeon, search the area
for dead and wounded. They find the body of a Federal
officer lying next to that of a Confederate private.
Although the Confederate has been hacked terribly, there
is no sign of bleeding. The dead officer is Byring,
his own sword thrust through his heart.
Bierce concludes the tale with a bit of gratui
tous horror and an inexplicably redundant last line:
’ ’ The surgeon looked at the captain. The captain looked
at the surgeon" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 120). Except
for those last two elements, which unhappily shift the
tone and focus of the tale at a most critical point, "A
Tough Tussle" is a superb study in the effect of fear and
anxiety on man. Like many of Bierce's other fear
stories, this tale places a flawed protagonist (a phobic
victim) in isolation, provides a situation which induces
introspection, confusion, and fear, and allows the pro
tagonist to create an illusionary world that causes his
own destruction. Although these several aspects are
common to many of Bierce's tales, their development
113
in "A Tough Tussle" is unusual. For example, all of
Bierce's soldier-protagonists are isolated, but Byring's
isolation is significantly different. Unlike Graffenreid
and Searing, Byring is not cut off socially from his
comrades. As he holds his position in the forest, he is
surrounded by "armed and watchful friends" (Bierce, Vol. Ill
1910, p. 111). His isolation is only temporary, for we
know that within a few hours we may expect that he will
be relieved of picket duty, be back in camp, probably
regaling his comrades with his "engaging manner" (Bierce,
Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 108). Naturally, there is nothing
particularly extraordinary about standing picket duty,
but even this physical aspect of his isolation is
developed to an unusual degree. Bierce makes effective
use of the "portentous conspiracy of the night and
solitude and silence in the heart of a great forest"
(Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 110), and Byring's physical
isolation is merely a means by which he is cast off alone
into an infinitely vast and empty cosmos. The forest
itself . becomes a symbol for .this cosmic isolation. "The
forest was boundless; men and the habitations of men did
not exist. The universe was one primeval mystery of
darkness, without form and void, himself the sole, dumb
questioner of its eternal secret" (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910,
p. 111). Certainly this cosmic isolation surpasses the
114
physical and social isolation suffered by protagonists
of other tales.
Another aspect common to much of Bierce’s fiction
that received unusual treatment in "A Tough Tussle” is
the illusory appearance of nature. Many writers have used
nature to reveal, to conceal, to teach, and to deceive,
but rarely does nature take such an active role in
affecting the mind of the protagonist and shaping his
imaginary world as it does in this tale. Ordinarily,
nature passively collaborates with a character who is
naturally inclined toward self-deception, but in "A
Tough Tussle” nature works actively to deceive a par
ticularly resistant protagonist of unusual sensory acuity.
For all of Byring’s youth and inexperience, his is a
rational and empirical universe. Because he is neither
superstitious nor credulous, he is no simple prey for
delusion.
It is rather appropriate that this super
rationalist is eventually overcome by one of nature's
most common tricks. As Hawthorne remarked in "The
Custom-House,"^ and as he so aptly demonstrated in "My
Kinsman, Major Mblineux," moonlight is the ideal medium
, -
Nathaniel Hawthorne, "The Custom-House,"
Introductory to The Scarlet Letter, Vol. I, Centenary
Edition, eds. William Charvat, et al. (Columbus Ohio:
Ohio State University Press, 1962), pp. 3-36.
115
for creating "a neutral territory, somewhere between the
real world and fairy-land, where the Actual and the
Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature
of the other" (Hawthorne, p. 36). In the moonlight,
"nothing is too small or too trifling to undergo this
change" (Hawthorne, p.' 35). Byring relies so heavily v
on sensory perception and rationality that he is not pre
pared to witness the transforming power of simple moon
light, and of course his phobic fear assures his disaster.
One might think that Byring's reliance on empirical obser
vation and rational demonstration would protect him from
illusion, but this is not true. He relies so heavily on
his sensory acuity and rationality that he is naively
incapable of distrusting his senses or his reason. Not
once in the narrative does he pull back and question the
validity of his perception. As a consequence, when his
eyes detect a movement of light and shade on the corpse,
he automatically interprets the datum to mean that the
corpse has moved.
As indicated earlier in this study, Bierce art
fully contrives situations which are suitably matched to
the protagonist' s.-strengths and weaknesses. Thus Bierce
introduces the skeptical and rationalistic Byring into the
deceptive atmosphere of moonlight. The effect of the
moonlight is, of course, gradual and insidious. First
116
it is merely mentioned as "dim moonlight” (Bierce, Vol.
Ill, 1910, p. 107). Soon, the moonlight becomes an
enormous, illusory sea:
From the vast, invisible ocean of moonlight over
head fell, here and there, a slender, broken
stream that seemed to plash against the inter
cepting branches and trickle to earth, forming
small white pools among the clumps of laurel.
But these leaks were few and served only to accen
tuate the blackness of his environment, which
his imagination found it easy to people with all
manner of unfamiliar shapes, menacing, uncanny,
or merely grotesque. (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910,
pp. 109-10)
Then, under the influence of Vthe portentous conspiracy
of night and solitude and silence . . . even the most
commonplace and familiar objects take on another
character” (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 110). As Byring
catches his first glimpse of the corpse, the narrator
remarks that "the infrequent patches of white light lying
amongst the tree-trunks had undergone changes of size,
form and place” (Bierce, Vol. Ill, 1910, p. 111). From
this point on, the moonlight will effect subtle changes in
the appearance of the corpse, until Byring is finally con
vinced that the dead body is moving. Such is the trans
forming power of moonlight in "A Tough Tussle."
Finally, the subtlety with which Bierce develops
the fundamental conflict in this tale is remarkable. The
narrative moves quickly, and any notion that Byring's
antagonist will be an ordinary enemy is soon dispelled.
117
His initial metaphysical speculations as "the sole, dumb
questioner" (Bierce, Vol. 111,1910, p. Ill).of the cosmos
correctly suggest that Byring's conflict will be internal.
After Byring’s discovery of the fear-provoking corpse,
however, the reader may be tempted to think that the con
flict will be between Byring and the corpse; perhaps this
will be a supernatural tale in which the protagonist grap
ples with a truly animated corpse. Bierce included "A
Tough Tussle" in later editions of Can Such Things Be?--
a collection of supernatural tales--and that would tend to
confirm the suspicion that the tale is a traditional
ghost story. Byring does eventually attack the corpse,
but the corpse is only a catalyst for his inner conflict,
not the true antagonist. The real conflict occurs in
Byring’s divided inner self, in which the ego tries but
fails to mediate the conflicting demands of the superego
and the rebellious id.
Like Bierce's other military protagonists, Byring
finds himself isolated in an inescapable trap that even
tually destroys him, first psychologically and then
physically. Even though he is endowed with remarkable
rational powers, he is defenseless against the seditious
power of fear.
118
’ ’Parker Adderson, Philosopher"
"Parker Adderson, Philosopher" is another of
Bierce's stories in which the protagonist suffers a
complete psychological breakdown in the face of over
whelming fear and anxiety, but it is different from most
of the other fear stories for three reasons. Unlike
Bierce's other military protagonists, Adderson exhibits
virtually no sign of neurotic anxiety up until the very
moment of his breakdown, and then experiences an almost
instantaneous collapse. He is, in fact, so disarmingly
casual during the early part of the tale that the reader
suspects that he is not "real," or at least his glib
answers to the questions of his interrogator, General
Clavering, are not natural. Clavering, too, suspects
that there is something artificially inhuman in Adderson's
detached attitude and facetious replies. The general
puts Adderson's stoicism to the test by ordering his
immediate execution, and this quick turn of events pre
cipitously brings the protagonist down. The second aspect
of this story that differs substantially from most of
the other military fear stories is that the thoughts of
the protagonist are not directly revealed by the nar
rator. As a consequence, the reader must rely exclusively
on dialogue and action in order to understand the char
acter and interpret the story. A third difference is
119
that Bierce suggests, through the character and actions
of General Clavering, an alternate kind of behavior that
is in sharp contrast to that of Adderson. Ordinarily,
Bierce implies that the behavior of his protagonists is
almost predetermined by man’s conditioning, and he does
not offer alternative action that could perhaps make the
catastrophe less than inevitable.
The tale is quite simple. • Adderson, a captured
Federal spy, maintains an unbelievably controlled
stoicism in the face of almost imminent death while being
interrogated by General Clavering. Finally exasperated by
Adderson’s flippant wit and facetiousness, Clavering
orders the immediate execution of the spy, whereupon
Adderson loses his composure, grabs a bowie knife, and
attacks the general. The tumult is quickly brought under
control, but not before the Confederate provost has been
killed and the general mortally wounded. Ten minutes
later, the heretofore cool and fatalistic Adderson dies
before a firing squad, "begging incoherently for his
life?' (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909 , p. 144). At the same
instant, the dying general--who earlier had expressed
horror at the thought of death--"opened his big blue eyes,
looked pleasantly upon those about him and said: ’How
silent it all is!’" And then, "his face suffused with a
smile of ineffable sweetness, he said, faintly: ’I
120
suppose this must be death,’ and so passed away" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 145).
According to Stuart Woodruff, this story "reveals
the painful inadequacy of man's rational faculties when
pitted against his primitive heritage" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 32). He adds that the significance of this tale "is
not the fact that its protagonist falls prey to atavistic
terror . . . but that the power of reason--that faculty of
seeing things exactly as they are which Bierce so often
insisted upon--can itself be an illusion. When this
happens, the irrational emotion becomes more 'real'
than the rational explanation,. . ." (Woodruff, 1964, p.
133). Woodruff's explanation is convincing, and it
strengthens his basic thesis that Bierce was inextricably
caught between several polarities. For the purposes of
this study, however, Parker Adderson's problem cannot be
reduced to a struggle of reason versus emotion or versus
inherited atavistic tendencies. The psychological com
plexities of the story require another explanation.
Adderson's breakdown may be at least partially
explained by contrasting it with the behavior of the
7
protagonist of Jean-Paul Sartre's story The Wall.
^Jean-Paul Sartre, The Wall, trans. Lloyd Alexander
(New York: New Directions"^ 1948) .
121
Whereas Bierce's story does not reveal the thoughts of
the condemned man on the eve of his execution, Sartre"s
story does precisely that in great detail. Another major
difference between the two stories is that Sartre '.s pro
tagonist , Pablo Ibbieta, maintains self-control up till
the very end, while Adderson loses all self-control and
is reduced to an incoherent, gibbering animal. Both men
are under the sentence of death, and both do their best
to maintain an outward calm before their executioners.
Adderson's method is to adopt a stoic attitude (in which
he apparently does not deeply believe) and systematically
to refuse to admit any anxiety at all. Quite plainly,
Adderson is using denial as a defense mechanism. Ibbieta,
on the other hand, readily admits his fright and clearly
reveals his anxiety and distress by trembling and exces
sive sweating. Sartre's protagonist knows very well what
his trembling and sweating mean, and although he despises
the Belgian physician who coolly observes and records his
physiological reactions, he nevertheless accepts his own
"nervousness" as natural and involuntary. He hopes only
that he will be strong enough to die "clean." Even though
one of Ibbieta's fellow-condemned cries like a baby and
the other involuntarily urinates in his pants, Ibbieta
does not allow these things to distract him from his
resolve to die "clean." Much of the difference in
122.
behavior between Adderson and Ibbieta can be explained by
the fact that they are simply different men with dif
ferent capabilities for resisting fear. Nevertheless, it
seems likely that Ibbieta's greater resistance is due
at least in part to the fact that he was not pretending to
be someone whom he was not, and also because he neither
denied the reality of his situation nor the physiological
symptoms of his fear and anxiety.
Although the reader is not allowed to read
Adderson's thoughts directly, there is ample evidence to
indicate that the spy was in fact experiencing tremendous
anxiety. He successfully represses that anxiety for a
time, but upon reaching the limit of his tolerance, he
suffers an instantaneous collapse caused by the liberated
anxiety and is stripped of virtually all of his ego func
tions. Anxiety has an adaptive value, and its presence
is not only desirable in a dangerous situation, but neces
sary. Men who are not capable of venting their anxiety
gradually are particularly susceptible to radical psychotic
collapse when the nervous strain exceeds the limit of their
endurance. The evidence in "Parker Adderson, Philosopher"
is perhaps not as complete as one would like it to be,
but what evidence there is suggests that Adderson's
collapse was due in large part to the explosive liberation
of repressed anxiety.
123
Even before Clavering orders Adderson’s immedi
ate execution, the latter already shows signs of neurotic
compromise. The nature of the compromise is such that he
can effectively control the mounting tension as long as he
feels that his death is not imminent and he can accurately
predict what will happen to him. He discusses the arrange
ments for his execution with a calm that one might expect
of one planning a garden party. As long as actual events
coincide with his meticulous plans, he feels that in some
mysterious way he is in control of the situation. The
compromise requires that he accept his death as a fait
accompli, and because that seems unavoidable, he
rationally accepts it as one of the conditions of the
compromise. He says to General Clavering:
’’ When I am hanged to-morrow morning it will be
quite the same; while conscious I shall be
living; when dead, unconscious. Nature appears
to have ordered the matter quite in my
interest--the way that I should have ordered
it myself." (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 138)
Then, as an afterthought --and perhaps as a revealing
slip--Adderson continues with a smile, "It is so simple
. . . that it seems hardly worth while to be hanged at
all."
All the time that he has been talking, Adderson
does not realize that the plan for the hanging at sunrise
is purely his own fantasy, and that Clavering has neither
124
confirmed nor commented on the arrangements. When the
general orders his immediate execution, the illusion of
Adderson’s predictive control vanishes, and with it his
last defense against catastrophic.'anxiety
If lit) is difficult to find a positive moral in the
prospect of the gibbering and incoherent Parker Adderson
kneeling before the Confederate firing squad, perhaps
Bierce does have something encouraging to say about the
human condition in General Clavering. Early in the tale,
and well before the general was aware that he was so
close to death, he stated: ’’Death is horrible!" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 139) and a short time later, "I should
not like to die . . . not to-night" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 140). And yet once he realizes that his end is near,
he is calm, dignified, serene, and ready. It is ironic
that Clavering should learn so quickly and practice that
which his teacher, the "philosopher," could not. Bierce
seems to suggest that the basic difference between
Clavering and Adderson is not that one man represents
reason and the other emotion, but that Clavering is a
more complete and natural man, capable of accepting
reality on its own terms.
Even though this tale differs in several important
respects from Bierce’s other fear stories, the fundamental
message remains the same: All men are ultimately isolated,
125
trapped, and destroyed. If General Clavering provides
us with a rare instance in Bierce's fiction in which man
does not fall prey to the destructive power of fear,
perhaps it is because the general could see that Adderson’s
method of denying reality was utterly ineffective in
countering the pressures of irrational fear.
"George Thurston"
Among Bierce's fear-haunted protagonists, George
Thurston is perhaps the most enigmatic. Whereas most of
Bierce's stories are self-contained in the sense that all
information needed for a satisfactory explanation of the
character is directly or indirectly stated within the
story, George Thurston's story requires considerably more
extrapolation than those of most of Bierce's protagonists.
There are several reasons for this. Even by Biercian
standards, this short history of "Three Incidents in the
Life of a Man" is exceedingly brief. Secondly, "George
Thurston" is similar to "Parker Adderson, Philosopher"
in that the narrator gives the reader minimal information
in regard to Thurston's thoughts. In the other military
fear stories, Bierce carefully chronicles the thought
processes of his protagonists, and the interpretative
problem for the reader is primarily to pay close attention
to what is said. In this story, however, the narrator
126
provides virtually no direct information about Thurston's
state of mind; we know nothing about his background,
and his thoughts remain unrevealed. The only data that
we have to work with in trying to understand Thurston is,
first, his seemingly inscrutable behavior, and second,
the few seemingly unrelated hints dropped by the
narrator.
The objective data concerning Thurston may be
summarized briefly. He is a first lieutenant and aide-de-
camp to Colonel Brough, who has taken temporary command
of the narrator's brigade. The addition of Thurston to
the Brigade staff was the only change in personnel attend
ant to the change of commanders. We also know that
Thurston was not warmly received by his new comrades, for
the narrator remarks, "We did not like him; he was
unsocial" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 209).
In the first incident, Thurston asks permission to
accompany the narrator on a typical, but dangerous,
mapp'lng mission. When the narrator insultingly asks what
Thurston's capacity will be on the mission, the latter
offers to go as an unarmed spectator. During the sub
sequent action, the narrator's armed escort deploys in
the woods and engages an entire regiment of Confederate
cavalry. Thurston, however, unaccountably remains
exposed in the middle of the road, "bolt upright in the
127
saddle, with folded arms" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 212).
When his horse is shot from beneath him, Thurston
disentangles himself from the dead animal, and quietly
stands with arms folded in the midst of the road which is
being swept with grapeshot and canister. He is still
standing, unmoved, and about to be "split like a mackerel"
by a charging Confederate horseman when he is miraculously
saved by a bullet that dumps the Confederate trooper at
his feet.
, . I n the second incident, Thurston is separated from
his comrades during an attack over rough terrain. He
eventually is found, horribly wounded, after the Federal
troops have overrun the last Confederate defense. One of
the captured Confederates explains that earlier in the
battle, Thurston--all alone--had casually walked up to an
entire company of Confederate riflemen, and when ordered
to surrender, he simply folded his arms across his chest
and replied, "I will not" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 213).
The incredulous Confederate adds, "If we had all fired
he would have been torn to shreds. Some of us didn't.
I didn’t, for one; nothing could have induced me"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 213-14).
Several months later, after Thurston has recovered
from that second near-fatal experience, he returns to
the brigade which is encamped in a grove of enormous trees.
128
The soldiers were amusing themselves^with a rope swing
that had been fastened to one of the highest branches of
one of the tall trees. ’’Plunging downward from a height
of fifty feet, along the arc of a circle with such a
radius, soaring to an equal altitude, pausing for one
breathless instant, then sweeping dizzily backward--no
one who has not tried it can conceive the terrors of
such sport to the novice” (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp.
214-15).
In the climactic scene, George Thurston takes the
swing, and ”in a few moments :he . . . was swinging higher
than the most experienced of us had dared” (Bierce, Vol.,;
II, 1909, p. 215). As everyone in the campground stands
transfixed, Thurston releases his grip on the swing as
it reaches its highest point. Propelled upward and out
ward by his initial momentum, he is briefly outlined
against the sky. His momentum exhausted, (‘ he plummets
toward the earth, striking the ground with "an
indescribable sound” (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 217). His
comrades find his grotesquely fractured and ruptured body,
the arms "folded tightly across the breast.”
Stuart Woodruff has good reason for seeing George
Thurston--the "man in the sky”- - as "a symbol of man's
pitiful existence in an alien world" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 37). Rarely does Bierce equal the dramatic effect
_____________ 12 9
achieved in the final scene of this tale, as the fear-
haunted and terribly isolated Thurston is ’’sharply out
lined against the blue” (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 216).
Indeed, George Thurston clearly illustrates Bierce's
pessimistic dictum that man must face the "inscrutably
destructive universe" all alone. Yet, "George Thurston"
does much more than provide substantiating evidence to
support Bierce's pessimism. The tale says something about
the nature of fear in the titular protagonist, and even
more about fear in the reaction of the topographical
officer-narrator.
Little can be said with any assurance about
George Thurston's inner conflict or his bizarre behavior.
One of his comrades, the quartermaster, explains that
Thurston's "stiffish attitude and folded arms" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 214) is his way of mastering a con
stitutional tendency to run away. In view of Thurston's
eventual suicide, his characteristic "stiffish attitude
and folded arms" are probably symptomatic of psychological
rigidity, a condition induced by severe anxiety which is
manifested in relatively inflexible postures. Even so,
there is not enough information to prove the quarter
master's allegation, and what evidence we have strongly
suggests that Thurston's extraordinary behavior was
neither courage nor simple cowardice.
130
According to Woodruff, George Thurston "knows
. . . [his cowardice] all along and tries to subdue it by
recklessly exposing himself to danger" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 36). He adds that Thurston had "long recognized his
fate as some inherent compulsion which makes life
unbearable" (Woodruff, 1964, p. 53). Woodruff is probably
right in the main in regard to Thurston’s personal reali
zation of his predicament, but the term "cowardice" seems
harsh if not inappropriate, and there is no evidence to
indicate how long Thurston knew his own fate, nor that
his fate was the result of "some inherent compulsion."
What seems relatively clear is that Thurston did in fact
feel that life was unbearable. In attempting to draw
some conclusion in regard to Thurston's fear, the reader
can do little more than guess that his suicidal behavior
is merely the concluding chapter of a long history of
severe anxiety and extreme depression. A definitive
analysis of his fear is simply not possible.
There is, however, another aspect of the tale that
has a significant bearing on the totality of the story,
and says much about fear and terror, even if it does not
reveal much about the psychological condition of Thurston
himself. That aspect is the peculiar information pro
vided by the narrator regarding his own duties as
topographical officer. Considering the brevity of the
131
tale, the relatively large portion of the story devoted
to the peculiarities of topography is somewhat puzzling
and suggests that such information is significant and
essential to a complete understanding of the story. The
\
prominence of the topographical information suggests that
in this tale Bierce had something in mind other than
another detailed study of psychological collapse in time
of war.
In the introductory paragraph of this tale, the
narrator first introduces Thurston rather briefly, and
then turns to an extended discuss ion.of topography. He
explains his duties as topographical officer and
emphasizes the great importance of gathering topographical
intelligence data. He explains that on most missions, the
topographical officer’s military escort normally engages
the attention of the enemy as a diversionary tactic so
that the topographical officer can make a brief survey of
the area.
It was a business in which the lives of men
counted as nothing against the chance of defining
a road or sketching a bridge. Whole squadrons
of cavalry escort had sometimes to be sent
thundering against a powerful infantry outpost
in order that the brief time between the charge
and the inevitable retreat might be utilized in
sounding a ford or determining the point of
intersection of two roads. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 210)
132
Although this passage provides interesting background
information and naturally leads into the narration of the
first of the "three incidents," it can hardly be justified
on that basis. It is much too long.
The second paragraph seems even more tangential
to the main thrust of the story:
In some of the dark corners of England and Wales
they have an immemorial custom of "beating the
bounds" of the parish. On a certain day of the
year the whole population turns out and travels
in procession from one landmark to another
on the boundary line. At the most important
points lads are soundly beaten with rods to make
them remember the place in after life. They
become authorities. Our frequent engagements with
Confederate outposts, patrols, and scouting par
ties had, incidentally, the same educating value;
they fixed in my memory a vivid and apparently
imperishable picture of the locality--a picture
serving instead of accurate field notes, which,
indeed, it was not always convenient to take,
with carbines cracking, sabers clashing, and
horses plunging all about. These spirited
encounters were observations entered in red.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 210-11)
Unless these seemingly digressive passages are an
aesthetic flaw, it would appear that this abundance of
topographical information is the first indication that
the topographical officer-narrator is at least as impor
tant as the titular protagonist. If "George Thurston" is
considered in its totality, it can be seen that all
elements are subordinated to the final scene, and that all
other elements exist only as an introduction for that
133
climactic scene. The first two incidents are narrated
effectively, but are not particularly notable for their
visual imagery or anything else. The principal function
of the topographical passages is to explain how observa
tions "in red" were fixed in the narrator's memory. As
the English and Welsh lads became "authorities" on the
boundaries of their parish, the narrator of "George
Thurston" became an "authority" on the horrors of combat.
His memory had recorded "a vivid and apparently imperish
able picture" of terrible battles in which violent death
was commonplace. Because of his experience, he is not
easily impressed by merely another violent death.
Tn preparation for the final scene of "George
Thurston," Bierce sets his stage in the quiet and
unthreatening atmosphere of an army rest camp. The
observer, who will report the scene, is a battle-hardened
veteran who is not easily impressed by violent death.
Then, as if to test the narrator's hardened and unimpres
sionable attitude, Bierce creates an almost incredibly
bizarre and spectacular death. So singularly memorable
is the vision of George Thurston "sharply outlined against
the blue" that the narrator is transfixed, amazed,
astonished, and ultimately appalled. Even after many
years, the narrator can "distinctly recall that image
of a man in the sky."
134
Thurston ) and the swing had parted--that is all
that can be known; both hands at once had released
the rope. The impetus of the light swing
exhausted, it was falling back; the man's momemtum
was carrying him, almost erect, upward and forward,
no longer in his arc, but with an outward curve.
It could have been but an instant, yet it seemed
an age. I cried out, or thought I cried out:
"My God! will he never stop going up?" He
passed close to the branch of a tree. I remember
a feeling of delight as I thought he would clutch
it and save himself. I speculated on the pos
sibility of it sustaining his weight. He passed
above it, and from my point of view was sharply
outlined against the blue. At this distance of
many years I can distinctly recall that image of
a man in the sky, its head erect, its feet close
together, its hands--I do not see its hands. All
at once, with astonishing suddenness and rapidity,
it turns clear over and pitches downward. There
is another cry from the crowd, which has rushed
instinctively forward. The man has become merely
a whirling object, mostly legs. Then there is an
indescribable sound--the sound of an impact that
shakes the earth, and these men, familiar with
death in its most awful aspects, turn sick.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 216-17)
Here is the Biercian magic at work again. As in so
many of his stories, Bierce flashes a startling image into
the reader's mind, holds the image almost interminably, and
then lets it fall with terrifying finality. As the
narrator remarks, "It could have been but an instant, yet
it seemed an age."
The principal lesson in fear is found not in
Thurston's terror and weird suicide, but rather in the
terrible impact that Thurston's death has on the nar
rator. Although "familiar with death in its most awful
aspects," the narrator and his comrades were in no way
135
prepared for Thurston’s spectacular flight. They "turn
sick," they "walk unsteadily" away from Thurston’s crushed
body, they "support themselves against the trunks of trees
or sit at the roots" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 217).
Death has taken an unfair advantage; he has
struck with an unfamiliar weapon; he has executed
a new and disquieting strategem. We did not
know that he had so ghastly resources, pos
sibilities of terror so dismal. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 217)
"George Thurston" reveals much about the nature of
fear and terror, but only indirectly through the titular
protagonist. This tale belongs to the narrator, and it
is in the narrator's reactions to Thurston's death that
Bierce cuts incisively into the problem of fear and man's
tolerance to terror.
This tale underscores what I take to be Bierce's
fundamental thesis that man is isolated, trapped, and
subject to overwhelming fear. Early in the story, Bierce
clearly establishes Thurston's peculiar isolation by
describing him as an outsider who was not well-liked by
his comrades. Ironically, it is his "stiffish attitude,"
presumably the result of his great fear, that alienates
him from his comrades. In this, Bierce implies the impos
sibility of communicating the emotion of fear. It is
something too personal, too private to be shared among
men. Even the stuttering quartermaster must simply guess
136
when he suggests that Thurston's "stiffish attitude and
folded arms" is his own way of controlling a tendency to
run away. The rigidly folded arms across the breast are
particularly appropriate and symbolic of Thurston’s
desperate attempt to hold himself together psychologically,
while at the same time his stiffishly crossed arms sepa
rate him from the other men who must suffer individually
the same fears that he himself experienced.
"Chickamauga"
The problem of human fear is central to the
meaning of "Chickamauga," but Bierce handles it here
differently than in his other military stories. Ordi
narily, Bierce places a mature man in - a threatening
environment, and then proceeds to observe and record the
man's reactions as they become increasingly neurotic.
Eventually the protagonist is overcome by fear and anxiety,
and he suffers a complete psychological collapse. In
"Chickamauga" fear is only one of the two major elements
that man must contend with; the other element is aggres
sion. The principal thesis of this tale is that man is
trapped by hereditary instincts of fear and aggression,
and that these two instincts inevitably destroy him.
Unlike most of the other military stories, "Chickamauga"
does not painstakingly record the increasingly serious
137
neurotic symptoms which constitute unmistakable roadsigns
along the path of psychological degeneration. It is true
that the unnamed child-protagonist of "Chickamauga" does
in fact experience a series of traumatic events which
ultimately lead to his belated recognition of the destruc
tion of his own world, but the tale does not imply that the
child's experiences and reactions occur in a psychologically
climactic order, culminating in his final psychological
collapse.
Bierce here creates an allegory in which the child
acts out his legacy of fear and aggression amidst a most
terrible environment. The insignificant destruction
resulting directly from the child's aggression is more
symbolic than actual, and the causes of his fear (up
until the last scene) are similarly so insignificant that
his fear, too, is largely symbolic. As a consequence,
when the child's world turns one hundred eighty degrees
at the end of the tale, he comes to a mental and emotional
recognition of the true state of affairs, rather than
suffering psychological collapse, as do the other
Biercian military protagonists.
Bierce uses a number of techniques to elaborate . .
his thesis in "Chickamauga." Probably the most important
is the ironic juxtaposition of illusion and reality.
Throughout the tale the action is described from both the
138
distorting point of view of the child, and the objective
point of view of the narrator. The scene of the wounded
soldiers is hideous in itself, but the child's distorted
perception of the scene transforms what is merely horrible
into something that is truly grotesque. The contrast of
illusion and reality begins in the first line of the tale
with "one sunny autumn afternoon” and continues right up to
the end. Only when the child recognizes the mangled body
of his mother does illusion disappear.
Bierce suggests the basic theme of "Chickamauga"
in the introductory paragraph:
. . . this child's spirit, in bodies of its ances
tors, had for thousands of years been trained to
memorable feats of discovery and conquest--
victories in battles whose critical moments were
centuries, whose victors’ camps were cities of
hewn stone. From the cradle of its race it had
conquered its way through two continents and
passing a great sea had penetrated a third, there
to be born to war and dominion as a heritage.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 46)
This, of course, suggests only one of the two qualities
that Bierce maintains to be the curse of man. Fear will
be added to aggression later in the tale.
The narrator continues with a highly naturalistic
description of the child's heritage by ^chronicling the
martial exploits of his father:
In his younger manhood the father had been a
soldier, had fought against naked savages and
followed the flag of his country into the capital
of a civilized race to the far South. In the
139
peaceful life of a planter the warrior-fire sur
vived; once kindled, it is never extinguished.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 46)
Indeed, the martial spirit of his ancestors had been passed
on to the child and nurtured by the military books and
pictures that belonged to his father.
The theme of fear is introduced more subtly than
that of aggression and conquest. As the child advances
into the forest with his wooden sword, he assumes "with
some exaggeration, the postures of aggression and defense
that he had been taught by the engraver's art" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 47). Offensive tactics dominate his
military operations until he has crossed the brook and
subdued his make-believe enemies. His infantile, but
nevertheless blood-thirsty, aggressiveness is manifested
as he "fell again upon the rear-guard of his imaginary
foe, putting all to the sword."
The child protagonist takes his first "defensive
posture" when he is confronted by a rab,bit.
With a startled cry the child turned and fled, he
knew not in what direction, calling with inarticu
late cries for his mother, weeping, stumbling,
his tender skin cruelly torn by brambles, his
little heart beating hard with terror--breathless,
blind with tears--lost in the forest!
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 48)
Stuart Woodruff observes that this rapid reversal in the
child's behavior may be "somewhat too heavily insisted
140
upon" (Woodruff, 1964, p. 40), but Bierce's insistence
here is no heavier than the earlier passages in which the
child falls with eclat upon his imaginary enemy. Perhaps
"his instinctive delight in the idea of power and aggres
sion" (Woodruff, 1964, p. 39) only seems more natural to
the reader than the seemingly exaggerated fear. Perhaps
our cultural values make it easier to accept the child's
exaggerated aggressiveness than his exaggerated fear.
The fact that Bierce ties his thesis to the qual
ities of aggression and fear is not coincidental. Modern
psychologists maintain that ordinarily man's initial
emotional reaction to threat is simultaneous fear and
aggression. In their study of combat - induced stress,
Grinker and Spiegel show the close relationship between
fear and aggression:
The emotional reaction aroused by a threat of
. . . a loss is at first an undifferentiated combi
nation of fear and anger, subjectively felt as
increased tension, alertness or awareness of
danger. The whole organism is keyed up for
trouble, a process whose physiological components
have been well studied. Fear and anger are still
undifferentiated, or at least mixed, as long as
it is not known what action can be taken in the
face of the threatened loss. If the loss can be
averted, or the threat dealt with in active ways
by being driven off or destroyed, aggressive
activity accompanied by anger is called
forth. . . . If . . . it is seen that the loss
cannot be averted . . . then anxiety develops.
(Grinker 6 Spiegel, 1945a, p. 122)
Bierce's exposition differs substantially from this
clinical explanation only in that he suggests that man's
141
aggressive nature can be activated even without the
stimulus of a threat. In any event, the child’s behavior
is consonant with the basic psychological tenet that man's
instinctive initial reaction to threat is an "undifferen
tiated combination of fear and anger." Bierce contends
that through these inherited characteristics, man carries
the cause of his own destruction. "Chickamauga” deline
ates just how those elements of fear and aggression destroy
man.
Bierce continues the theme of illusion versus
reality as the child cries himself to sleep and "the wood
birds sang merrily above his head; the squirrels, whisking
their bravery of tail, ran barking from tree to tree"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 48). The sound of battle is
introduced in a low key, almost as if not to disturb
nature or awaken the sleeping child: "somewhere far away
^ ^ ^ a s a strange, muffled thunder, as if the partridges were
drumming in celebration of nature's victory over the son
of her immemorial enslavers" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp.
48-49). In opposition to all this illusion, reality is
beginning to assert itself back at the plantation home of
the child, as "white men and black were hastily searching
the fields and hedges in alarm, a mother's heart was
breaking for her missing child" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 49).
142
Several hours later the child awakens, and the
narrative continues in a naturalistic vein, as the child
is ’’impelled to action" with "some blind instinct" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 49). He is frightened and repelled by
"a thin, ghostly mist" on the water of the creek. Turn
ing away from the creek, the child walks toward the forest.
In the following scene, which constitutes the heart of the
story and comprises about one-half of its length, the child
discovers an enormous band of horribly wounded soldiers
crawling in the direction of the stream. In one of the
most remarkable scenes from all of Bierce’s stories, the
child wanders among this grotesque parade, utterly
oblivious to its reality.
Bierce's description of the wounded soldiers
rivals the most graphic reports of battle wounds ever
written. Earlier in this analysis it was stated that one
of the distinguishing characteristics of "Chickamauga"
is that the tale is narrated from two points of view:
the highly subjective and distorted vantage point of the
child, and the objective point of view of the narrator.
One qualification must be made in regard to the "objec
tivity" of the narrator's point of view. He does not give
clinical descriptions of the wounded; his descriptions
are highly metaphorical, yet they are very realistic.
The principle technique used by Bierce in this description
is the grotesque.
14 3
Although the term "grotesque” refers loosely to
the treatment of the ugly, the misshapen, or whatever
deviates substantially from what is considered the
normal, the natural, or the beautiful, the word "grotesque"
has a much more precise meaning than that when used in
literary criticism. In literature, "grotesque" refers
to an aesthetic technique whereby the writer distorts,
displaces, and combines inherently incongruous elements
to create what Santayana so aptly describes as "the
O
suggestively monstrous." There are, of course, many
different theories of the grotesque, but most critics
agree on at least two points: (1) the grotesque consists
principally in the deformation of the natural ' ' V
or the ordinary, and (2) the effect of the grotesque on
the reader is intended to surprise, appail, and provoke
9
a startled response.
Perhaps the most comprehensive theory of the gro
tesque is that of Wolfgang Kayser, who maintains that . . . .
George Santayana, The Sense of Beauty: Being the
Outline of Aesthetic Theory (1896 rpt. New York: Dover
Publications, 1955) , p . 2 57 .
9
See Arthur Clayborough, The Grotesque in English
Literature (London: Oxford University Press, 1965) for
a concise history of the grotesque and an excellent
summary of major theories on the grotesque.
144
the grotesque is ''something ominous and sinister""^ and
does not reside in simple deformity or ugliness; rather
it exists within a larger context or as a vehicle of
meaning. Estrangement and alienation are central to
Kayser's theory. First, this alienation must be announced
by something that is "incomprehensible, inexplicable, and
impersonal" (Kayser, p. 185). Kayser goes no further
than to characterize the grotesque as "the objectification
of the 'It'" (Kayser, p. 185). Whatever the "It" may be,
it cannot be just another traditional demon. Kayser
describes the sensation experienced by the spectator when
confronted by the grotesque: a strangeness, the erosion
of the ground beneath the spectator's feet, the loss of
orientation. This moment of recognition occurs when
"the spectator becomes directly involved at some point
where a specific meaning is attached to the events"
(Kayser, p. 118). The meaning itself, of course, must
remain vague. One of the essential differences between
the effect of comic distortion and effect of the- grotesque
is that with the comic the reader remains detached,
secure, and relatively indifferent. The grotesque, on the
other hand, evokes a feeling of personal involvement,
apprehension, and fear.
10Wolfgang Kayser, The Grotesque: In Art and
Literature, trans. Ulrich Weisstein (Gloucester, Mass.:
Peter Smith, 1968), p. 21.
______ 145
Kayser defines the grotesque as the "estranged
world" (Kayser, p. 185). The grotesque suddenly trans
forms our familiar world into one in which we lose our
accustomed standards, our sense impressions become
unreliable, and the categories of being that we had always
thought to exist are demolished. This is closely related
to the original Roman grotesques, which were wall paint
ings that inexplicably combined plants, animals, and humans
into hybrid organic creatures, thus annihilating normal
categories. According to Kayser, the modern grotesque
engenders a "fear of life rather than fear of death"
Kayser, p. 18 5).
The grotesquery of "Chickamauga" resides, first
of all, in the description of the wounded, and more
importantly, in the incongruity that exists between the
terrifying reality on the one hand and the child's per
ception of that reality on the other. The wounded soldiers
are described in terms of animals: "some large animal--a
dog, a pig-- . . . perhaps it was a bear" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 49), they are like "horses" or "an unbroken
colt" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 52). One man's face
. . . lacked a lower jaw--from the upper teeth to
the throat was a great red gap fringed with
hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone.
The unnatural prominence of the nose, the
absence of the chin, the fierce eyes, gave this
man the appearance of a great bird of prey
crimsoned in throat and breast by the blood ^ ^
of its quarry. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 52)
146
These animalistic descriptions unmistakably imply that war
is the ultimate catalyst for provoking man’s self
destructive aggressiveness. Symbolically the man
resembling the "great bird of prey" is in fact crimsoned
with "the blood of its quarry," of himself.
The grotesque aspects of this scene are intensified
not only by the animal metaphors but also by the unnatural-
ness of the wounded and their movements: "something in
form or movement of this object [one of the wounded
soldiers]--something in the awkwardness of its approach"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 49-50), "its shambling,
awkward gait" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 50), "they
crept upon their hands and knees . . . they did nothing
naturally, and nothing alike, save only to advance foot
by foot in the same direction." "Some, pausing, made
strange gestures with their hands" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 51); "these were men, yet crept like babes."
"Their grotesque attitudes and movements" fascinate the
child. "Three or four who lay without motion appeared
to have no heads" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 55). Even
as a group, the wounded are described in grotesque,
category-defying metaphors: "The whole open space . . .
was alive with them" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 50), "the
very ground seemed in motion toward the creek" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 51), "like a swarm of great black
beetles" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 52).
___________ 147
These grotesque descriptions are in themselves
horrifying, but the very heart of "Chickamauga"'s
grotesquery resides in the child’s distorted vision of
the scene, his ignorance of the reality, and his almost
unbelievably inappropriate reaction. To him, the wounded
are strange, interesting animals. ”He moved among them
freely, going from one to another and peering into their
faces with childish curiosity” (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 51). Their blood-smeared, white faces remind him of a
painted clown, and their postures suggest to him his
father's slaves whom he had pretended were horses and upon
whose backs he had ridden. The childish game of "horsy-
back” is innocent in itself, but within the contekt of
"Chickamauga" it suggests the animal status of his father's
slaves. All the while that the child has been wandering
among the wounded, he is motivated by childish curiosity,
but he soon reverts to his aggressive penchant for con
quest. "He now approached one of the crawling figures from
behind' and with an agile movement mounted it astride"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 52). The reader may be so
appalled by the inappropriateness of this action, that he
may not see it as an almost archetypal act of man’s
desire for domination over nature and his fellow man. The
mangled soldier throws him off and aggressively waves his
clenched fist at the now frightened child.
148
As the day wanes, the forest landscape brightens
in a reversal of natural phenomenon caused by the fire
burning beyond the creek. Again, the child is led
"instinctively" in the direction of the conflagration, and
he soon finds himself leading the crawling army of wounded.
In another grotesque image, "he placed himself in the lead,
his wooden sword still in hand, and solemnly directed the
march, conforming his pace to theirs and occasionally
turning as if to see that his forces did not straggle"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 53). Somewhat unnecessarily,
Bierce adds, "Surely such a leader never before had such
a following." The grotesque incongruity of the child
leading the men, and the men crawling like babes, is
nearly complete. With one last grotesque gesture, "He
waved his cap for their encouragement and smilingly pointed
with his weapon . ..." (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 56).
Woodruff points out that "in a sense, what Bierce has done
in 'Chickamauga' is to subvert the Wordsworthian claim that
the child is father to the man by showing it true in a way
that turns hope to horror and despair" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 38). I would suggest that Bierce quite clearly indic-
cates that the warrior-child is in some perverse way the
spiritual father of the men as they proceed "in the direc
tion of the guiding light--a pillar of fire to this strange
exodus" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 56).
149
All that now remains is the final recognition by
the child that it is his world which is being destroyed.
"His little world swung half around; the points of the
compass were reversed. He recognized the blazing building
as his own home!,1 ’'(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 57) . ' As he
discovers the mangled body of his mother, reality asserts
itself over illusion, and, in one final grotesque act, the
child utters "a series of inarticulate and indescribable
cries--something between the chattering of an ape and the
gobbling of a turkey--a startling, soulless, unholy sound,
the language of a devil."^
"Chickamauga" is distinguished from Bierce's other
war stories for several reasons. With the possible
exception of "The Coup de GrSce," this tale is Bierce's!
most violent denunciation of war and debunking of roman
tic ideas about combat. More than any other story,
"Chickamauga" underscores the message that man--even in
his infancy--suffers from a hereditary susceptibility to
fear and aggression. The child-protagonist. of this tale
is isolated, as are all of Bierce's military protagonists,
but his isolation is singularly poignant. Although he is
surrounded by the wounded soldiers, he is utterly sepa
rated from them in his inability to understand the horror
of their suffering. Even more, he is incapable of under
standing --until the final scene--that the fate of those
dying men is also his fate.
150
"An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”
This tale is a superb study of man's capacity to
deny a dreaded reality and to substitute in its place a
desired illusion. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" is
not a step-by-step analysis of the varying stages of fear,
anxiety, and terror, as are most of Bierce's other mili
tary fear stories. In this tale the reader can assume
that the condemned protagonist has already experienced the
various reactions of fear before the tale even begins.
Here Bierce is no longer interested in describing the
protagonist's gradual psychological decline, his initial
state of mind, his first uneasy feeling of anxiety, and
the subsequent mental and emotional states that he suffers
through. Although we as readers may assume from Peyton
Farquhar's outward calm as he stands on the bridge that
he has fared better than other Biercian protagonists in
the struggle with fear, we will never learn just what his
antecedent reactions were. We need not concern ourselves
with those details, for in this tale Bierce has by-passed
everything in the personal history of Farquhar to concen
trate on the climactic moment that immediately precedes
oblivion. He has taken that moment, whose duration cannot
exceed a few seconds, and in typical Biercian fashion has
expanded it to the limit of its elasticity. This tale
attempts to answer the question, "What happens in the
151
mind of man as he faces imminent death?"
"An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" is justifiably
acknowledged as Bierce’s greatest work, and the reasons
for this acknowledgement are not hard to find. First,
Bierce has achieved the flawless concentration that is so
essential to the short story. Secondly, he is in full
command of tone, which occasionally gets out of hand in
some of his other tales. Finally, and perhaps most
importantly, he achieves a universality in Peyton Farquhar
that he failed to accomplish in his other stories. His
other military fiction depends heavily on the fact that he
was dealing with war, and several of his tales, such as
"A Horseman in the Sky," "The Affair at Coulter's Notch,"
and "The Mocking-Bird," derive much of their meaning and
emotional impact from the fact that they were set in Civil
War combat circumstances. This is not so in "An
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." Although we recognize
Peyton Farquhar as a civilian playing soldier in the Civil
War, these facts are accidental to the story, and they
impinge only slightly on the nature of the experience.
The central issue of this story is, as it often
is in Bierce's fiction, the denial of reality and the
substitution of illusion for that reality. What makes
this tale a particularly effective portrayal of that
common theme is that Bierce successfully induces the
152
reader to go along with the protagonist’s denial and feel
almost as strongly as the protagonist feels that his fantasy
escape is real.
One reason that Bierce successfully deceives the
reader is that he makes the illusion more attractive than
the reality. We don't want to see Peyton Farquhar'hanged.
Bierce makes the protagonist a very attractive man:
The man who was engaged in being hanged was
apparently about thirty-five years of age.
He was a civilian, if one might judge from
his habit, which was that of a planter. His
features were good--a straight nose, firm
mouth, broad forehead, from which his long,
dark hair was combed straight back, falling
behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting
frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed
beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and
dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one
would hardly have expected in one whose neck was
in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar
assassin. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 29)
: Moreover, we are not immediately aware of the
" ".5
nature of his crime. This ignorance makes it easy for the
reader to give the condemned protagonist the benefit of
the doubt. That is, we are not yet convinced that he
should be hanged. Even after learning that his crime was
the attempted sabotage of an enemy bridge, and that he
was working alone against substantial odds, all but those
of the strongest Yankee sentiments hope that Farquhar will
escape. Bierce thus plants firmly in the reader’s heart
the desire for an impossible escape, and the reader will
153
go to considerable length in suspending his disbelief in
order to believe that Farquhar will escape.
More important than making the illusion desirable,
Bierce seduces both Peyton Farquhar and the reader into
substituting illusion for reality by making the illusion
more ’’real" than the reality. Of course, it only seems
to be more real, but that is the point of the tale. This
may be seen rather clearly in the images that Bierce
uses to describefirst, the actual situation and, second,
the imaginary situation.
The first of the three sections which constitute
this tale sets the scene and initiates the action. The
action itself consists of only the following:
. . . the two private soldiers stepped aside
and each drew away the plank upon which he had
been standing. The sergeant turned to the
captain, saluted and placed himself immediately
behind that officer, who,- in turn, moved apart
one pace. (Bierce, Vol.^11, 1909, pp. 29-30)
. . . the captain nodded to the sergeant. The
sergeant stepped aside. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 32)
Except for these mechanical movements by the Federal
soldiers, the ticking of Farquhar*s watch, his mental
activity, and the swirling water in the creek, nothing
else occurs. Indeed, the reality of this ’'occurrence'*
is sparse.
Bierce underlines the austerity of the reality
by describing the scene in terms which suggest that it
154
is more like a bad dream than real life. Everything
except the creek is described in terms of fixity and
immobility: Farquhar's rigid position, the mechanical
solidity of the apparatus for execution, the stationary
sentinels at either end of the bridge who stand in "a
formal and unnatural position" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
pp. 27-28). The stiff and static scene is further empha
sized by the presence of "a stockade of vertical tree
trunks" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 28) and a stolid group
of spectators--”a single company of infantry in line."
Excepting the group of four at the centre of the
bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the
bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The
sentinels . . . might have been statues to adorn
the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms,
silent, observing the work of his subordinates,
but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who
when he comes announced is to be received with
formal manifestations of respect, even by those
most familiar with him. In the code of military
etiquette silence and fixity are forms of
deference. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 28-29)
The "silence and fixity" of this remarkable tableau sug
gests something that is not quite real, i.e., not natural,
but artificial. It is as if the world had been abandoned
by vitality and was itself already in a state of rigor
mortis.
The first section of the tale ends as the sergeant
steps off the plank, leaving Farquhar suspended in air,
and Farquhar remains suspended there throughout the
155
remainder of the tale. The second section of the tale
(which constitutes only about one-eighth of the tale's
length) explains the circumstances by which Farquhar
involved himself in the precarious business that resulted
in his present predicament. More importantly, this brief
section gives the reader valuable insight into the pro
tagonist's personality and prepares for the action, of the
final section. Farquhar, the reader is told, is a wealthy
planter, a gentleman from a respected family, a slave
owner, and "ardently devoted to the Southern cause"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 32). For some unexplained but
presumably acceptable reason, he had remained a civilian
rather than joining the Confederate army. Then, in a
passage fraught with equivocation, the narrator adds:
. . . he chafed under the inglorious restraint,
longing for the release of his energies, the
larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for
distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would
come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile
he did what he could. No service was too humble
for him to perform in aid of the South, no
adventure too perilous for him to undertake if
consistent with the character of a civilian who
was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and
without too much qualification assented to at
least a part of the frankly villainous dictum
that all is; fair in love and war. (Bierce, Vol.
II, 1909, pp. 32-33)
This passage suggests Farquhar's ambivalence at almost
every point. His unrealistically romantic conception
of war is apparent in the fact that he believes "the
156
opportunity for distinction” inevitably comes to everyone
in war. In perhaps the vaguest statement of all, the
narrator remarks that Farquhar "did what he could." The
planter is equally unrealistic and vague in his belief
that he was capable of performing acts both "humble” and
"perilous" for the cause. The reader has good cause to
wonder if it is possible for a civilian to be a soldier
"at heart" who "assents" in "good faith" "without too much
qualification" to "at least a part" of the "frankly
villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war."
Indeed, this passage suggests that Peyton Farquhar is not
at all sure whether he is a soldier, a civilian, a patriot,
a guerrilla, or a part-time partisan. Whatever role he
thinks he is playing, it is apparent that he is the sort
of man who is capable of creating a set of circumstances
that is consistent with his desires, even though those
circumstances do not match reality. In short, he is a
man susceptible to self-delusion.
Immediately after the foregoing passage, Bierce
narrates the scene in which Farquhar first implicated
himself in this deadly business. In this scene it becomes
further apparent that the planter is easily deceived. A
Federal scout, disguised as a gray-clad Confederate
soldier, rides into Farquhar’s plantation on the pretext
of needing water. While Farquhar's wife is getting
____________ 157
refreshment for the soldier, the planter "inquired eagerly
for news from the front" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 33).
The soldier obligingly tells him that the Yanks have
repaired the railroads, and that they will soon start
another offensive. He is able to give Farquhar sur
prisingly detailed information about the disposition of
the Federal defense of Owl Creek Bridge, but he also
emphasizes that the.commandant has issued orders for the
execution of any civilian caught tampering with the rail
roads or bridges. Farquhar insists on more information,
and practically asks the soldier to confirm his presumption
that a clever and dedicated civilian could penetrate the
Yankee defenses and burn the bridge. As the conversation
progresses, it becomes apparent that the soldier is
gradually leading Farquhar into an attempt on the bridge;
it becomes equally clear that Farquhar is susceptible to
even the most subtle suggestion and is more than willingly
led into the trap. The planter keeps asking questions,
and the soldier finally says what Farquhar wants to hear.
Thus, the protagonistTs penchant for self-delusion is
established, preparing the way for the ultimate illusion
of the concluding section. It is not until the very end
of Section II that the reader learns that the gray-clad
horseman was.a Federal scout in disguise.
158
The third and final section of the tale begins
with the statement, "As Peyton Farquhar fell straight
downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and
was as one already dead" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 34).
Several pages later the tale concludes with, "Peyton
Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung
gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl
Creek Bridge" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 45). These two
statements are the only two in the entire concluding
section which conform to the reality outside of Farquhar*s
mind. All the rest of Section III is illusion.
Stuart Woodruff is correct in his analysis of
Farquhar*s illusionary experience:
What Farquhar plunges into is the depths of his
own subconscious. His thoughts of escape are
not rational plans; they originate in the instinct
for self-preservation, but represent as well all
instinctive desire, all imaginary dreams that
allow man to control his destiny and achieve his
his goals. (Woodruff, 1964, p. 155)
There are subtle clues planted throughout the
final section which suggest that the illusionary escape
is in fact a product of Farquhar*s subconscious instinct
for self-preservation. As Farquhar takes the first step
in his imaginary escape, he feels "the pain of a sharp
pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suf
focation" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 34). His entire body
is racked with pain, and there is a congested fullness in
______ 159
his head. The narrator states that the protagonist had
by now lost the power of reasoning, and that he could
merely feel:
These sensations were unaccompanied by thought.
The intellectual part of his nature was already
effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling
was torment. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 35)
Bierce’s description suggests that the illusionary
escape, including the pain, is the product of Farquhar's
subconscious imagination. Based upon what we learn later
in the tale (that is, Farquhar at this point had not yet
reached the end of his fall), we can draw at least some
tentative conclusions about his psychological condition,
even though the psychological aspects of his pain are
not the essential issue of the tale. His ego had been
effectively stripped of its reasoning power ("the intel
lectual part of his nature was already effaced”).
Secondly, even though the pain that he suffers is "real"
in the sense that he does in fact subjectively feel it,
we know that the pain is not caused by a physical force,
or an external stimulus, because at this time he is
falling freely, or effectively suspended in air. Perhaps
the only thing that may be even tentatively surmised is
that Farquhar is suffering something analagous to psycho
somatic reaction, in which the subjectively felt pain is
the result of extreme anxiety or some other psychological
cause.
160
Whatever psychological term we may use to describe
Farquhar’s condition, there is no question that his
actions to free himself occur, not in the external world,
but only in his fantasy. The fantasy nature of the
entire escape is suggested several times throughout the
story:
He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp
pain in his wrist apprised him that he was
trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle
his attention, as an idler might observe the
feat of a juggler, without interest in the out
come . . . his arms parted and floated upward,
the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing
light. He watched them with a new interest as
first one and then the other pounced upon the
noose at his neck. . . . "Put it back, put it
back!" he thought he shouted these words to
his hands, . . . but his disobedient hands gave no
heed to the command. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp.
36-37)
Everything in this passage suggests that the physical move
ment of his hands is utterly without conscious volition.
Farquhar is little more than a passive observer of the
action, and the physical motions of escape are merely
images flashed into his mind. As the narrator remarks at
the end of the first section, "... these thoughts, which
have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the
doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it. . . ."
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 32).
Earlier it was remarked that both the protagonist
and the reader are induced to subtstitute illusion for
161
reality, at least in part, because the reality seems so
unreal. The converse of this is also true: the illusion
created in Farquhar's fantasy is almost too specific and
precise to be true. Much of the hyper-intensive imagery
of the illusion is attractive, but it is also suspicious.
The narrator explains that this unusual phenomenon is a
result of Farquhar’s hyperacuity:
He was now in full possession of his physical
senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen
and alert. Something in the awful disturbance
of his organic system had so exalted and refined
them that they made record of things never before
perceived. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 37)
To be sure, Farquhar is more than in full control of his
physical senses', and he "perceives" in his fantasy more
than his sensory organs were ever capable of receiving
from nature or transmitting to his brain:
He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their
separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the
forest on the bank of the stream, saw the indi
vidual trees, the leaves and the veining of each
leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts,
the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders
stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted
the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon
a million blades of grass. The humming of the
gnats that danced above the eddies of the
stream, the beating of the dragon-flies' wings,
the strokes of the water-spiders1 legs, like
oars which had lifted their boat--all these made
audible music. A fish slid along beneath his
eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting
the water. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 37-38)
162
To borrow an analogy from photography, Farquhar's
illusionary world is like photographic film in which the
grain is too fine, the contrast is too sharp, the blue is
too blue, the red too red, and the yellow too yellow.
intense than those of reality, but the action is similarly
much more animated than the marionette-like movements of
the soldiers in the opening scene.
They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at
him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did
not fire; the others were unarmed. Their move
ments were grotesque and horrible, their forms
gigantic.
Suddenly he heard a sharp report and some
thing struck the water smartly within a few inches
of his head, spattering his face with spray. He
heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels
with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of
blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in
the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge
gazing into his own through the sights of the
rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye and
remembered having read that gray eyes were
keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them.
Nevertheless, this one had missed. (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, pp. 38-39)
The action continues in this same vivid and ani
mated vein, as the lieutenant commands the assembled
company of riflemen:
Farquhar dived--dived as deeply as he
could. The water roared in his ears like the
voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder
Not only are the images of his illusion more
"Attention, company! .
Ready! . . . Aim!.....
Shoulder arms! .
Fire!"
163
of the volley and, rising again toward the sur
face, met shining bits of metal, singularly
flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some
of them touched him on the face and hands, then
fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged
between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably
warm and he snatched it out. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, pp. 39-40)
There is little cause for wonder that both Farquhar and
the reader find this vivid and dynamic illusion so much
more convincing than the dull and static reality depicted
in the first section of the tale.
Eventually Farquhar plunges into the forest. As
he does, Bierce begins to hint more openly that this
journey is not merely one of physical escape. The land
scape loses its infinitely detailed appearance, and takes
on the form of a surrealistic painting. At first the hints
are subtle, but they suggest with increasing insistency
that the forest into which Farquhar has plunged is in
reality the wild, unexplored recesses of his subconscious
mind.
All that day he traveled, laying his course by
the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable;
nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a
woodman’s road. He had not known that he lived
in so wild a region. There was something uncanny
in the revelation. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 43)
Immediately following this passage, Farquhar is found
wandering through a nightmarish landscape on a wide and
straight but untraveled road. Nowhere is there any
164
evidence of any human habitation. "The black bodies of
the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, termi
nating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a
lesson in perspective" (Bierce, Vol. XI, 1909, p. 43).
His journey through his subconscious mind is like a
geometric pattern with no possible escape. The stars
shine from above in "strange constellations" and he is
*
certain that they have "a secret and malign significance."
As he approaches the end of his illusionary journey, he
begins to feel the real effect of the rope tightening
around his neck. "His eyes felt congested; he could no
longer close them" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 44). The
pressure of the noose is now distending the eyes and dis
placing them from their sockets. His tongue is similarly
displaced by the increasing pressure: "His tongue was
swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting
it forward from between his teeth. . . ." Then the
imaginary ground gives way, and "he could no longer feel
the roadway beneath his feet!" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 44 ).
Finally, Farquhar's illusion is destroyed as he
"feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blind
ing white light blazes all about him with a sound like the
shock of a cannon--then all is darkness and silence!"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 45). The illusion for the
reader may endure a moment longer, but it is soon shattered,
165
as a cruel, disappointing reality asserts itself:
"Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck,
swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the
Owl Creek Bridge" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 45).
Unlike most of Bierce’s other war stories, "An
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" does not chronicle the
step-by-step deterioration of the protagonist’s mind as
he moves closer to death. In this tale Bierce by-passes
the initial stages of anxiety, fear, and terror to con
centrate on the thoughts of the victim as he faces
oblivion. As Peyton Farquhar stands helplessly isolated
and trapped on the plank with the noose about his neck,
he is "beyond" panic. More than any other story in the
collection, this tale insists that man's susceptibility
to fear can lead him to denial and delusion. Furthermore,
Bierce so thoroughly understands Farquhar’s condition and
describes it with such sympathy that the reader invariably
identifies with the protagonist, shares his anguish, and
actively collaborates in his imaginary escape. In this
tale Bierce has transformed Pope’s optimistic dictum
"hope springs eternal in the human breast" into a per
verse and mocking absurdity.
166
CHAPTER IV
BIERCE'S DILEMMA STORIES
Most of Bierce's fiction, both military and civil
ian, deals with the problem of fear, but almost half of
his war stories are concerned primarily with the psycho
logical conflicts arising out of dilemma. Fear and dilemma
are closely related, of course, for they both involve
inner conflicts resulting from frustration. Fear is
basically an inner conflict resulting from an unavoidable
confrontation with an imagined or actual threat. Dilemma,
which results from frustration, is an inner conflict
arising out of a situation requiring a choice between
equally undesirable alternatives. Frustration has two
different meanings in psychology. External frustration
is "the blocking of motive satisfaction by an obstacle,"
while internal frustration is "the unpleasant feelings that
result from the blocking of motive satisfaction by an
obstacle."'*' The conflict resulting from frustration
ranges in magnitude from a backyard squabble among
^■Jerome Kagan and Ernest Havemann, Psychology: An
Introduction, 2nd ed. (New York: Harcourt, Brace,
Jovanovich, 1972), p. 370.
167
adolescent boys to World War II involving millions of
persons. In psychological terms, "conflict" is the
"simultaneous arousal of two or more incompatible motives,
resulting in unpleasant emotions" (Kagan § Havemann, p.
373). Everyday life is filled with minor frustration and
conflict, but man's psychic apparatus is normally capable
of compensating for these frustrations and resolving these
conflicts. Occasionally, however, man is confronted with
major frustrations which cannot be resolved without serious
inner conflict and anxiety.
When man is faced with the conflicting demands of
a serious dilemma, he may respond with anger and aggres
sion, depression or apathy, withdrawal and fantasy,
vacillation, regression, or some other behavior by which
he attempts to avoid the conflict. He may subconsciously
resort to such defense mechanisms as rationalization, pro
jection, or repression. Whatever course of action he
follows, dilemma to him is an inescapable trap, and he
will always experience inner conflict.
2
The dilemmas in Bierce's stories force the pro
tagonists to chose between the conflicting demands of duty
The seven stories discussed in this chapter appear
in Ambrose Bierce, In the Midst of Life, Vol. II of The
Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale
Publishing Co., 1909): "The Affair at Coulter's Notch,"
pp. 105-121; "A Horseman in the Sky," pp. 15-26; "Killed
at Resaca," pp. 93-104); "The Coup de Grace," pp. 122-132;
"The Story of a Conscience," pp. 165-177; "An Affair of
Outposts," pp. 146-164; "The Mocking-Bird," pp. 218-229.
168
and love (MThe Affair at Coulter's Notch" and "A Horseman
in the Sky"), between love and survival ("Killed at
Resaca"), between compassion and law ("The Coup de Grdce"),
and between personal honor and survival ("The Story of a
Conscience" and "An Affair of Outposts"). The dilemma
presented in "The Mocking-Bird" is more philosophical
than psychological, and the conflict much too complex
and abstract to be reduced to relatively simple con
flicting elements.
In psychoanalytic terms, dilemma results from the
conflicting demands of different parts of man's psyche.
For example, in "Killed at Resaca" Lieutenant Brayle must
choose either to expose himself to extraordinary danger
in combat in order to fulfill the unrealistically romantic
expectations of his lover or he must forfeit her affec
tion by taking normal combat precautions. Thus, Lieutenant
Brayle becomes involved in a simple but powerful conflict
between the demands of his superego (which compels him to
fulfill his lover's expectations) and the id (which
urges him to save his life). Brayle cannot resolve the
conflict on a conscious level, and that inability creates
intense anxiety and eventually deep psychological depres
sion. Although Bierce does not allow us to read Brayle's
thoughts directly, we may surmise that perhaps he decided
to follow the prompting of the superego, but there is at
169
least as great a possibility that the psychological
depression resulting from his unresolved dilemma mani
fested itself in a death wish--which unconsciously and
drastically resolved his inner conflict.
Not all of the protagonists of this group of
stories suffer from a conflict between superego and id.
Carter Druse, Captain Madwell, and Captain Coulter are
caught between the conflicting demands of the superego
itself, and they must choose between love of family (or
friend) and military duty.
Much of the general pattern common to Bierce's
fear stories is readily observable in the dilemma stories
as well. The situation is similar: the protagonist is
isolated, sometimes physically and always psychologically.
Bierce implies by this isolation that each man must make
his own decisions. The dilemma forms a trap, but the trap
in these stories is very different from that of the simple
fear stories. Coulter, Hartroy, Druse, Armisted, Brayle,
Madwell, and Grayrock are not allowed merely to wait and
endure, as were the protagonists of the fear stories.
The very nature of the dilemma forces them to take
decisive action, but that decisive action can never free
them from their inner conflict. In this regard, Bierce
has created situations in his dilemma stories that are
170
basically antithetical to the traps of the simple fear
stories. The dilemma itself forms the psychological
trap, and although none of the protagonists of this group
is confined in a physical sense, none of them escapes the
trap. Druse kills his father, Madwell kills his best
friend, and Coulter fatally shells his own home and
family.
As with the fear stories, the general pattern
tells much about Bierce's general estimate of man’s
situation--man is alone, life is a trap, a no-win situation
from which no one escapes.
"The Affair at Coulter's Notch"
The basic problem of this tale arises out of the
conflicting demands of family and duty. Captain Coulter
is ordered by his commander to direct artillery fire
towards his own home and family. "The Affair at Coulter's
Notch" is one of several Bierce war stories which have in
common the problem of divided loyalties. The others in
this group are "A Horseman in the Sky," "An Affair of
Outposts," "The Story of a Conscience," and "The Mocking-
Bird." If this tale is not one of Bierce's very best
war stories, it is at least free from the several serious
defects which impair the effectiveness of other stories
such as "Killed at Resaca” and "A Horseman in the Sky,"
171
even though the latter two stories are more popular than
this particular tale.
The narrative of "The Affair at Coulter’s Notch"
is relatively simple and requires little explication.
Captain Coulter, a young Federal artillery officer, is
ordered by his division commander to move his battery
into a narrow defile in a ridge to shell the Confederate
rear guard which has taken up a position in the immediate
vicinity of a plantation house. (It is later revealed
that the house is Coulter's home.) The assignment is
virtually suicidal, for the defile--thus called "Coulter’s
Notch"r-is so narrow that Coulter can bring only one gun
to bear on the Confederates at any one time. The Federal
artillerists are thus outnumbered twelve to one, and the
Confederate advantage soon becomes apparent; one after
another, the Federal guns and crews are blasted out of
the notch. During this one-sided duel, Coulter’s regi
mental commander is informed by a junior officer that
there had been some "trouble" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 114) between the Federal division commander and
Coulter's wife, who is an ardent secessionist. It finally
becomes apparent to the regimental commander that the
division commander is using Coulter and his battery to
bring about a personal revenge. He orders Coulter to
cease fire and withdraw the remnant of his battery, but
172
not before four guns and crews had been lost to the
murderous Confederate fire.
After the Confederates have withdrawn and the
Federal forces have occupied the plantation house, the
regimental commander's orderly explains to him that there
is "something wrong" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 119) in
the cellar of the house. Accompanied by the orderly and
a staff officer, the commander descends to the cellar
where he discovers the begrimed, powder-burned, and
nearly-unrecognizable Coulter embracing the bodies of his
dead wife and child.
The preceding summary clearly illustrates the
basic problem posed in "The Affair at Coulter's Notch."
The protagonist is caught in a dilemma which forces him
either to disobey the orders of his superior officer or to
destroy his home--and possibly his family--by artillery
fire. There is, of course, the additional dilemma which
demands that Coulter expose his men and himself unneces
sarily to murderous enemy fire or, again, disobey mili
tary orders. Although the personal conflict suffered by
the protagonist is relatively clear-cut, there are
several details which complicate the action, thus
obscuring the alternatives among which Coulter must
choose. First, neither Coulter nor the reader know until
the final scene whether Coulter's family is indeed present
173
in the endangered house, and consequently Coulter does
not know whether he is firing at his family or merely at
his house. The most that can be said in this regard is
that Coulter does not have all the facts, and he eventually
decides to obey orders, knowing that perhaps he may be
killing his family. Thus, this ambiguous definition of
the dilemma obscures to some degree the basic problem
posed by the tale.
Another significant detail which bears directly
on the meaning of the story is the way in which Coulter
executes the order and directs the Federal artillery
fire during the battle. From his vantage point in the
Notch, only one enemy gun is in plain sight, and that one
is directly in front of the house. Rather than take
chance shots at the other eleven Confederate guns which
are hidden in the trees and only partially revealed by
their smoke, Coulter directs the fire of his single gun
at the exposed enemy gun throughout the battle.
The Federal gunners [under Coulter's command],
ignoring those of the enemy's pieces whose
positions could be determined by their smoke
only, gave their whole attention to the one that
maintained its place in the open--the lawn in
front of the house. Over and about that hardy
piece the shells exploded at intervals of a few
seconds. Some exploded in the house, as could
be seen by thin ascensions of smoke from the
breached roof. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. Ill)
174
In this passage, Bierce makes it unmistakably clear that
Coulter not only accepted the terrible command to fight
the one-sided duel, but that he did not allow his own con
cern for the safety of his family and home to interfere
/•
with his tactics as artillerist. At best, his assignment
was near suicidal, and it would have been easy enough
for him to spare the house and spread his fire, albeit
ineffectively, over the concealed enemy who were not near
the house. It is almost as if Coulter cooperated more
than necessary in directing all of his fire into the
immediate vicinity of the house.
Although Coulter's reluctant willingness to
destroy the house is ambiguously suggestive, no definite
conclusion can be drawn in regard to his motives. As
in several other of his war stories, Bierce never once
allows the reader into the protagonist's mind, and what
conclusions we draw regarding Coulter's psychological
condition must be made exclusively on the basis of external
action. At best, we may surmise that once Coulter was
committed, he completely suppressed his own feelings in
deference to military necessity and the vengeful caprice
of his commanding general.
Because Bierce never reveals any of Coulter:\s
thoughts directly, the reader must look elsewhere in the
story to understand the significance of "The Affair at
175
Coulter’s Notch." Bierce’s description of the systematic
destruction of Coulter's battery is probably the most
memorable scene in the tale and warrants close attention.
In this passage Bierce does not deal directly with the
problem of fear and dilemma experienced by the pro
tagonist, but he does evoke strong feelings akin to fear
in the reader.
Within that defile, barely broad enough for a
single gun, were piled the wrecks of no fewer
than four. They [the recently arrived Federal
officers] had noted the silencing of only the
last one disabled--there had been a lack of men
to replace it quickly with another. The debris
lay on both sides of the road; the men had
managed to keep an open way between, through
which the fifth piece was now firing. The men?--
they looked like demons of the pit! All were
hatless, all stripped to the waist, their reek
ing skins black with blotches of powder and
spattered with gouts of blood. They worked like
madmen, with rammer and cartridge, lever and
lanyard. They set their swollen shoulders and
bleeding hands against the wheels at each recoil
and heaved the heavy gun back to its place. There
were no commands; in that awful environment of
whooping shot, exploding shells, shrieking frag
ments of iron, and flying splinters of wood,
none could have been heard. Officers, if officers
there were, were indistinguishable; all worked
together--each while he lasted--governed by the
eye. When the gun was sponged, it was loaded;
when loaded, aimed and fired. The colonel observed
something new to his military experience--some
thing horrible and unnatural: the gun was bleed
ing at the mouth! In temporary default of water,
the man sponging had dipped his sponge into a
pool of comrade's blood. In all this work there
was no clashing; the duty of the instant was
obvious. When one fell, another, looking a
trifle cleaner, seemed to rise from the earth
in the dead man's tracks, to fall in his turn.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 115-16)
176
This passage is memorable for several reasons,
primarily because of the implied metaphor that shows
how Coulter’s men are transformed by the Dante-esque
hell into grotesque creatures. Throughout the passage
Bierce emphasizes the almost claustrophobic confinement.
The men themselves are divested of their uniforms, and
the officers are indistinguishable from the enlisted men,
as all of them are reduced to machines. The debris con
sists of an indistinguishable mass of.broken men and
equipment. In a superb example of the pure grotesque,
Bierce destroys the normal categories of man and machine,
as the men are stripped of their human qualities and
the guns take on human characteristics. The men work
mechanically with rammer, cartridge, lever, and lanyard;
the gun is sponged, loaded, aimed, and fired with
machine-like routine and regularity. Even death seems an
alternative denied the men in their mechanical hell.
"When one fell, another . . . seemed to rise from the
earth in the dead man's tracks, to fall in his turn"
(Bierce, Vol; II, 1909, p. 116). The gun, too, partici
pates in this grotesque arabesque as the blood seeps
from its muzzle.
The incredible violence of the Notch scene
obscures the subtlety with which Bierce momentarily shifts
the focus of the tale from the fundamental problem of
177
dilemma to that of terror. The grotesquery of the Notch
scene makes it virtually impossible, at least momen
tarily, for the reader to feel any sympathetic concern
for Coulter's dilemma, or even the presumed fate of his
family. The monstrous tableau of confusion, destruction,
and death momentarily diverts our sympathies away from
Coulter's individual problem and makes us realize that
the protagonist's dilemma is only a small part of the
vast and terrible warfare of life. The Notch scene is
necessarily brief because much of its dramatic intensity
stems from the compression of so much violence into a
relatively short passage. Bierce has few peers in
describing the ultimate martial art--combat, and it is
somewhat surprising that he provides graphic accounts of
battle in only four of his stories ("Killed at Resaca,"
"An Affair of Outposts," "A Son of the Gods," and "The
Affair at Coulter's Notch"). The relative scarcity of
battle scenes in Bierce's fiction further illustrates his
preoccupation with internal, rather than external,
conflict.
The concluding scene of this tale is also important
in an overall consideration of the story. Bierce dearly
loved ironic, surprise endings, and "The Affair at Coulter's
Notch" reveals Bierce's penchant for irony and surprise.
The conclusion is reasonably effective, but not nearly so
as that of "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"
178
"Chickamauga," "George Thurston," or even "Parker
Adderson, Philosopher." Perhaps the most distracting
aspect of the concluding scene is that Bierce shifts the
focus from the psychological conflict of Coulter’s
dilemma to the pathos emanating from the preceding action.
The emotional impact of the tale is further complicated by
Bierce's intermediate shift of emphasis from the initial
problem of Coulter's dilemma to the terror and problem of
survival in the Notch scene. Bierce handles the final
scene with remarkable restraint, and although the scene
is undeniably Gothic in its gloomy mysteriousness, it
does not become lugubrious. The blood and gore--including
the child's severed foot--are certainly hideous, but not
gratuitously horrible, because Bierce used the scene to
point out realistically the horrors of war. The pathos of
the concluding scene is almost overwhelming, but Bierce
never crosses over into sentimentality. Perhaps the only
thing that can be said is that Bierce overcrowds his stage
with dilemma, terror, and pathos. "The Affair at Coulter's
Notch" successfully evokes strong feelings in the reader,
but it evokes a variety of emotions from frustration to
pity, and thus does not achieve a single, unified effect.
Notwithstanding the rather diffused overall effect
of the story, this tale illustrates Bierce's thesis that
even strong and noble men, like Captain Coulter, can be
179
isolated, trapped, and subjected to unbearable inner
conflicts. Coulter is similar to several other Biercian
protagonists, both in his personal character and his situ
ation: he is a good man trapped in an impossible dilemma.
Like all of the other military protagonists, Coulter is
isolated, but his isolation is not merely that of being
alone in the woods. Coulter's isolation is singular in
that he alone must suffer his terrible anguish. Sur
rounded as he is in the final scene by his slaughtered
family and the bewildered and uncomprehending Federal
officers, he must suffer alone.
"The Story of a Conscience"
This tale shares many characteristics in common
with other Bierce stories, but in some ways it is singu
larly different. It deals with a protagonist who, unlike
most Bierceian characters, does not suffer psychological
collapse as a consequence of either unusually trying battle
conditions or because he is demonstrably unfit for the
normal rigors of war. Like all of the other protagonists
of Bierce’s dilemma stories, Captain Parrol Hartroy is
admirably well suited for the life of a soldier, and it
is only because of a deadly coincidence that he is brought
down.
180
Parrol Hartroy has captured Dramer Brune, a
Confederate spy, who on a previous occasion had saved
Hartroy’s life. Hartroy cannot allow Brune to go free
because the latter has acquired information about the dis
position of the Federal forces. Acknowledging that he
cannot repay his debt to Brune, Hartroy orders the spy’s
execution and then commits suicide.
This tale resembles ”A Horseman in the Sky” in
that the protagonist seems to have the antagonist within
his power, but in both stories the antagonists are more
symbolic than real. Neither Carter Druse’s father nor
Dramer Brune offer any personal threat to the protagonist.
Both, in fact, are dangerous only in the sense that they
have some intelligence that must not be divulged to the
opposing army. Whereas in "A Horseman in the Sky” Bierce
increases the tension by simply introducing the father
as antagonist (thus bringing in automatically the whole
question of filial love), "The Story of a Conscience”
requires a much greater complication. Bierce provides
that complication, first, in the recapitulation of the
incident in which Brune saved Hartroy's life, and
secondly, in Brune’s personal character.
Captain Hartroy is brought down, not because he is
weak or because he faces an overpowering external force,
but rather because a set of coincidences places him in a
_____________________________________________________________ LfLl
terrible dilemma. Actually, there is only one real coin
cidence in the tale, and that is the chance meeting of
Hartroy and Brune on the road outside the Federal camp.
If that coincidence is accepted, then the balance of the
story--and Hartroy's dilemma--follows as inexorably as a
Greek tragedy.
One key that may unlock the full meaning of
"The Story of a {Conscience” is the protagonist’s name:
Parrol Hartroy. His surname suggests a man with a kingly
heart, and that of course means magnanmity, compassion, and
forgiveness. His first name seems even more relevant, for
"parole"--or word--is the promise of a prisoner of war
that, if he is released, he either will return to custody
at a specified time or will not again take up arms against
his captors. The word is commonly used now in the pro
bationary release of imprisoned criminals. Ironically,
it is Parrol Hartroy's misfortune that Dramer Brune does
return to his custody. Not only does Brune come back into
Hartroy's life, but he seems intent, either consciously or
subconsciously, on remaining in Hartroy's life. In the
initial scene the narrator makes it clear that Brune
could have easily escaped into the darkness as Hartroy
pursued him down the road from the check-point. Brune
agrees neither to "resist, escape, nor remonstrate"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 171). He makes no attempt to
182
escape from the unguarded tent during the night. Finally
he accompanies the execution squad ’’ unbound and unguarded”
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 176). It is Brune*s return and
his apparent insistence on remaining that provides the
basis of conflict in this story and presents the dilemma
for Hartroy.
An earlier meaning of "parole" is even more sig
nificant than "a promise to return." Formerly, "parole"
was a "word of honor," a password given to authorized
personnel in passing a guard. The only place Parrol
Hartroy's first name appears in the text is in the first
line of the tale (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 165), but
"parole" is suggested soon after as the narrator explains
that Hartroy had been given exceptional "discretionary
powers" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 168) because of his
isolated position and "the precarious nature of his com
munications and the lawless character of the enemy’s
irregular troops infesting that region." As a part of
that discretionary power, Hartroy had given passes--
"parole" in the old sense of the word-- "to a few resident
civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was desirable to
trade, and of whose services in various ways he sometimes
availed himself." The narrator adds that "it is easy to
understand that an abuse of this privilege in the interest
of the enemy might entail serious consequences. Captain
183
Hartroy had made an order to the effect that any one so
abusing it would be summarily shot'.' (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909 ,
p. 168).
Little emphasis is needed to underscore the irony
that Brune is both an "irregular" soldier and at the same
time one "whose services in various ways he [Hartroy] some
times availed himself." The question of "loyalty" may add
to the irony of the situation. Brune argues convincingly
that he was not disloyal to the Union in going over to the
Confederates, and that he was in fact driven by his sense
of loyalty to the South when he left the;,.Federal forces
without permission. What is even more important is that
Brune's sense of personal loyalty transcended national and
regional differences when he saved Hartroy from being shot.
His unsolicited--and heretofore unacknowledged--loyalty
as a fellow human being to Hartroy compels the latter to
reciprocate now that Brune is within Hartroy's power.
This, of course, Hartroy cannot do without endangering his
own command.
Bierce implies that Hartroy has in some way abused
the privilege of "parole," and that he has been under
sentence of death ever since he fell asleep while guarding
Brune. Hartroy refers to himself repeatedly as a criminal:
he had "incurred the death penalty" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 173), and he refers to "my own crime" (Bierce, Vol. II,
184
1909, p. 174) and "the penalty of my crime" (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, p. 176). In recalling his debt to Brune,
he remarks that the latter did not "leave me to take your
[Brune's] place before the firing-squad" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 174), and he thanks Brune for awakening him so
that the relief-guard would not "detect me in my crime"
(Bierce, Vol. 11,0.909, p. 175). Hartroy is fated to suf
fer the penalty of his crime, even though he was not
detected by those who normally would have exacted punish
ment. Brune is the sole witness to Hartroy's "crime,"
and he inadvertently becomes, in a strange way, Hartroy*s
judge.
The simple facts that Hartroy has Brune within his
physical power and that no one is capable of forcing the
Federal captain to suffer punishment for his distant crime
does not alter Hartroy's dilemma. Classical logic and
common sense cannot save him. Hartroy is an honorable man--
a man of conscience--and it is the bond of honor that links
his fate to that of Brune. He is trapped. Hartroy's code
of honor will not permit him to judge and execute a man
who demonstrated extraordinary compassion and self-
sacrifice for him. Ironically, Hartroy's broad "discre
tionary powers" enable him to let anyone pass freely into
the Confederate lines except the one man he so desperately
wants to save. He realizes that he cannot repay Brune the
185
debt of honor, and so he tries to obviate Brune’s good
deed by taking the just punishment for his own original
crime. Thus, Brune1s compassionate act of saving Hartroy
from execution was not a pardon, but merely a stay of
execution.
In another remarkable variation on the isolation
of man, Bierce creates a situation in which the protagonist
finds himself all alone and trapped by his conscience,
even though he is in the midst of friends. One might
expect that Brune would be the isolated man in this tale,
but ’’The Story of a Conscience" is not Brune*s story. He
functions merely as a symbol of Hartroy’s antagonist, and
perhaps of Hartroy’s conscience. As in all of Bierce's
military stories, the trap springs closed on the pro
tagonist. In one way, Hartroy forfeits his own life--not
merely because he feels guilt for dereliction of duty--but
because it purifies him spiritually and allows him to
judge Brune and order an execution that he knows is both
militarily necessary and just.
"A Horseman in the Sky"
The conflict in "A Horseman in the Sky" arises out
of a dilemma that forces the protagonist to choose between
filial love for his father on one hand, and duty and honor
on the other. The very nature of the American Civil War
186
made the conflict of father andC?son exceedingly common
and therefore popularly known, and Bierce's selection of
theme in this tale is not at all original. The fact that
many American families were divided in their allegiances
in the Civil War has resulted in many stories in which
brother fights brother and father fights son. Carter
Druse, like all of Bierce's military protagonists, is
.isolated., trapped, and subjected to intolerable psycho
logical conflict. His dilemma, which provides the pri
mary conflict in "A Horseman in the Sky," demands that he
either shoot his father (a Confederate scout) or betray
his comrades by allowing his father to escape with
information that would surely be fatal to the Federal
soldiers.
The problem of patricide is enormously complicated
in itself, and Bierce complicates it even more by sug
gesting that this tale is another variation of Oedipus'
fatal encounter with Laius at the crossroads. The brief
pre-war interview between the elder Druse and his only
son suggests that the father-son rivalry is not limited to
divided loyalties in regard to the Civil War. When the
son informs his father that he intends to join the Union
army, the father's reply is exceedingly brief and
unusually formal. Even more significant, the father makes
no attempt to deter his son from joining the Federal army.
____________________________________________________________ l f L Z .
The father lifted his leonine head, looked at the
son a moment in silence, and replied: "Well, go,
sir, and whatever may occur do what you conceive
to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a
traitor, must get on without you. Should we
both live to the end of the war, we will speak
further of the matter. Your mother, as the
physician has informed you, is in a most critical
condition; at the best she cannot be with us
longer than a few weeks, but that time is
precious. It would be better not to disturb
her. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 18)
The father's reference to the mother warrants close obser
vation. At no other point in the narrative is the mother
mentioned, and reference to her condition at this time does
not seem to serve any particular purpose in Druse's leave-
taking. The father's statement regarding the mother does
not ring true. It is difficult to believe that the son
could not have managed a final meeting with his mother
without mentioning his intent to betray his native state
and join the Union army. Fundamentally, we are left with
two choices in interpreting the father's remarks about
the mother. Either Bierce quite arbitrarily inserted those
brief but telling remarks merely to add a bit of pathos
to the son's departure, or he intended to suggest a much
deeper rivalry between father and son. Unfortunately, the
tale does not develop that deeper rivalry other than in the
chance meeting of the father and son on the cliff.
This tale is necessarily more complex than Druse's
dilemma because Bierce uses the father-son conflict only
188
as a vehicle for expressing his own contradictory atti
tudes toward life. Bierce saw life in terms of conflict
ing polarities: life is both beautiful and ugly, joyous
and sad, wonderful and terrifying. He used the father-
son conflict in this tale to demonstrate how one incident--
the death ride of Druse's father--can be both horrible and
painful (for the younger Druse) and at the same time
magnificent and awe-inspiring (for the unnamed Federal
officer who observes the horseman in the sky). Bierce
suggests that such an incident can evoke almost any
emotion and that merely a change in point of view is
enough to.stimulate emotional responses which are dia
metrically opposed. Thus, the central incident of "A
Horseman in the Sky" is understandably horrible from the
son's point of view because he has had to kill his father;
the same incident evokes astonishment, awe, and a pleasing
sort of terror in the Federal officer because he sees
only a miraculous aerial ride. Even the concept of point
of view is complicated in this tale. Before Druse
recognizes the horseman as his father, he too is awed by
the magnificence of the equestrian group on the edge of
the cliff.
On a colossal pedestal, the cliffj- -mot ionless
at the extreme edge of the capping rock and sharply
outlined against the sky,--was an equestrian
statue of impressive dignity. The figure of the
man sat the figure of the horse, straight and
soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian god
189
carved in the marble which limits the suggestion
of activity. The gray costume harmonized with
its aerial background; the metal of accoutrement
and caparison was softened and subdued by the
shadow; the animal's skin had no points of high
light. A carbine strikingly foreshortened lay
across the pommel of the saddle, kept in place
by the right hand grasping it at the "grip";
the left hand, holding the bridle rein, was
invisible. In silhouette against the sky the
profile of the horse was cut with the sharpness
of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air
to the confronting cliffs beyond. The face of
the rider, turned slightly away, showed only an
outline of temple and beard; he was looking down
ward to the bottom of the valley. Magnified by
its lift against the sky and by the soldier’s
testifying sense of the formidableness of a near
enemy the group appeared of heroic, almost
colossal, size. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 19-20)
Druse’s first reaction to the splendid equestrian
group is a "keen artistic delight" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 19), but he soon becomes "keenly alive to the signifi
cance of the situation" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 20-21).
Just as he is about to fire, the horseman turns his head
directly toward the concealed Druse, and the young man's
world--like that of the child in "Chickamauga"--turns
half around.
Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb,
turned faint, and saw the statuesque group before
him as black figures, rising, falling, moving
unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky.
His hand fell away from his weapon, his head
slowly dropped until his face rested on the leaves
in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and
hardy > soldier was near swooning from intensity
of emotion. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 21)
190
Bierce transforms a pleasant sort of sublime terror into
unthinkably unpleasant horror by two of the most common
techniques for generating dramatic conflict: recognition
and reversal. Even though Druse's physical point of view
remains unchanged, and though he still has the nominal
antagonist within his power, his psychological point of
view changes drastically when he recognizes the horseman
as his father.
Bierce misleadingly suggests in the foregoing pas
sage that Druse's change of heart is caused by a sudden
aversion to kill a man--any man--in cold blood from ambush.
Even without the knowledge that the horseman is Druse’s
father, most readers will probably sympathize with Druse
and accept as psychologically consistent sthe drastic,
change in his emotions. Eventually, Druse responds to
his duty (ironically recalling his father's words, "What
ever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty")
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 23), aims his rifle at the
horse, and fires.
Druse's psychological transformation from sublime
astonishment to horror both foreshadows and introduces
Bierce's major treatment of pleasant versus unpleasant
terror. Immediately after Druse fires, Bierce shifts the
point of view to that of a Federal officer in the valley
over a thousand feet below.
191
Lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its
summit the officer saw an astonishing sight--a man
on horseback riding down into the valley through
the air!
Straight upright sat the rider, in military
fashion, with a firm seat in the saddle, a strong
clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from too
impetuous a plunge. From his bare head his long
hair streamed upward, waving like a plume. His
hands were concealed in the cloud of the horse's
lifted mane.. The animal’s body was as level as
if every hoof-stroke encountered the resistant
earth. Its motions were those of a wild gallop,
but even as the officer looked they ceased, with
all the legs thrown sharply forward as in the act
of alighting from a leap. But this was a flight!
Filled with amazement and terror by this
apparition of a horseman in the sky--half believ
ing himself the chosen scribe of some new
Apocalypse, the officer was overcome by the
intensity of his emotions; his legs failed him and
he fell. Almost at the same instant he heard
a crashing sound in the trees--a sound that died
without an echo--and all was still. (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, pp. 24-25)
This tableau, strongly reminiscent of the apocalyptic
horseman in Poe’s ’’ Metzengerstein," is one of the most
sublime scenes from all of Bierce's work. It fills the
reader simultaneously with awe, amazement, fear, and
wonder. Bierce effectively evokes the sublime in this
brief scene and sustains its effect, at least momentarily,
as he describes the effect of the vision on the officer.
The officer rose to his feet, trembling. The
familiar sensation of an abraded shin
recalled his dazed faculties. Pulling himself
together he ran rapidly obliquely away from the
cliff to a point distant from its foot; there
about he expected to find his man; and there
about he naturally failed. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 25)
192
Bierce reinforces the psychological credibility of
"A Horseman in the Sky” by keeping the action well within
the bounds of:the probable. The chance meeting of father
and son is coincidental, but not fancifully contrived.
The probability that Druse would be selected as sentinel
is enhanced by the fact that his military unit was opera
ting in the vicinity of his home and that he was conse
quently familiar with the territory. The probability of
his father’s presence as a Confederate scout in the same
area is strengthened by the same reasoning. That the
father and son meet in their isolated missions is, of
course, coincidental, but not so far-fetched as to be
implausible. Furthermore, the narrator adds that Carter
Druse possessed other qualities which lend credence to the
probability that he would be found in his isolated outpost:
By conscience and courage, by deeds of devotion
and daring, he [Carter Druse] soon commended him
self to his fellows and his officers; and it was
to these qualities and to some knowledge of the
country that he owed his selection for his
present perilous duty at the extreme outpost.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 18-19)
Bierce further supports the psychological credi
bility of this tale through the use of irony, theme, and
symbol. In the opening paragraph he ironically sets the
time as "one sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year
1861" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 15). This is, of course,
193
a deceptively pleasant beginning, and very similar to the
ironic opening sentences of several other tales.
"Chickamauga" begins with "one sunny autumn afternoon"
(Bierce, VoT'. II, 1909 , p. 46); the first sentence of "A
Son of the Gods" is "A breezy day and a sunny landscape"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 58); and "The Mocking-Bird”
begins with "the time, a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the
early autumn of 1861" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 218).
The major theme arising out of the conflict between
filial love and duty is combined with the minor theme of
criminality, which in turn runs throughout the narrative
of "A Horseman in the Sky." In the initial paragraph
Bierce states that if the sleeping Druse were discovered
sleeping on duty "he would be dead shortly afterward,
death being the just and.ylegal penalty of his crime"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 15). The theme of criminality
continues later in the story, first when Druse is referred
to as "the criminal"; and later when the narrator refers to
"his [Druse's] state of crime" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p.
19). There is a strong parallel in the criminality theme
that runs through both this story and "The Story of a
Conscience." Both Druse and Hartroy fall asleep on guard
duty and are therefore guilty of a capital breach of
discipline. Bierce recognizes the dread responsibility
of standing guard, but he also understands that it is
194
difficult for a man on guard duty to remain immobile and,
at the same time, both awake and alert. Bierce further
mitigates Druse's and Hartroy's unsoldierly conduct by
explaining that both men were exhausted at the times they
assumed guard duty. Both men commit what every soldier
knows ' is a very serious "crime," but Bierce uses the
basically untenable situations of :these two men as further
examples to illustrate his thesis that all men are isolated
and trapped by their inherent weaknesses.
Perhaps the most effective way in which Bierce
reinforces the basic theme of "A Horseman in the Sky" is
his use of geographical description to symbolize the
psychological dimensions of the tale. Bierce drew upon
his experience as topographical officer in several of his
tales to create geographical settings that reflect the
psychological condition of the protagonists. In "Killed
at Resaca" Lieutenant Brayle's dilemma is represented by
the deep ravine which makes it impossible for him to cross
the battlefield. In both "The Coup de Grdce" and "The
Mocking-Bird" the protagonist's confused psychological
condition is reflected in his confused sense of direction
and the difficulty he experiences in trying to orient him
self relative to friendly and enemy lines.
In "A Horseman in the Sky" the protagonist is
caught in a psychological trap, and much of the imagery
19 5
of this tale suggests a trap. Bierce makes it adequately
clear that the position of the Federal army is extremely
perilous, and that if they are detected in their valley
encampment, they will assuredly be trapped by the
Confederates.
The configuration of the valley, indeed, was such
that from this [Druse’s] point of observation it
seemed entirely shut in, and one could but have
wondered how the road which found a way out of it
had found a way into it, and whence came and
whither went the waters of the stream that
parted the meadow more than a thousand feet below.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 16-17)
Bierce sustains the trap imagery in the next paragraph:
No country is so wild and difficult but men will
make it a theatre of war; concealed in the
forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap,
in which half a hundred men in possession of the
exits i might have starved an army to submission,
lay five regiments of Federal infantry.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 17)
Indeed, secrecy and surprise are key to the survival and
success of the Federal forces, and these two things impinge
directly on Druse’s personal situation. His concealed out
post allows him to take the horseman by surprise, but
before he can take decisive action to remove the threat of
the horseman’s presence, the situation is suddenly
reversed, and he finds himself in the "military rat-trap"
of the dilemma.
In order to expose the peculiarly compatible
nature of pleasant and unpleasant terror, Bierce makes
196
several radical shifts in time, location, action, and
point of view within this tale. For example, Section II
is a flashback which recapitulates antecedent action that
is essential to the story: Carter Druse and his father
have taken opposing sides in the war. The shift from
Druse's point of view to that of the Federal officer in
the valley is also essential because it is that shift that
allows Bierce to present conflicting reactions to the
central episode. These shifts do not, however, seriously
affect the overall unity of the tale: flashbacks are
t
commonly used by writers and accepted by readers; similarly
the shift in point of view is justified because it pro
vides the basis for Bierce's principal thesis.
There are, however, other shifts within the story
that are not bound up with Bierce's donn^e, and these
shifts seriously impair the unity and overall effectiveness
of the tale. Bierce complicated the plot substantially
when he decided to withhold from the reader--until the
end of the story--the vital information concerning the
horseman's identity. In several of his other stories,
Bierce demonstrated quite adequately that he could grace
fully conceal vital information until the conclusion, and
then deliver it with tremendous effect. He did precisely
that in both "Chickamauga" and "An Occurrence at Owl
Creek Bridge." In those two stories, however, he planted
197
clues throughout which made it possible (although not
probable) that a careful and perceptive reader could see
through the camouflage and read the action for what it
was--that the child of "Chickamauga" is a deaf-mute, and
that Peyton Farquhar's escape is only imaginary. There
are several reasons why Bierce's stealth in withholding
information works effectively in those other two stories
and why it does not work in "A Horseman in the Sky." In
"Chickamauga" and "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge"
the author deals honestly with the reader, and although
he allows the incautious reader to deceive himself, he
does not resort to awkward broad mental reservation, as
he does when he withholds the horseman's identity in "A
Horseman in the Sky." Even more important, the revela
tions at the end of "Chickamauga" and "An Occurrence at
Owl Creek Bridge"' are organically integrated into the
stories, whereas the revelation of "A Horseman in the
Sky" is tacked on in a lame epilogue, long after the
action had been completed.
The belated revelation at the end of "A Horseman
in the Sky" seems unnatural and does not work effectively
because there is no intrinsic reason for not revealing the
horseman's identity as soon as Druse recognizes his father.
In a peculiar reversal of dramatic irony, Bierce has
turned the tables in such a way that one of the characters
_______________198
possesses knowledge that is concealed from the reader.
Bierce withholds the information only to manipulate the
facts so that he can spring a surprise on the reader in
the conclusion. This is not to say that surprise endings
are "unfair" to the reader or aesthetically unacceptable.
It simply means that something should arise out of the
action itself to justify the omission of such vital
information. Such an omission is acceptable in
"Chickamauga" because the child has no occasion to speak
and the reader simply overlooks the peculiar circumstance
that the child does not hear anything. Furthermore, the
child’s inability to hear explains how he could sleep
soundly throughout the terrible battle. The omission of
vital information in "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge"
is justified because Bierce makes the reader so closely
identify with the protagonist that the reader is deceived
by the very things that deceive the protagonist. There
is no such justifiable deception in "A Horseman in the
Sky," and as a consequence the reader feels cheated by
Bierce's omission, and is tempted to scoff at the author’s
contrivance to bring about a surprise ending.
In addition to the contrived withholding of the
horseman’s identity, there are other defects which hinder
this otherwise fine story. The first occurs almost
immediately after the Federal officer has observed the
199
awesome aerial ride. As indicated earlier, Bierce sus
tains at least briefly the sublimity of that scene in the
reaction of the awe-struck officer's attitude. Then, as
if Bierce himself felt uncomfortably self-conscious on the
giddy heights of the sublime, he precipitously descends to
a sarcastic tone in explaining why the officer-observer
did not find the horseman: "... it did not occur to him
that the line of march of a'erial cavalry is directly down
ward, and that he could find the objects of his search at
the very foot of the cliff" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 25).
All too often in his memoirs, in his supernatural stories,
and occasionally in his war stories, Bierce drastically
altered his tone from seriousness to facetiousness, almost
as if he were embarassed by his own seriousness. Such
radical shifts in tone inevitably leave the reader aban
doned on a plateau of sublime feeling. There is probably
no way of more effectively destroying unity of effect than
leading a reader to a sublime height and then turning the
experience into a joke.
Bierce compounds the problem of his joking about
the sublime at the end of Section III, when he describes
a brief but irrelevant conversation between the Federal
officer who had witnessed the airborne horseman and that
officer's commander.
200
I
This officer [who had observed the flight]
was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an
incredible truth. He said nothing of what he
had seen. But when the commander asked him if
in his scout he had learned anything of advantage
to the expedition he answered:
"Yes, sir; there is no road leading down into
this valley from the southward."
The commander, knowing better, smiled.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 25)
Another defect occurs in the concluding scene,
which Bierce prolongs unnecessarily with an anticlimactic
question-and-answer session between Druse and his sergeant.
This tedious epilogue is eventually concluded with a ter
ribly pedestrian final line that adds nothing to the story
and detracts considerably from its final effect. After
Druse has explained to the sergeant that he has just killed
his own father, Bierce is not content to let the story end
with the classic simplicity of Druse's last words--"My
father" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 26). Rather than leav
ing, wei 1-enough alone, he inexplicably allows the story to
trail off with a brief description of the sergeant's
reaction: "The sergeant rose to his feet and walked away.
'Good God!' he said." This final line is one of the least
effective concluding lines in Bierce's war fiction. When
one considers the impact of the concluding lines of
"Chickamauga" and "George Thurston" and "An Occurrence at
Owl Creek Bridge," the only plausible explanation seems to
be that although Bierce was capable of writing startingly
201
effective conclusions, he could not recognize an ineffec
tive line when he wrote one.
In spite of these lapses, "A Horseman in the
Sky” remains a memorable statement of Bierce's fatalistic
belief that neither manls virtue, competence, nor devo
tion to duty can save him from the inevitable trap. This
tale reveals, somewhat obliquely, the depths of Bierce's
pessimism: Carter Druse is one of the "lucky" ones, one
of the very few protagonists who even survives a Biercian
war story.
"An Affair of Outposts"
This tale combines some of Bierce's most spirited
description of combat and one of his most muddled presen
tations of personal-.-.conflict. Although the plot is rela
tively simple, "An Affair of Outposts" is one of Bierce's
longest war stories, and the narration itself one of the
most complex. Captain Armisted, the protagonist, asks
his Governor for a commission in the Union army. Armisted' «
wife has been unfaithful, and because he does not know the
identity of the man with whom she is involved, he has
decided that his only honorable alternative is to die. The
Governor is reluctant to grant the commission because he
knows that Armisted is a Southerner in both fact and
202
feeling. Armisted insists that in matters of importance
he acts as he thinks, not as he feels, and although he has
deep sentiments for the South, he knows the Northern
cause is right. The Governor grants the commission, and
thus the tale resolves itself into a question of whether
a man can fight effectively if he is rationally con
vinced, but emotionally unmotivated.
Several months after the interview, while the
Governor is making a tour of the front lines, he unwisely
makes his way forward to an isolated Federal outpost
where Captain Armisted commands a band of skirmishers.
Just as the two men meet, the Federal skirmish line is
broached by a charge of Confederate infantry supported by
artillery. Armisted adroitly takes command of his out
numbered troops in an attempt to thwart the Confederate
assault, and the Governor makes a Jiasty reteat through the
heavy brush in the general direction of the Federal lines.
The Governor stumbles in his headlong flight and sprains
an ankle so severely that he is immobilized. As the
Confederates press their attack, Armisted rallies his men
and they make an orderly withdrawal, firing deadly vollies
into the advancing Confederates. Observing that the
disabled Governor is about to be taken by the Confederates,
Armisted rallies his command to the right, and the Federal
troops converge with the Confederates at the Governor's
203
position. The ensuing melee constitutes one of the most
vivid accounts of hand-to-hand combat in Bierce’s war
stories.
With a cheer they sprang forward over the twenty
or thirty paces between them and their task. The
captain having a shorter distance to go arrived
first--simultaneously with the enemy. A half-
dozen hasty shots were fired at him, and the fore
most man--a fellow of heroic stature, hatless and
bare-breasted--made a vicious sweep at his head
with a clubbed rifle. The officer parried the blow
at the cost of a broken arm and drove his sword to
the hilt into the giant's breast. As the body
fell^; the weapon was wrenched from his hand and
before he could pluck his revolver from the
scabbard at his belt another man leaped upon
him like a tiger, fastening both hands upon his
throat and bearing him backward upon the prostrate
Governor, still struggling to rise. This man was
promptly spitted upon the bayonet of a Federal
sergeant and his death-grip on the captain's
throat loosened by a kick upon each wrist. When
the captain had risen he was at the rear of his
men, who had all passed over and around him and
were thrusting fiercely at their more numerous but
less coherent antagonists. Nearly all the rifles
on both sides were empty and in the crush there
was neither time nor room to reload. The
Confederates were at a disadvantage in that most
of them lacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeon
ing- -and a clubbed rifle is a formidable arm.
The sound of ;the conflict was a clatter like that
of the interlocking horns of battling bulls--now
and then the pash of a crushed skull, an oath, or
a grunt caused by the impact of a rifle's muzzle
against the abdomen transfixed by its bayonet.
Through an opening made by the fall of one of his
men Captain Armisted sprang, with his dangling
left arm; in his right hand a full-charged
revolver, which he fired with rapidity and terrible
effect into the thick of the gray crowd: but
across the bodies of the slain the survivors in
the front were pushed forward by their comrades in
the rear till again they breasted the tireless
bayonets. There were fewer bayonets now to
breast--a beggarly half-dozen, all told. A few
minutes more of this rough work--a little fighting
204
back to back--and all would be over.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 159-161)
The timely arrival of Federal reinforcements even
tually repulses the Confederate attack, but not before the
Southerners make one desperate attempt to kill ArmistedTs
men:
Instinctively before retiring, the crowd in gray
made a tremendous rush upon its handful of antagon
ists, overwhelming them by mere momemtum and,
unable to use weapons in the crush, trampled them,
stamped savagely on their limbs, their bodies,
their necks, their faces; then retiring with bloody
feet across its own dead it joined the general
rout and the incident was at an end.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp.:161-62)
In the concluding section of the tale, Bierce
provides a veritable potpourri-: the Governor is attended
by his solicitous staff and an army surgeon; the command
ing general remarks on the "beauty" of the fight; the
Governor discovers on the ground a letter from Armisted's
penitent wife (presumably implicating the Governor in her
infidelity); preparations are made for a grand review on
the following day. And the corpse of Captain Armisted
lies within the Governor's reach among the Union dead.
As indicated earlier, the central problem explored
by Bierce in this story is whether a man can fight with
his head but not his heart. Presumably Bierce believes
that it is not only possible, but necessary for man to
behave rationally, rather than emotionally, if hevis to
205
make any sense out of his chaotic world. Relying on his
basic metaphor that life is a matter of war with a hostile
world, Bierce goes a step beyond the old saw that "all is
fair in love and war." The tale demonstrates clearly
that nothing is fair for Armisted in either love or war:
his wife betrays him for a frankly villainous man, and in
the misfortunes of war, Armisted must sacrifice his own
life and the lives of his men because that same villainous
man stupidly interferes'iri Armisted' s military business.
Bierce suggests that when man finds such gross injustice,
his only recourse is to transcend the villainies of the
world by strictly following the dictates of reason and his
own noble sentiments. Man will die in any case, but it
is much better to die honorably than to surrender to
ignoble and self-serving impulses.
Although "An Affair of Outposts" deals with man
in a dilemma, its treatment is haphazard, and its effec
tiveness is largely contingent upon the question of .
Armisted's psychological credibility. Is it believable
that the eminently noble, brave, reasonable, calm, and
utterly self-controlled Captain Armisted would decide
to get himself killed because his wife betrayed him? It
would seem rather that the decision to get oneself killed
over an unfaithful wife would be motivated, not by reason,
but by a severely depressed emotional condition.
206
Fundamentally, Armisted's decision to get himself killed
contradicts the strictly disciplined and calmly reasoned
behavior which he so clearly manifests in the battle
scene.
Even before Armisted is seen in battle, Bierce
carefully emphasizes the protagonist's controlled,
unemotional behavior. In the initial interview with the
Governor, Armisted speaks "tranquilly" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 146), his smile shows "more light than warmth"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 147), he "subdue[s] himself"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 149) when he feels insulted, and
he answers the Governor's questions "calmly." In the
affair of outposts, Armisted becomes the calm and control
led voice of reason itself:
Penetrating the din--seeming to float above it like
the melody of a soaring bird--rang the slow,
aspirated monotones of the captain's several
commands, without emphasis, without accent, musical
and restful as an evensong under the harvest
moon. Familiar with this tranquilizing chant
in moments of imminent peril, these raw soldiers
of less than a year's training yielded themselves
to the spell, executing its mandates with the
composure and precision of veterans. Even the
distinguished civilian [the Governor] behind his
tree, hesitating between pride and terror, was
accessible to its charm and suasion.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 155)
It is difficult to believe that the singer of this calming
song is the same man who tries to get himself killed over
an unfaithful woman.
207
The fundamental incredibility of the situation
presented by "An Affair of Outposts" is compounded by
Bierce’s two-dimensional treatment of Armisted. We are
never allowed to get inside the protagonist’s mind, and
consequently we must simply guess what he thinks and feels.
What is his inner reaction when he sees his hated enemy--
the Governor--about to be taken by the Confederates?
Indeed, does he even hate at all? This the reader must
determine for himself--which leaves much to conjecture--
because Bierce lets us see nothing but the monolithic
exterior of Armisted's cool, heroic facade. We can admire
and thrill in his controlled calm, but we can neither under
stand, nor sympathize.
The personal dilemma of Captain Armisted forms the
initial pivotal point of the tale, and although it remains
a central issue throughout the narrative, it is over
shadowed by other aspects of the story. There is, first,
Bierce's running commentary bn military ineptitude.
Throughout .the story there are remarks on Grant's
alleged stupidity, the joke of placing siege guns behind a
mere skirmish line, and the usual talk about the "beauty"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 162) of the battle, and the
grotesque inappropriateness of a grand military review.
Bierce also includes a diatribe on the stupidity of civil
ians involving themselves in war, the tragic consequences
208
of the Governor's presence at the front, and the Governor’s
naive thoughts as he is nearly caught in the retreat. All
of these elements present a dramatic contrast to Armisted’s
coolly rational prosecution of the war, but Bierce is not
Armisted, and he gets so carried away in his criticism of
military and civilian stupidity that the subordinate ele
ments of the story overshadow Armisted's heroic behavior
and at times become the dominant theme.
In addition to this, flaw of misplaced emphasis,
Bierce falters in tone. Most of the narrative of "An
Affair of Outposts" is characterized by a candid repor-
torial tone which neatly complements and appropriately
describes Armisted's spartan heroism. Occasionally,
however, Bierce abandons his laconic tone and attempts to
enliven his prose-with inflated diction or merely inappro
priate language. Eor example, when the commanding general
jokingly explains to the Governor the apparent rationale
for placing siege guns behind skirmishers, Bierce adds:
There is reason to fear that the unstrained
quality of this military humor dropped not as the
gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath
the civilian's silk hat. Anyhow he abated none
of his dignity in recognition. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 151)
When the Governor falls with his sprained ankle, Bierce
also falls into his uncontrolled fondness for inflated
diction:
209
He was unable to continue his flight, for he was
too fat to hop, and after several vain attempts,
causing intolerable pain,, seated himself on the
earth to nurse his ignoble disability and
deprecate the military situation. (Bierce, Vol.
II, 1909, p. 156)
Finally, there is the problem of the concluding lines, a
problem which occurs all too often in Bierce's fiction:
The surgeon looked up from his work, pointing
silently to the nearest [Armisted’s] body in the
row of dead, the features discreetly covered
with a handkerchief. It was so near that the
great man [the Governor] could have laid his
hand upon it, but he did not. He may have
feared that it would bleed. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 164)
All of this suggests that "An Affair of Outposts"
is something considerably less than what Bierce demon
strated himself capable of in other stories, and it is just
that. Bierce completely avoids the problem of fear, and
gives little if any insight into the protagonist’s
reaction to dilemma. Armisted’s predicament is psycho
logically crucial, but Bierce tells us nothing of that
crisis.
Even though this tale is seriously defective, and
though it reveals virtually nothing about man under stress,
there is at least one isolated instance of Biercian genius.
That moment occurs in the descriptive passage in which
Armisted’s outnumbered troops are set upon by the charging
Confederates. If there is little else to commend "An
210
Affair of Outposts," the lively description of that battle
scene indicates that Bierce had few peers in the re-crea
tion of violent combat.
"Killed at Resaca"
"Killed at Resaca" is an exercise in dilemma only
in retrospect, for it is not until nearly the end of the
story that the reader learns the motives for Lieutenant
Brayle's strange, intrepid behavior. The tale is quite
simple, and once the reader is introduced to Brayle's
lover, Miss Mendenhall, the mystery of his behavior on the
battlefield is resolved. The dilemma that Brayle faces is
clear enough: he must either demonstrate to his unde
serving lover by suicidal "bravery" that he is not a
coward, or he must risk the loss of her affection by
taking normal precautions on the battlefield.
Even though the problem explored by Bierce in
"Killed at Resaca" is rather simple, the overall effect
of the tale is fragmented, and at the conclusion the
reader is left wondering just what his feelings are or
what they should be. As a consequence of this fragmen
tation, "Killed at Resaca" is far from being one of
Bierce's better stories.
Bierce was well aware of the importance of totality
of effect, and in a passage that is strongly reminiscent
211
of Poe, he clearly pointed out the advantages of the short
story over the novel. In his essay entitled "The Novel,"
Bierce stated:
The novel bears the same relation to literature
that the panorama bears to painting. With what
ever skill and feeling the panorama is painted,
it must lack that basic quality in all art, unity,
totality of effect. 3
Although Bierce does not explicitly promote the short
story in this essay, the implications of his statement
clearly indicate that he believed the short story^ superior
to the novel as an art form. Also like Poe, Bierce never
4
demonstrated an ability to produce a sustained narrative.
There is little question that Bierce was a skilled
craftsman in short fiction, and the unhappy results of
"Killed at Resaca" suggest that contrary to the control
that he usually exercised over his war stories, he was
not sure what he was trying to do in this tale. There are
three principal defects which cause the splintering of
3
Ambrose Bierce, "The Novel," in The Opionator,
Vol. X of The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York:
Neale Publishing Company, 1911) , pp. 17-24.
^Although Bierce (along with Adolphe Danziger) took
credit for writing The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter,
which is considerably longer than anv of his other works,
Frank Monaghan convincingly argues that the only changes
made by Bierce in Richard Voss’s original German story were
unimportant deletions and additions, plus an ironic conclu
sion. "The rest . . . is either close paraphrasing or
literal translation" ("Ambrose Bierce and the Authorship
of The Monk and the Hangman’s Daughter," American
Literature, n (January, 1931) , 347-48).
212
effect in this story. First, there is the problem of
psychological credibility in regard to the protagonist
and his lover. Bierce never resolves this problem, and
as a result the reader is never convinced that Lieutenant
Brayle and Miss Mendenhall are anything more than two-
dimensional figures. The second defect, although not as
serious as the deficiency in characterization, is the
major shift in both time and location that occurs about
two-thirds the way through the narrative. The third
principal cause of fragmentation in "Killed at Resaca"
centers on the very important figure of the narrator.
Here, at least, Bierce devoted sufficient time and effort
to give us a character who is substantial, but the nar
rator shifts so radically in his ambivalence that the
reader has cause to wonder if the narrator’s dilemma is
even greater than that of the protagonist. Whatever sub
stantiality the narrator adds to the tale in terms of
characterization, he detracts and confuses the overall
impact of the story.
These three defects are clearly seen in the
chronological development of the narrative. In the initial
part of the story, Bierce quickly sets the scene, briefly
describes Brayle, and details the dramatic manner of the
protagonist's death. Brayle is described as the ideal
Biercian hero.
213
Lieutenant Brayle was more than six feet in
height and of splendid proportions, with the light
hair and gray-blue eyes which men so gifted usually
find associated with a high order of courage. As
he was commonly in full uniform, especially in
action, when most officers are content to be less
flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and
conspicuous figure. As to the rest, he had a
gentleman's manners, a scholar's head, and a
lion’s heart. His age was about thirty.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 93-94)
In spite of his many virtues, Brayle exhibits one
habit which both his superior officers and comrades find
disconcerting. He habitually refuses to take cover in
even the fiercest battles, and makes a point of displaying
himself prominently in full view of enemy riflemen.
Although this idiosyncracy is at first interpreted as a
mark of vanity, Brayle's essential humility and utter lack
of bravado convince his comrades that he is not motivated
by vaingloriousness.
Brayle had several times been wounded, sometimes
severely, but he always returned to duty "about as good
as new" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 98). In the battle of
Resaca, however, he suicidally exposes himself once too
often and is killed. The manner of his death is spectacu
lar and deserves more than cursory comment. As in several
of Bierce's stories, the narrator is a topographical
officer, and he provides the reader with a graphic
description of the locale. The Federal forces had formed
a line at the edge of a wood facing a broad expanse of
214
open field which separated them from the Confederate
forces, who had entrenched themselves at a considerable
distance away along a slight crest. "Roughly, we formed
a semicircle, the enemy's fortified line being the chord
of the arc" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 98). The unob
structed visibility of the field during the day had
arrested the Federal advance, and they were waiting for
nightfall. The brigade commander, situated at the right
extremity of the Federal line, ordered Brayle to deliver
a message to one of the subordinate commanders on the
opposite end of the line, assuming that Brayle would go on
foot through the woods and behind the protection of the
Federal lines. To the astonishment of everyone, .Brayle
casually rode off directly across the exposed field in
plain sight of the enemy gunners.
Brayle was beyond recall, galloping easily
along, parallel to the enemy and less than two
hundred yards distant. He was a picture to see!
His hat had been blown or shot from his head,
and his long, blond hair rose and fell with the
motion of his horse. He sat erect in the saddle,
holding the reins lightly in his left hand, his
right hanging carelessly at his side. An
occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he
turned his head one way or the other proved that
the interest which he took in what was going on
was natural and without affectation.
The picture was intensely dramatic, but in no
degree theatrical. Successive scores of rifles
spat at him viciously-as he came within range,
and our own line in the edge of the timber
broke out in visible and audible defense. No longer
regardful of themselves or their orders, our
215
fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into
the open sent broad sheets of bullets against the
blazing crest of the offending works, which
poured an answering fire into their unprotected
groups with deadly effect. The artillery on both
sides joined the battle, punctuating the rattle
and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions
and tearing the air with storms of screaming grape,
which from the enemy’s side splintered the trees
and spattered them with blood, and from ours
defiled the smoke of his arms with banks and
clouds of dust from his parapet. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, pp. 99-100)
Eventually Brayle was stopped by a deep ravine
across the field, and he found himself in a geographical
trap that reflected his psychological dilemma. "He could
not go forward, he would not turn back; he stood awaiting
death. It did not keep him long waiting" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 101). At the very moment that Brayle fell, the
firing on both sides ceased. A Federal stretcher squad
under a flag of truce was assisted by a group of
Confederate officers in removing Brayle's body from the
field. From the Confederate lines, fifes and muffled drum
played a dirge. "A generous enemy honored the fallen
brave" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 102).
Up to this point in the narrative, "Killed at
Resaca" is tightly unified in structure, time, place
action, and tone. The reader of critical sensibility •
will see through the highly/romanticized martial side show
of fifes and drum to focus attention on the gratuitous
slaughter attendant to Brayle's picturesque ride, but
216
the story nevertheless remains unified up to this point.
The first two-thirds of this tale strongly resem
bles "A Son of the Gods” and "George Thurston," but it
differs substantially from those two stories in several
respects. In "A Son of the Gods," the motivation of the
protagonist is never even suggested, and it is not par
ticularly significant. The main point of that tale is the
contrasting effect that the hero’s ride has on his com
rades, as opposed to the effect that it has on his com
manding officer. In "A Son of the Gods" neither Bierce
nor the reader is particuarly interested in the protagon
ist’s motive for sacrificing himself. We are primarily
concerned with the emotional effect that he has on his
comrades.
The basic difference between "Killed at Resaca"
and "George Thurston" is that we never learn the specific
reason for George Thurston’s suicide. Because his moti
vation remains unexplained, his behavior takes on universal
proportions and the story can easily be considered a sort
of "Bartleby," in which the protagonist refuses to resist
the pressures of an alien world bent on his destruction.
The cause of Brayle’s death, on the other hand, is par
ticularized in the latter part of the story, and thus
"Killed at Resaca" cannot be considered the universal
story of everyman's dilemma.
217
Immediately after Brayle's death, Bierce shifts the
time and location to "a year after the close of the war,
on my way to California" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 102),
and this change seriously affects the overall effect of
the tale. "Killed at Resaca" is a particularly brief short
story, and its very brevity demands greater unity than
Bierce has given it.
Whether the reader considers "Killed at Resaca"
primarily as an account of Brayle's death in combat or as
an account of the narrator's post-war interview with
Brayle's lover, the tale suffers a diffusion of effect. If,
on one hand, we understand "Killed at Resaca" as a stirring
and sad tale in which Brayle chooses death because he
cannot resolve his dilemma, then the effect is diluted by
the narrator’s interview with Miss Mendenhall, which
occupies the final one-third of the narrative. If, on the
other hand, we consider the woman who caused Brayle's con
flict to be the central issue of the tale, the overall
effect of the story is fragmented and diverted by the
inordinate elaboration of the battle scene and the peculiar
circumstances of Brayle's death.
After the narrator has discovered a love letter
among Brayle's personal effects, he resolves to return
it to the sender, Miss Mendenhall. A brief passage from
the letter clearly explains. Brayle's heretofore inscrutable
218
behavior. Miss Mendenhall had written:
"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it,
has been telling that at some battle in Virginia,
where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching
behind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in
my regard, which he knows the story would do if
I believed it. I could bear to hear of my
soldier lover’s death, but not of his
cowardice." (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 102-03)
The letter makes it quite clear that Brayle's dilemma
required him either to forsake Miss Mendenhall’s love or to
accept a suicidal death that he in no way desired.
Obviously, this tale is not like "One of the
Missing," or "One Officer, One Man," or "A Tough Tussle,"
in which the primary focus lies in the gradual psycho
logical deterioration of the protagonist. The reader may,
with some assurance, conclude that Brayle was driven by
his dilemma into a serious depression. If Brayle decided
to act sensibly in combat, his lover would consider him a
coward; if he tried to fulfill her unrealistically roman
ticized ideals, he would probably get killed. He may have
decided on the latter alternative to prove himself a hero,
but there is at least equal^ probability that he behaved
suicidally because it was the only way that he could
resolve his inner conflict.^
Although Brayle’s suicidal behavior may be
attributed to either severe depression or his desire to
appear heroic to his lover, it is also possible that he
was motivated by anger. Fear often triggers anger, which
2JL9J
After learning of Miss Mendenhall's letter, the
reader is inevitably disappointed, and his interest shifts
quickly from the dramatization of ;the brave soldier's
death to the cause of that death. All the dynamic inten
sity of Brayle's great scene vanishes when we learn that
Brayle died for an undeserving woman. Whatever our
rational response to his death may be, we do not like it
emotionally. He was a good man, and his death utterly
unnecessary. Moreover, Brayle's sacrifice is compounded
by the gratuitous -slaughter of his comrades.
The central problem now hinges on Bierce's treat
ment of the concluding interview between the narrator and
Miss Mendenhall, and it is Bierce's task to make the
reader sympathize with Brayle in his dilemma. Objectively,
of course, we will remain convinced that his death was
patently the less desirable of the two alternatives he
the victim projects toward the frustrating situation or
anyone causing (or even associated with) the frustration.
Possibly, Brayle felt a deep resentment toward Miss
Mendenhall because she had forced him into a "no-win"
situation. Thus, his suicidal behavior might have been
motivated by a perverse desire to punish her by getting
himself killed, presuming (wrongly in this case) that
she would suffer guilt for having encouraged him to
expose himself to unnecessary danger. Biercels primary
concern in his war stories, however, is not anger, but
fear and dilemma.
220
faced, but we may at least be brought to a sympathetic
understanding of why he chose that alternative. Bierce
is, unfortunately, only partially successful in generating
that sympathetic understanding.
Bierce fails to fully convince the reader pri
marily because the narrator’s emotional attitude shifts
drastically during his interview with Miss Mendenhall.
At first, he is bitter and sarcastic over the callousness
of Miss Mendenhall’s letter. "These were the words which
on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region, had slain a
hundred men" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 103). And then,
as if emphasis were needed, he asks, "Is woman weak?"
Bierce here weakens the effect of his tale, first by not
giving the reader credit for being able to draw conclusions
which are obviously implied by the action, and secondly by
engaging in a minor anti-feminist squib.
The vehement tone of the concluding scene suggests
that Bierce firmly identified himself with the narrator
by the time of the interview. He was no longer the
detached topographical officer who merely surveyed the
scene and reported the action. He intended to return the
letter, and also "to tell her what she had done--but
not that she did it." After introducing himself to Miss
Mendenhall with courtly formality, he gave her the
letter. Taking the letter mechanically, she scanned it,
221
blushed, and finally noticed the blood stain on the
paper. When the narrator confirmed her surmise that the
stain was Brayle's blood, Mshe hastily flung the letter
on the blazing coals, ’Uh! I cannot bear the sight of
blood!’ she said. 'How did he die?"’ (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 104).
The narrator’s ambivalence is demonstrated in the
condluding dialogue:
I had involuntarily risen to rescue that
scrap of paper, sacred even to me, and now
stood partly behind her. As she asked the
question she turned her face about and slightly
upward. The light of the burning letter was
reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with
a tinge of crimson like the stain upon its page.
I had never seen anything so beautiful as this
detestable creature.
"He was bitten by a snake," I replied.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 104)
The problem at the root of the story becomes
apparent in the concluding scene. Can the reader conceive
of himself in Brayle's circumstance and acting as Brayle
acted? Lawrence Berkove suggests in his study of
"Killed at Resaca" that "the resemblance of Brayle to
Braille may be a clue to Bierce’s characterization of
Brayle as a man of feeling."^ To the contrary, if the
^Lawrence Ivan Berkove, "Ambrose Bierce's Concern
with Mind and Man," Diss. University of Pennsylvania,
1962), p. 85.
222
protagonist’s name suggests anything, it suggests blind
ness. In the final scene, the motivation and behavior
of the narrator become just as significant as that of the
protagonist. Is it conceivable that the narrator would
have taken the trouble to return the letter? Perhaps
he would, just for the perverse satisfaction of seeing
the cruel woman who wrote it and who was responsible for
the needless death of so many men. But how can we under
stand his behavior after he had arrived at Miss
Mendenhall’s home? First, there is the courtly formality
of his introduction. This is followed by his heroic
characterization of Brayle as "the truest and bravest
heart that ever beat" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 104).
Then he confesses that the letter had become "sacred even
to me." Finally reacting to Miss Mendenhall’s bizarre
combination of physical beauty and spiritual depravity, he
breaks off the tale with a sarcastic, ironic remark.
Bierce’s task is to make the behavior of the pro
tagonist and the narrator seem plausible, and therein
Bierce falls short of the mark. Quite simply, the
peculiar behavior of the protagonist and the shifting
ambivalence of the narrator are unconvincing. In an
essay entitled "The Short Story" Bierce staunchly rejected
the claims of Howellsian realistic probability, but he did
admit that the short story writer has the obligation "to
223
make what is related seem probable in the reading--seem
7
true.” Bierce fails in "Killed at Resaca" to make the
behavior of either' Brayle or the narrator seem probable
or true, and this is one of the principal defects of the
story.
The deficiencies of "Killed at Resaca" can be
seen clearly if this tale is compared to Howells1 short
g
story "Editha," which is similar to Bierce's tale in
several respects. Editha is a young woman who had
encouraged her lover to go off to war and get killed. She
is characterized as being quite taken up with unrealis-
tically romanticized ideals and rather enjoys being the
"widow" of a martyred soldier. At the end of the tale
Edithq travels west to meet and commiserate with the
mother of her slain finance. Throughout the interview
between the bereaved "widow" and the mother, Editha mis
interprets the bitter and cutting remarks of the mother
until the latter makes it unmistakably clear that Editha
had no right to send her son off to war, and that she has
no right to wear the mourning clothes that she is now
~ rr" ~ 7
Ambrose Bierce, "The Short Story," in The
Opinionator, Vol. X of The Collected Works of Ambrose
Bierce (New York: Neale Publishing Co., 1911), pp. 234-48.
^William Dean Howells, "Editha," in The American
Tradition in Literature, ed. Bradley Sculleyl Richmond
Croom Beatty, and E. Hudson Long, 3rd ed. (New York:
Norton, 1967), II, 573-84.
224
affecting.
There are, of course, many differences between
"Killed at Resaca" and "Editha," but the parallel is close
enough to indicate that both Bierce and Howells were
dealing with much the same material and that they were
both confronted with the same task--to make the story
seem true. Howells' story is superior to "Killed at
Resaca" for several reasons. For one thing, "Editha"
has the obvious advantage of being about twice as long as
the Bierce story, and Howells uses that extra length to
develop Editha's character. Moreover, he knows that his
main concern is the development of Editha.’s; character, and
as a consequence he does not even mention how her fianc£
was killed. Bierce, on the other hand, has essentially
joined two stories into one. What is equally revealing
in a comparison of these two stories is the tone and
attitude of the narrator. Whereas Bierce personally
involves himself in the character of the narrator,
Howells maintains an aesthetic distance from his subject
and sustains a consistent, detached tone throughout.
It may be true that the reader of Bierce's tale
cannot help being at least somewhat affected by the nar
rator's comment, "I had never seen anything so beautiful
as this detestable creature" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p.
104), but the tale needs more than that to make Brayle's
225
suicide credible.
"The Coup de Gr&ce"
With the exception of "George Thurston," this
tale is the shortest of Bierce's war stories, and without
much question it is--along with "Chickamauga"--one of his
most violent denunciations of the savagery of war. There
are several other similarities between "The Coup de Grdce"
and "Chickamauga." Both stories, for example, chronicle
the twilight journey of a protagonist as he makes his way
through the hellish aftermath of a terrible battle, and
both tales are suffused with an eerie atmosphere of a
"haunted forest” filled with smoke, fire, dead and dying
men and horses, and utter desolation. Both tales even
tually lead the protagonist to a knowledge of the ultimate
horror of war.
"The Coup de Grdce" is also similar to
"Chickamauga" in that Bierce presses his point so insist
ently that it is impossible for the reader to miss the
nihilistic philosophical thesis of the tale. In
"Chickamauga" Bierce argues that man carries within him
self the source of his own destruction because he is
incapable of quenching the warrior spirit with its
attendant susceptibility to fear and inclination toward
226
aggressiveness. It is, according to Bierce, a spirit
that is inevitably passed on from one generation to
another. In a way, "The Coup de Grdce" is even more bleak
than "Chickamauga," because the former story depicts man
as merely a passive sufferer, an "unheroic Prometheus"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 129), who is trapped and
destroyed by alien forces outside himself.
Few of Bierce's characters are more than two-
dimensional figures, and Captain Madwell and the Halcrow
brothers of this story are no exceptions. Major Creede
Halcrow functions simply as a malignant agency, and in the
conclusion he is little more than cruel fate itself. His
brother, Sergeant Caffal Halcrow, seems real enough from
what the narrator tells us about him in the brief flash
back, but in the action itself, he is reduced to a horribly
mutilated shell of a man. Captain Madwell comes as close
to a fully developed character as may be found in Bierce's
fiction, but he too is reduced to the role of a passive
sufferer of unimaginable anguish. Even in the beginning
of the story it is as if Madwell were impelled by some
force outside himself. As the tale opens, Madwell is
found leaning against a tree, stunned by the experience
of the battle and confused by the wholesale desolation
around him.
______227
From his feet upward to his neck his attitude
was that of weariness reposing; but he turned
his head uneasily from side to side; his mind
was apparently not at rest. He was perhaps
uncertain in which direction to go; he was not
likely to remain long where he was, for already
the level rays of the setting sun straggled redly
through the open spaces of the wood and the
weary soldiers were quitting their task for the
day. He would hardly make a night of it alone
there among the dead. Nine men in ten whom you
meet after a battle inquire the way to some
fraction of the army--as if any one could know.
Doubtless this officer was lost. (Bierce,
Vol. II, 1909, pp. 123-24)
Then, almost as if he were guided by fate or an innate
sense of direction, Madwell steps off into the forest:
When all were gone he walked straight away into
the forest toward the red west, its light
staining his face like blood. The air of
confidence with which he now strode along
showed that he was on familiar ground; he had
recovered his bearings. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, p. 124)
\ Throughout his journey in the "haunted forest" it
is obvious that Madwell is powerless to relieve the
suffering around him.
The dead on his right and on his left were
unregarded as he passed. An occasional low
moan from some sorely-stricken wretch whom the
relief-parties had not reached, and who would
have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars
with his thirst to keep him company, was equally
unheeded. What, indeed, could the officer have
done, being no surgeon and having no water?
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 124)
Once he finds the wounded Halcrow, Madwell!s helpless
ness becomes even more apparent. In addition to being
228
wounded, Halcrow has been horribly mutilated by a herd’ j
of roaming swine, and like the Annandale of E. A.
Robinson^s poem, he has been reduced to an "it."
Scanning each one [bodies] sharply as he [Madwell]
passed, he stopped at last above one which lay
at a slight remove from the others, near a clump
of small trees. He looked at it narrowly. It
seemed to stir. He stooped and laid his hand
upon its face. It screamed. (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, pp. 124-25)
Bierce describes the agony of Caffal Halcrow in
such graphic detail that there can be no doubt about what
Madwell must do.
The man who had suffered these monstrous mutila
tions was alive. At intervals he moved his limbs;
he moaned at every breath. He stared blankly
into the face of his friend and if touched
screamed. In his giant agony he had torn up
the ground on which he lay; his clenched hands
were full of leaves and twigs and earth.
Articulate speech was beyond his power; it was
impossible to know if he were sensible to anything
but pain. The expression of his face was an
appeal; his eyes were full of prayer. For what?
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 128-29)
Bierce, of course, answers the question:
For what, indeed? For that which we accord to
even the meanest creature without sense to
demand it, denying it only to the wretched of
our own race: for the blessed release, the
rite of uttermost compassion, the coup de gr&ce.
Then, as if this argument for euthanasia needed more
support, Madwell turns to a crippled horse nearby.
229
A horse, its foreleg splintered by a cannon-shot,
lifted its head sidewise from the ground and
neighed piteously. Madwell stepped forward,
drew his revolver and shot the poor beast between
the eyes, narrowly observing its death struggle,
which, contrary to his expectation, was violent
and long; but at last it lay still. The tense
muscles of its lips, which had uncovered the teeth
in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-
cut profile took on a look of profound peace and
rest. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 130)
As fate would have it, Madwell had expended his
last cartridge on the crippled horse and must resort to
the sword in order to end his friend's agony. "As if
to test his nerves," he holds the blade straight in front
of him, and the steady reflection of a "ray of bleak
skylight" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 131) attests to his
steady grip. Watjijone downward thrust, he drives the tip
of the sword through Halcrow's body and into the earth.
At that moment Madwell's nemesis, Major Creede Halcrow,
accompanied by two stretcher bearers, steps forth from
behind the trees, and thus the trap snaps shut on Madwell.
Perhaps one of the most remarkable aspects of
"The Coup de Grdce" is the way in which Bierce manages
tone throughout most of the tale. Too often in his
memoirs and his civilian fiction, Bierce masks whatever
real feelings he has with sardonic humor, and turns death
into a joke. Although the tone of "The Coup de GrSce"
wavers somewhat in the opening paragraphs, it is
remarkable nevertheless for its consistency.
230
The opening paragraphs of the story reveal that
Bierce had at least a minor problem in establishing a
proper tone for his narrative.
The fighting had been hard and continuous;
that was attested by all the senses. The very
taste of battle was in the air. All was now
over; it remained only to succor the wounded and
bury the dead--to "tidy up a bit," as the
humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal
of "tidying up" was required. As far as one could
see through the forests, among the splintered
trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among
them moved the stretcher-bearers, gathering and
carrying away the few who showed signs of life.
Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the
right to minister to,their wants was in dispute.
It is an army regulation that the wounded must
wait; the best way to care for them is to win the
battle. It must be confessed that victory is a
distinct advantage to a man requiring attention,
but many do not live to avail themselves of it.
The dead were collected in groups of a dozen
or a score and laid side: by side in rows while
the trenches were dug to receive them. Some, found
at too great a distance from these rallying points,
were buried where they lay. There was little
attempt at identification, though in most cases,
the burial parties being detailed to glean the
same ground which they had assisted to reap, the
names of the victorious dead were known and
listed. The enemy's fallen had to be content with
Counting. But of that they got enough; many of
them were counted several times, and the total,
as given afterward in the official report of the
victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than
a result. (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 122-23)
The tone of these opening paragraphs is uncertain.
There is, first, the sardonic comment by the "burial
squad humorist" that the area required considerable
"tidying up." This bit of humor is followed by a candid
statement describing the destruction and explaining that
231
"most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right
to minister to their wants was in dispute." Bierce adds
that although army regulations are logical in the sense
that the best way to attend the wounded is to win the
battle, "many do not live to avail themselves" of the
advantage of victory. The tone of the narrative here is
exceedingly subtle and warrants close inspection. The
allusion to army regulations and the inflexible and
inhuman code it invokes is cold, hard, and effective, but
Bierce’s choice of diction overloads his otherwise under
stated irony, and that diction gives the entire passage
an air of flippancy. Bierce achieves irony in such
expressions as "right to minister to their wants was in
dispute," "confessed," "victory," and "avail," but the
discrepancy between the horrible reality of the scene and
the fine and elegant words is more than the situation can
bear. The terrible reality itself more than adequately
destroys any romantic conception of war, without the
inordinate emphasis of Bierce's mordant witticism.
Bierce subdues slightly the tone of the second
paragraph, but there too he mars the overall effect by
referring to "rallying points” for the dead and the army's
peculiar method of measuring victory by counting the
bodies of the fallen enemy.
232
"Thp? Coup de Gr^ce" grew out of two of Bierce’s
war experiences, and it is revealing to contrast the tone
of his war memoirs with that of this story. In his
9
autobiographical essay "On the Mountain," Bierce relates
one of his Civil War experiences in which his military unit
repassed an area where, on the previous day, he and his
comrades had observed the corpses of several soldiers.
Repassing the spot the next day, a beaten,
dispirited and exhausted force, feeble from
fatigue and savage from defeat, some of us had
life enough left, such as it was, to observe that
these bodies had altered their position. They
appeared also to have thrown off some of their
clothing, which lay near by, in disorder. Their
expression, too, had an added blankness--they had
no faces.
As soon as the head of our straggling column
had reached the spot a desultory firing had
begun. One might have thought the living paid
honors to the dead. No; the firing was a military
execution; the condemned, a herd of galloping
swine. They had eaten our fallen, but--touching
magnanimity!--we did not eat theirs.
The shooting of several kinds was very good
in the Cheat Mountain country, even in 1861.
(Bierce, Vol. I, 1909, p. 233)
The mercy-killing of Caffal Halcrow also has its
source in Bierce's memoirs, but with a monstrously dif
ferent tone and result. In the essay "What I Saw of
q
Ambrose Bierce, "On the Mountain," m Bits ; ;
of Autobiography,, Vol. I of The Collected Works of Ambrose
Bierce (New York: Neale Publishing Company, 1909
pp. 2 2 5-33.
233
10
Shiloh,” Bierce relates the following incident:
Men? There were men enough; all dead, appar
ently, except one, who lay near where I had
halted my platoon to await the slower movement
of the line--a Federal sergeant, variously hurt,
who had been a fine giant in his time. He lay
face upward, taking in his breath in convulsive,
rattling snorts, and blowing it out in sputters
of froth which crawled creamily down his cheeks,
piling itself alongside his neck and ears. A
bullet had chipped a groove in his skull, above
the temple; from this the brain protruded in
bosses, dropping off in flakes and strings. I
had not previously known one could get on, even in
this unsatisfactory fashion, with so little
brain. One of my men, whom I knew for a womanish
fellow, asked if he should put his bayonet through
him. Inexpressibly shocked by the cold-blooded
proposal, I told him I thoughtmot; it was unusual,
and too many were looking. (Bierce, Vol. I,
1909, p. 255)
Lawrence Berkove contends that "the tone of grim
humor in this passage should not be misconstrued as
facetiousness or callousness," and that the passage is
in fact "an indication of [Bierce's] seriousness and
sensitivity" (Berkove, p. 103). Such a contention is
difficult to accept. Although it is unquestionably true
that Bierce is here attacking the romantic delusions about
war, it is asking too much to accept his sardonic humor as
a mark of "seriousness and sensitivity." Rather than
assuming that his bitter tone reflects either seriousness
Ambrose Bierce, "What I Saw of Shiloh" in
Bits of Autobiography, Vol. I of The Collected Works of
Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale Publishing Company, 1909),
pp. 234-69.
234
or sensitivity, it is safer to assume that Bierce used
brutal humor as a defense mechanism to hide his real
feelings.
Tfye fictional account of Bierce's experience is
vastly superior to the autobiographical renditions if
for no other reason than that in the short story he main
tains a tighter control over his work and thus achieves a
more subdued tone. Both of the autobiographical passages
are characterized by a jocose attitude of the tough
veteran who protests too much that he is utterly unim
pressed by the horrors of war. In addition to the
inappropriate tone, the passages from "On the Mountain"
and "What I Saw of Shiloh” are filled with grisly details
which are substantially toned down in the short story.
Whereas the autobiographical accounts are larded with
incredible gore--"sputters of froth which crawled creamily
down his cheeks, piling itself alongside his neck and
ears . . . the brain protruded in bosses, dropping off in
flakes and strings"--the short story describes Halcrow's
wound in simple and straight-forward language without sen-
sat ionalistic embellishment--"the only visible wound was
a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen. . . . Protruding
from it was a loop of small intestine" (Bierce, Vol. II,
1909, pp. 127-28).
235
It could be argued that the radical variation in
tone is due at least in part to Bierce's difference in
purpose. In the essays, he is very consciously playing
the role of the old campaigner who is intent, not only
on impressing the reader with the horrors of his experi
ence, but equally intent on giving the impression that
he is too tough to be touched by suffering. In the short
story Bierce concentrates not so much on the physical
horror of the wound, but on the terrible pain suffered by
Halcrow and the consequent anguish of Madwell.
"The Coup de Grdce" is, in spite of the few
lapses in tone, an outstanding example of effective tone
used in a very difficult situation. When Madwell is con
fronted with "the thing which had been his friend"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 128), Bierce's control of tone
is masterful and unerring.
Captain Madwell spoke the name of his friend. He
repeated it over and over without effect until
emotion choked his utterance. His tears plashed
upon the livid face beneath his own and blinded
himself. He saw nothing but a blurred and moving
object, but the moans were more distinct than
ever] interrupted at briefer intervals by sharper
shrieks. He turned away, struck his hand upon
his forehead, and strode from the spot.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, pp. 129-30)
In what could have been either an exercise in maudlin
sentimentality or another excursion into Biercian grave
yard humor, the author here maintains firm control of the
216
scene and gives the reader a brief but unforgettable
glimpse of genuine pathos that is unequaled in any of
Bierce's other fiction. It is indeed the genuinely honest
compassion of Captain Madwell that saves "The Coup de
Grdce" from being a gratuitous shocker, and elevates it
to the level of human dignity.
In addition to being a delicate treatment of a
difficult subject (especially difficult for Bierce) and a
startlingly effective attack on the horrors of war, "The
Coup de Grdce" also illustrates»Bierce's thesis that
man is isolated, trapped, and destroyed by his own weak
ness. As Madwell wanders among the dead and dying in the
nightmare forest, his isolation takes on an eerie quality
similar to that of Dante, as he wandered among the suffer
ing dead. Madwell's fate is doubly poignant and unjust,
not only because he is a blameless sufferer, but because
his act of mercy is the very thing that is used to destroy
him.
"The -Mocking Bird"
"The Mocking-Bird" is a remarkable study of
dilemma, but it is substantially different from most of
Bierce's other dilemma stories. In most of the tales
dealing with dilemma, Bierce makes the protagonist's con
flict exceptionally concrete: Carter Druse must kill his
237
father, Captain Madwell must kill* his best friend,
Captain Coulter must shell his own home and family. In
each of these stories Bierce aims at revealing the psycho
logical reactions of the character, and he particularizes
the dilemma so that the reader both understands and feels
the conflict that the protagonist suffers. In "The
Mocking-Bird" Bierce is more philosophical than psycho
logical, and as a result William Grayrock's dilemma is
both abstract and elusive. The tale deals with the
problem of the divided inner self, and, like Poe’s
"William Wilson," it utilizes the "twin" protagonist-
antagonist as a vehicle for describing a man divided
against himself. William Grayrock has "lost" a part of
himself, and when he becomes aware of that loss, it becomes
impossible for him to exist as an incomplete person.
The outward frame of "The Mocking-Bird" is a
rather simple story in which one brother unwittingly
kills his twin, but the tale suggests an almost unlimited
number of contrasts: reality and illusion, past and
present, experience and innocence, actuality and desire,
empirical rationality and intuitive imagination. Bierce
contrasts these polarities in the twin brothers, the
"Realm of Conjecture" and the "Enchanted Land," the North
and the South, the city and the country, the night and
the day.
258
Stuart Woodruff’s analysis of "The Mocking-Bird”
provides an incisive interpretation of the overall story
and most of its difficult, suggestive elements. According
to Woodruff, Grayrock is hopelessly ignorant and defense
less in a forest that symbolizes Bierce's "inscrutably
destructive universe" (Woodruff, 1964, p. 71). The for-,
est’s beauty is merely an illusion that disguises a harsh
reality that will eventually destroy Grayrock, and Bierce
uses the theme of divided kinsmen "as another example of
that 'wondrous mosaic' [from "One of the Missing"]
destructive to the young and the brave" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 29).
Woodruff also sees "The Mocking-Bird" as a "parable
of Bierce's lost illusions" (Woodruff, 1964, p. 71). He
points out the close parallels between the images of
Grayrock's dream and Bierce's letters and autobiographical
essays. In one of his letters Bierce wrote:
. . . of a certain "enchanted forest" here
about to which I feel myself sometimes strongly
drawn as a fitting place to lay down "my weary
body and my head. ..."
The element of enchantment in that forest is
supplied by my wandering and dreaming in it forty-
one years ago when I was a-soldiering and there
were new things under a new sun. It is miles
away, but from a near-by summit I can overlook
the entire region--ridge beyond ridge, parted
by purple valleys full of sleep. . . . Can you
guess my feelings when I view this Dream-land--my
Realm of Adventure, inhabited by memories that
beckon me from every valley? I shall go; I shall
239
retrace my old routes and lines of march; stand
in my old camps; inspect my battlefields to see
that all is right and undisturbed. I shall go
to the Enchanted Forest.H
The similarity in tone and imagery between "The
Mocking-Bird” and his essay "What I Saw of Shiloh” is
unmistakable:
0 days when all the world was beautiful and
strange; when unfamiliar constellations burned
in the Southern midnights, and the mocking-bird
poured out his heart in the moon-gilded magnolia;
when there was something new under a new sun;
will your fine, far memories ever cease to lay
contrasting pictures athwart the harsher features
of this later world, accentuating the ugliness of
the longer and tamer life? Is it not strange
that the phantoms of a blood-stained period have
so airy a grace and look with so tender eyes?--that
1 recall with difficulty the danger and death
and horrors of the time, and without effort all
that was gracious and picturesque? Ah, Youth,
there is no such wizard as thou! Give me but one
touch of thine artist hand upon the dull canvas
of the Present; gild for but one moment the drear
and somber scenes of to-day, and I will willingly
surrender an other life than the one that I should
have thrown away at Shiloh. (Bierce, Vol. I, 1909,
p. 269)
The "golden days” of Grayrock's dream are,
according to Woodruff, "a time when life was experienced
sensuously rather than rationally or intellectually. The
bird only seemed to define an age of joy and promise”
(Woodruff, 1964, p. 72). .The mocking-bird is thus
Bertha Clark Pope, ed., The Letters of Ambrose
Bierce (San Francisco: The Book Club of California,
1922), p. 204.
240
ironically deceptive, and Woodruff adds Mthe undeceived
narrator remarks of its singing: 'There was little in
that--it was only to open the bill and breathe'" (Woodruff,
1964, p. 73). He notes that "the shadow that falls across
'the golden haze' is, of course, William's horrifying dis
covery that he had killed his brother" (Woodruff, 1964,
p. 73). The overall pattern of "The Mocking-Bird" i s ' : one
of "contrast between a destructive reality in the present
time and a former period of youthful hope and joy defined
in the richly suggestive language of a dream" (Woodruff,
1964, p. 74).
Woodruff concludes his interpretation of "The
Mocking-Bird" in a passage that warrants full quotation:
Even more revealing is the contrast between the
"Realm of Conjecture," where William went to live,
and the "Enchanted Land," where John made his
home. William's home suggests both the actual
world of the immediate present and William's
tendency to theorize about life, to draw con
clusions from its uncertain premises. John's
mysterious "Enchanted Land" is a nonexistent
dream-state, a "distant region," to which William
returns momentarily when he becomes a child "in
spirit and in memory." Its deceptive reality
is "to sense" only, just as the mockingbird is
a false prophet of joyous promise. Significantly,
it is immediately after William pulls himself
together "with an effort of the will"--that is,
returns to the world of actuality and the exercise
of his rational faculties --that he finds the dead
"image of himself." The inevitable has happened;
the childish dream of life's joy and fullness, a
product of the creative imagination, has been
demolished by an empirical knowledge of the real
world and its ways. It is not John who has been
killed, but William's longing to believe in an
enchanted land of bright promise and benevolent
241
purpose. If the story expresses Bierce’s impulse
to recapture some lost period when life seemed
purposeful and lovely, then the brothers are
actually two aspects of Bierce himself which
became "separated" during the war. Furthermore,
the analytical, conjectual Bierce, who tried to
see life realistically, unintentionally "killed"
Bierce the romantic idealist, who tried once to
believe that life was exciting and good. Like
all of Bierce's war stories, "The Mocking-Bird"
is concerned with the emptiness of dreams.
(Woodruff, 1964, pp. 74-75)
Without question, Woodruff has a firm grasp on the
story and his interpretation is remarkably incisive. The
forest can indeed be considered a symbol of Bierce's
''inscrutably destructive universe," and the overall problem
in this tale is the disillusionment that results from the
destruction of hope and dreams. Woodruff seems to sug
gest, however, that there is a certain inevitability that
brings about the destruction of Grayrock's dreams--that
the world simply overpowers man's effort to keep the dream
alive. Although Woodruff's interpretation of "The
Mocking-Bird" is valid, it emphasizes Grayrock's passive
suffering and suggests by that emphasis that man is
utterly helpless. Woodruff qualifies his basic interpre
tation by stating that perhaps "the analytical, conjectural
Bierce . . . unintentionally 'killed' Bierce the romantic
idealist" (Woodruff, 1964, p. 75). Even with that quali
fication, his fundamental interpretation underscores man's
passivity and it makes little provision for the evidence
242
which suggests that man does not just passively suffer
but, in fact, actively cooperates in his own destruction.
If I understand Woodruff correctly, Grayrock is
merely a normal man rationally going about his business of
trying to understand reality and survive. Grayrock tries
to see the world "realistically," and although he is
temporarily misled by the false prophecy of the mocking
bird, the harsh actuality of the world eventually asserts
itself, destroying first the dream and then the man. This
interpretation of Grayrock's situation is based on the
premise that man is hopblessly inadequate to withstand the
harsh actualities of reality, and that it is impossible
for him to make any sense out of the apparent chaos of the
world. This ultimately pessimistic interpretation need
not be the only way of understanding "The Mocking-Bird."
There is more than enough evidence in Bierce's
war fiction to demonstrate that Bierce did in fact feel
that man was hopelessly confronted by an all-destroying
world, but this particular tale suggests that the destruc
tion of dreams is caused, at least, lift ©art., * by man him- ’
self. There are two rather prominent aspects of "The
Mocking-Bird" that Woodruff does not adequately explicate:
the difference in Grayrock's perception during the day and
during the night, and, secondly, Grayrock's intuitive sense
of direction. The most apparent aspect of Grayrock’s
243
perception is his poor night visionr-
For two hours after he had been left at his lonely
post that Saturday night he stood stockstill,
leaning against the trunk of a large tree, staring
into the darkness in his front and trying to
recognize known objects; for he had been posted
at the same spot during the day. But all.was now
different; he saw nothing in detail, but only
groups of things, whose shapes, not observed when
there was something more of them to observe, were
now unfamiliar. They seemed not to have been there
before. A landscape that is all trees and under
growth, moreover, lacks definition, is confused
and without accentuated points upon which atten
tion can gain a foothold. Add the gloom of a moon
less night, and something more than great natural
intelligence and a city education is required to
preserve one’s knowledge of direction. And that is
how it occurred that Private Grayrock, after
vigilantly watching the spaces in his front and
then imprudently executing a circumspection of
his whole dimly visible.environment (silently
walking around his tree to accomplish it) lost
his bearings. . . . (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
pp. 219-20)
It is significant that he is unable--in the dark--
to find the intruder after the shooting episode. On the
following day he has no problem in orienting himself or,
finding the position that he had held the previous night,
but again he cannot find any evidence of his victim. After
his dream of the ’ ’ Enchanted Land” he starts back to camp.
Transformed momentarily into a child "in spirit and in
memory” (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 228) by the mocking
bird's song, he dwells brief 1-y in the ’’Enchanted Land.”
Then ’’ with an effort of the will he pulled himself
together . . . audibly damning himself for an idiot. . . ."
244
It is only then, after he has by force of conscious "effort
of the will" shaken off and finally abandoned the dream
of the "Enchanted Land" that he discovers "the image of
himself" (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 228)--the corpse of
his brother and his idealistic self.
That is not the only evidence in the tale that
Grayrock actively collaborates in the destruction of his
dream. Bierce emphasizes that Grayrock had an instinctive
sense of direction which did not desert him, even while he
was "lost" at his post. Even though Grayrock had been
raised in the city and the "Land of Conjecture" (both of
which suggest rationality and empirical observation--as
opposed to the "Enchanted Land"), he retained his intui
tive sense of direction.
In the mean time, however, Grayrock had made a
close but unavailing search for the mortal part
of the intruder at whom he had fired, and whom
he had a marksman's intuitive sense of having hit;
for he was one of those born experts who shoot
without aim by an instinctive sense of direction,
and are nearly as dangerous by night as by day.
During a full half of his twenty-four years he
had been a terror to the targets of all the
shooting galleries in three cities.
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 2 22)
Two questions naturally arise: first, what is the
significance in the difference between Grayrock's day and
night vision, and, second, how are we to understand the
underlying meaning of Grayrock's instinctive sense of
direction? If "The Mocking-Bird" is considered in a
245
context broader than a story of disillusionment, the tale
may be considered as a search for truth and reality.
Within that broader context the meaning of the vision and
directional imagery becomes apparent. Although Grayrock
ordinarily relied on rationality and empirical observation
to test reality (symbolized by his normal vision), he
still retained an instinctive sense of direction--an
intuitive vision--that allowed him to find the truth, even
at night. His regular vision (representing rationality
and empirical observation) was adequate for the needs and
conditions of day, but it would not serve him at night.
His intuitive power of understanding reality by transcend
ing disappointing actualities remained with him .until, by
"an effort of the will he pulled himself together"--a
terrible irony--and abandoned his dream of the "Enchanted
Land."
Bierce’s career makes it abundantly clear that he
could not, as William Blake did, reconcile the innocence
of the "Enchanted Land” with the experience of the "Land
of Conjecture." "The Mocking-Bird" is rather dismal in
estimating the possibility of keeping the dream alive, but
it does not unequivocally declare that man's disillusion
ment is the inevitable result of purely external forces.
Bierce's world in "The Mocking-Bird" is indeed inscrutable
and destructive, but it is, man's empirical and anti
romantic tendencies that destroy the "Enchanted Land."
246
Bierce had good reason to place this story as the
final selection among his tales of soldiers. "The
Mocking-Bird" has something of a summary quality that makes
it an appropriate conclusion to his military stories, and
also the appropriate selection with which to conclude* this
study. With all its complexity and multitudinous con
trasts, this tale is considerably different from most of
Bierce’s war stories. It does not, like so many of the
others, painstakingly record and analyze man’s psycho
logical disintegration. Nevertheless, "The Mocking-Bird"
underscores once more Bierce's theory that man is
destroyed, not from without, but from within.. Bierce
creates in this almost allegorical tale a schizoid world
in which the protagonist is not only alone in the forest,
but isolated from himself. Finally, as with all of
Bierce's soldiers, Grayrock is brought down--not by an
intruder in the night--but by himself.
247
CHAPTER V
CONCLUSION
Not all of Bierce’s war stories deal with the
problem of fear. In addition to the war stories that con
stitute In the Midst of Life (Vol. II, 1909), Bierce wrote
several humorous tales about his Civil War experiences,
such as "Four Days in Dixie.These humorous tales,
however, are simply entertainments and satires, and they
do not reveal anything significant about psychological
conflict.
Even among the military tales of In the Midst of
?
Life, there are two stories that are not concerned
primarily with the problem of fear: "A Son of the Gods"
and "One Kind of Officer." Although these tales bear con
siderable resemblance to the other tales in that collection
in their irony and pessimism, and even though both deal
■^Ambrose Bierce, "Four Days in Dixie," in Bits of
Autobiography, Vol. I of The Collected Works of Ambrose
Bierce (New York: Neale Publishing Company, 1909),
pp. 297-314.
2
Ambrose Bierce, In the Midst of Life, Vol. II of
The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce (New York: Neale
Publishing Company, 1909): "A Son of the Gods,” pp. 58-70;
"One Kind of Officer," pp. 178-96.
248
with isolated protagonists strongly motivated by self
destructive tendencies, neither tale reveals anything
significant about the thoughts and feelings of the
protagonists.
In "A Son of the Gods” a young Federal officer
volunteers to ride alone up a hill suspected of being
defended by Confederates. Wearing a full-dress uniform
and mounted on a snow-white horse, the young officer
rides up the hill, trying to draw enemy fire and thereby
reveal their position. He charges back and forth across
the field until he is finally shot down. The Federal
army, wildly incited by the dramatic spectacle, leave
their cover and charge up the hill into the murderous
Confederate fire. Only the Federal commander remains
unmoved. He commands his bugler to sound retreat, and
the tale concludes with Bierce's lament:
Ah, those many, many needless dead! That great
soul whose beautiful body is lying over yonder,
so conspicuous against the sere hillside--could
it not have been spared the bitter consciousness
of a vain devotion? Would one exception have
marred too much the pitiless perfection of the
divine, eternal plan? (Bierce, Vol. II, 1909,
p. 70)
The pessimistically deterministic tone of the
concluding paragraph is unmistakably typical of Bierce's
war stories, but "A Son of the Gods" also presents a
clear illustration of Bierce's inner conflict. He knew
249
well the horrors of war, but he could also appreciate
its excitement. Even though the heroism, the excitement,
and the beauty of the young officer’s ride appealed
strongly to Bierce's romantic tendencies, Bierce unhesi
tatingly points to the Federal commander's stoicism as the
only reasonable attitude toward war. Whatever "A Son
of the Gods” may say about Bierce's attitude toward the
emotional and rational prosecution of warfare, the tale
reveals little about fear.
Much the same is true of "One Kind of Officer.”
In this story Captain Ransome is given an insultingly
absolute command by his antagonist and commander, General
Cameron, to fire on any movement of troops approaching his
position. When a large, but as yet unidentified, body of
troops advances toward him, Ransome orders his entire
battery to open fire with grape shot. Ransome's lieuten
ant protests that they are firing on friendly troops, but
Ransome curtly puts the lieutenant down by repeating
Cameron's insulting order: "It is not permitted to you to
know anything. It is sufficient that you obey my orders"
(Bierce, Vol. II, 1909, p. 191). Ransome's artillery con
tinues to slaughter the oncoming Federal troops, and
Ransome personally shoots the flag-bearer of the advancing
brigade.
In the inevitable reckoning that must follow the
battle, the story takes on the form of an informal
250
court-martial. Ransome admits that he knew he was firing
on Federal troops, but explains that he was merely obeying
Cameron's order. As fate would have it, Cameron had just
been killed in the recent action. When Ransome asks his
lieutenant to come forward to bear witness that he,
Ransome, had been acting on Cameron's absolute orders, the
lieutenant--still smarting from Ransome's rebuke--states
that he had urged Ransome to cease firing on the Federal
brigade, and that he had no knowledge of Cameron's order.
Bierce concludes the tale with Ransome's realization that
he is doomed.
Bierce does not give enough in this tale to make
anything more than superficial sense, and what super
ficial sense there is in the tale is contradicted by common
sense. Unless Ransome is a psychopath in his desire to
revenge an insult, he must have realized that he would
have to assume the major portion of the responsibility for
shelling friendly troops, regardless of Cameron's order.
Bierce emphasizes Ransome's isolation throughout the tale,
but he never allows the reader a glimpse into Ransome's
mind until the concluding paragraph.
Both "A Son of the Gods” and "One Kind of Officer"
are fascinating stories, but neither of them reveals any
thing significant about fear. In "A Son of the Gods,"
Bierce is concerned primarily with contrasting the
251
undisciplined, emotional attitude of the army against the
stoical Federal commander, who represents cold but
effective reason. The heroic officer-martyr serves merely
as a dramatic catalyst to reveal that contrast. Thus,
the story says very little about either fear or heroism.
Similarly, "One Kind of Officer" explores a problem that
may be considered a dilemma, but Ransome's blind obedience
and willful misunderstanding of orders is more assuredly
insane than the emotional banzai charge in "A Son of the
Gods."3
Even though these two stories are not concerned
with the problem of fear, Bierce's world view and his atti
tude about the human condition remain the same. He was
often cynical, and certainly pessimistic in his estimate
of man's chance for achieving happiness. If he shows no
liking or respect for the protagonists of his civilian
tales, he sustains a deep respect and affection for his
soldiers. He compassionately understood the plight of
3
Captain Ransome's "insane" stubborness might have
been generated by much the same kind of anger discussed
earlier in regard to Lieutenant Brayle of "Killed at
Resaca." Fear, dilemma, and frustration in general often
cause the victim to experience strong resentment and anger.
Thus, it is entirely possible that Ransome, smarting from
General Cameron's imperious rebuke, was bent on demonstra
ting the stupidity of Cameron's absolute order and also on
"punishing" anyone associated with the frustrating situa
tion. Even so, Bierce's main concern in his war stories
remains the problem of fear and dilemma, not anger.
252
Captain Graffenreid and his other soldiers whose deaths
seem unnecessary and sometimes even ridiculous. They
were never ridiculous to Bierce. His soldiers may be
weak, deluded, and even out of touch with reality, but
none of them is petty, selfish, or ignoble. Bierce was
no misanthrope. He deplored man’s condition and his
weaknesses, but he did not deplore man himself. In spite
of the unrelenting fatalism that permeates his war
stories, his soldiers are admirable even in their futile
attempts to resist overwhelming odds.
Bierce's greatest ...accomplishment was his incisive
understanding of fear and its insideously destructive
power. He found in his Civil War experiences a metaphor
ideally suited to express his belief that all men are
soldiers at war in a hostile and destructive universe. And
yet, as hostile and destructive as the external world is,
man's greatest menace is not the enemy soldier, who
threatens the body with bullets, but fear, which attacks
the mind. All men are isolated, trapped, and destroyed-- if
not by the external world--then by fear. In Bierce's
world, there are no civilians, and there is no peace.
253
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