Myrer's mammoth novel is an engaging, disciplined, and, ultimately, powerful examination of American military life—its hardships and demands, its rewards and sacrifices, its meaning and tragedies, its uses and abuses—as filtered through the evolving life story of Sam Damon: raw and naïve recruit in the First World War, seasoned veteran in the Second, despairing old schooler in the looming presence of the Vietnam folly. Damon meets his diametric archetype in Courtney Massengale, his coeval and lifelong counterimage, a man born to privilege and well-connected within the military network who will, perforce, rise higher up the chain than Damon, assume greater responsibilities, without ever having been required to give much of himself other than time. Sam, a career soldier who works his way to an officer's rank by way of gruntdom, is the ideal American GI: brave, resolute, honorable, resourceful, thoughtful, and—perhaps most important of all—honest. Sam is a combat officer, leading his men in the field of battle from the front; Courtney a staff officer, who crafts the plans from the rear echelon that will send the likes of Sam into the fires of hell. Myrer is positioning here two species of military men and delineating the effect, ofttimes wide-ranging, that each brings to bear upon the wars America was called upon to fight in the twentieth century.
In the battlefields of World War I, young Damon finds a father figure in the wise and mentoring Colonel Caldwell; this bond only grows tighter when, in the postwar years, Damon marries Caldwell's daughter, Tommy. Other reviews have announced that Tommy was a poorly-drawn character, flat and lacking substance. It may very well be that I don't know all that much about people, especially women—or, at least, many years ago when I blazed through this bad boy, ere the interweb had shorted the speed relays within my mental reading circuitry—but I held that Tommy was a vivid presence, a strong-willed, practical woman, full of common sense and an invaluable partner to her husband, who suffered as the wife of a junior officer in Depression America—surviving on a meagre salary, living in decrepit assigned military housing, chafing at the banal role expected of her by other officer's spouses—but always managed to make it work. She's also a skeptical bulwark to set against the enthusiasms and occasionally narrowly-focussed perspectives of her military father and husband, the voice of civilian America that strives to remind these servicemen, sometimes exasperatedly, that we need to set the domestic table before we can praise God and pass the ammunition. In many ways, Tommy was the stateside and familial linchpin that connected Sam to the humanity that existed outside of rank and uniform; her husband, who passes a considerable portion of the book overseas, fighting against the Germans, the Japanese, and the power-blind Massengale—finds a constant reminder in his wife of what, exactly, motivates him to put his life on the line in the name of a duty that such as Courtney value quite cheaply.
As can readily be imagined, there are myriad ways a novel of this type—especially one that clocks in at a formidable thirteen hundred pages—could go wrong; but Myrer, for the most part, avoids the pitfalls. He's a thoroughly competent writer, and if the interwar scenes can at times unfold in a routine narrative that might glaze the eyes of others (I found the whole shebang to be enjoyable), he excels, as would only be expected, when the stage shifts to the French fields of WWI and the sweltering Pacific Islands of WWII. Damon himself grows both on the pages and upon the reader—and if such a stalwart, dutiful man can tend towards revealing himself to be a touch plodding, occasionally prone to temper flares, possessed of a cramped side when away from the battlefields and military routine and forced to deal with the minutiae of the quotidian, his core is of a thoroughly decent man who shines under pressure and always attempts do the right thing, as he determines it. He's not a saint, he's not John Wayne, he's capable of his own calculating nature, he and Tommy share some tumultuous arguments over dueling outlooks on life's demands, and he makes decisions—especially one forced upon him after a ferociously contested offensive against a powerful Japanese position that was callously scripted by the cooly loathsome Courtney—that will continue to haunt him long after the war itself has been concluded.
In the final stretch, when steadily applied pressure from Massengale and his cronies, ensconced within the ranks of those pushing for an armed American intervention in Vietnam, refuses to break Sam, he must face the possibility of his entire life of service being encapsulated as periodic episodes in crankery; and, when you consider all of the evidence, do the Massengalean factions of the world actually have the right view of things? Myrer is a skilled enough storyteller to allow all sides, believing they are right, to be persuasive; that we cheer for Damon, pull for Damon, like Damon, is a testament to something vital that endures within the beating heart of human nature. That core essence, accessed and allowed to blossom, is what permits the United States' insanely armed and sized military to operate with its human face visible; its soldiers to hate what they have committed to enduring, even whilst convinced that commitment is an essential component of the responsibility of being an independent republic. Myrer's book laments that, under the guidance of an elite that has nested itself on high for all of the wrong reasons—and a compelled soldiery resentful of this guidance pressing down upon their reluctance—this may be in danger of disappearing, or at least being altered into something metastasized or feral. Once an Eagle would certainly not be everybody's cup of tea, but its thoughtfulness and readability may surprise some people.