For you took what’s before me and what’s behind me
You took east and west when you would not mind me
Sun, moon and stars from me you have taken
And Christ likewise if I’m not mistaken.
—“Dónal Óg.” Traditional.
None of us were sure. After two very good shots—a drive off the tee, and a three- or four-wood second—both ladies found themselves short of the green by more than forty yards. Two chips later, neither of which were close, both had made fives—scores that either were pars or bogies. But we did not know which scores they were; that is, we didn’t know what par was on the hole, the eighth on Medinah’s Course One. That was important because, while in normal play, the difference would hardly have mattered, it did matter in this case because our foursome was playing as part of a larger tournament, and the method of scoring of this tournament was what is called a “modified Stableford” format. In “modified Stableford,” points are assigned for each score: instead of the total number of strokes being added up or the number of holes being added up, in other words, as in stroke and match play scoring formats, under a modified Stableford format players receive zero points for a par, but lose a point for bogey. To know what the ladies had scored, then, it was important to know what the par was—and since Course One had only just reopened last year after a renovation, none of us knew if the par for ladies had changed with it. The tournament scorecard was no help—we needed a regular scorecard to check against, which we could only get when we returned towards the clubhouse after the ninth hole. When we did, we learned what we needed to know—and I learned just how much today’s women golfers still have in common with both French women, circa 1919, and the nation of France, today.
The eighth hole on Medinah Country Club’s Course One is, for men, a very long par four, measuring 461 yards from the back tee. For the most part it is straight, though with a slight curve from left to right along its length. Along with length, the hole is also defended with a devilish green that is highly sloped from the high side on the left to a low side on the right. It is an extremely difficult hole, ranked as the fifth-hardest hole on the golf course. And though the ladies do not play from the back tees, the eighth is still nearly 400 yards for them, which even for very good women players is quite long; it is not unusual to find ladies’ par fives at that distance. Hence, we had good reason to at least wish to question whether the tournament scorecard was printed in error.
Returning to the clubhouse, we went by the first tee where all the scorecards for Course One are kept. Picking one up, I quickly scanned it and found that, indeed, the par for the eighth hole was four for the ladies, as the tournament scorecard said. At that instant, one of the assistant pros happened by, and I asked him about it: “Well,” he said, “if the par’s the same for everyone it hardly matters—par’s just a number, anyway.” In a sense, of course, he was right: par really is, in one way, completely arbitrary. A golfer scores what she scores: whether that is “par” or not really makes little difference—par is just a name, it might be said. Except that in this case the name of the thing really did matter, because it had a direct effect on the scoring for the tournament as a whole … I could feel my brain slowly sinking into a mental abyss, as I tried to work out the possible consequences of what might appear to be merely an inconsequential name change.
What I immediately realized, at least, was that making the hole a par four greatly amplified the efforts of a long-hitting woman: being able to reach that green in two gave any woman even more of a huge advantage over her fellow competitors than she already had simply by hitting the ball further. Making the hole a par four made such a woman an electric guitar against everyone else’s acoustic: she would just drown everyone out. Furthermore, that advantage would multiply the more rounds the tournament played: the interest, in other words, would compound.
It’s in that sense that, researching another topic, I became interested in the fate of Frenchwomen in the year 1919—the year after the end of the Great War, or World War I. That war, as everyone knows, virtually wiped out an entire generation of young men: Britain, for example, lost nearly a million young men in battle, while France lost nearly one and half millions. (Germany, by comparison, lost nearly two millions.) Yet, although occasionally the point comes up during Veterans Day observations in America—what the Europeans call “Armistice Day” is, with good reason, a much bigger deal—or classroom discussions about writers of the 1920s in English classes (like Fitzgerald or Hemingway, the “Lost Generation”), the fact is treated sentimentally: we are supposed to be sad about those many, many deaths. But what we do not do is think about the long-term effect of losing so many young men (and, though less so, women) in their youth.
We do not, that is, consider the fact that, as writer Fraser Cameron observed in 2014, in France in “1919, the year after the war was over in France, there were 15 women for every man between the ages of 18 and 30.” We do not think about, as Cameron continues, “all of the lost potential, all of the writers, artists, teachers, inventors, and leaders that were killed.” Cameron neglects to consider all of the janitors that were killed also, but his larger point is solid: the fact of the Great War has had a measurable effect on France’s destiny as a nation, because all of those missing young men would have contributed to France’s total productivity, would have paid taxes, would have paid into pensions—and perhaps above all, would have had babies who would have done the same. And those missing French (and British and German and Russian and Italian …) babies still matter—and probably will forever.
“In the past two decades,” says Malcolm Gladwell of the New Yorker, in an article from a few years ago entitled, “The Risk Pool,” “Ireland has gone from being one of the most economically backward countries in Western Europe to being one of the strongest: its growth rate has been roughly double that of the rest of Europe.” Many explanations have been advanced for that growth, Gladwell says—but the most convincing explanation, he also says, may have been advanced by two Harvard economists, David Bloom and David Canning: “In 1979, restrictions on contraception that had been in place since Ireland’s founding”—itself a consequence, by the bye, of the millions of deaths on the Western Front—“were lifted, and the birth rate began to fall.” What had been an average of nearly four children per woman in the late 1960s became, by the mid-nineteen-nineties, less than two. And so Ireland, in those years, “was suddenly free of the enormous social cost of supporting and educating and caring for a large dependent population”—which, as it happens, coincides with the years when the Irish economy exploded. Bloom and Canning argue that this is not a coincidence.
It might then be thought, were you to take a somewhat dark view, that France in 1919 was thusly handed a kind of blessing: the French children that were born in 1919 would be analogous to Irish children in 1969, a tiny cohort easily supported by the rest of the nation. But actually, of course, the situation is rather the opposite: when French children of 1919 came of age, that meant there were many fewer of them to support the rest of the nation—and, as we know, Frenchmen born in 1919 were doubly the victims of fate: the year they turned twenty was the year Hitler invaded Poland. Hence, the losses first realized during the Great War were doubled down—not only was the 1919 generation many times less than there would have been had there been no general European war in the first decades of the twentieth-century, but now there would be many fewer of their grandchildren, too. And so it went: if you are ever at a loss for something to do, there is always the exercise of thinking about all of those millions of missing French (and Italian and English and Russian …) people down through the decades, and the consequences of their loss.
That’s an exercise that, for the most part, people do not do: although nearly everyone in virtually every nation on earth memorializes their war dead on some holiday or another, it’s very difficult to think of the ramifying, compounding costs of those dead. In that sense, the dead of war are a kind of “hidden” cost, for although they are remembered on each nation’s version of Memorial Day or Armistice Day or Veterans Day, they are remembered sentimentally, emotionally. But while that is, to be sure, an important ritual to be performed—because rituals are performed for the living, not the dead—it seems to me also important to remember just what it is that wars really mean: they are a kind of tax on the living and on the future, a tax that represents choices that can never be made and roads that may never be traveled. The dead are debt that can never be repaid and whose effects become greater, rather than less, with time—a compound interest of horror that goes on working like one of Blake’s “dark satanic mills” through all time.
Hidden costs, of course, are all around us, all of the time; very few of us have the luxury of wondering about how far a bullet fired during, say, the summer of 1916 or the winter of 1863 can really travel. For all of the bullets that ever found their mark, fired in all of the wars that were ever fought, are, and always will be, still in flight, onwards through the generations. Which, come to think of it, may have been what James Joyce meant at the end of what has been called “the finest short story in the English language”—a story entitled, simply, “The Dead.” It’s a story that, like the bullets of the Great War, still travels forward through history; it ends as the story’s hero, Gabriel Conroy, stands at the window during a winter’s night, having just heard from his wife—for the first time ever—the story of her youthful romance with a local boy, Michael Fury, long before she ever met Gabriel. At the window, he considers how Fury’s early death of tuberculosis affected his wife’s life, and thusly his own: “His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and, faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.” As Joyce saw, all the snowflakes are still falling, all the bullets are still flying, and we will never, ever, really know what par is.