I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one

Hear now the grave words of Dwight D. Eisenhower, supreme commander of armies and later president of a nation, who declared: “I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.” In this cry there is no romance, no illusion, no gilded praise of conquest. It is the voice of one who has walked through the smoke and ruin, who has seen young men cut down in their prime, and who knows that war, even when necessary, is a curse upon humanity. Only one who has borne its weight can speak with such depth of hatred—not the hatred of an enemy, but the hatred of war itself.

The origin of these words lies in Eisenhower’s own journey through the crucible of the Second World War. As Supreme Allied Commander in Europe, he directed the vast invasion of Normandy in June 1944, the turning point of the war against Nazi tyranny. Though hailed as a strategist and leader, Eisenhower did not forget the price. He walked among the soldiers, he visited the wounded, and he received the grim reports of the countless dead. For him, war was not an abstraction but a living nightmare, its brutality written on the faces of those he led.

Consider the beaches of Omaha on D-Day, where waves of young soldiers stormed the shore under torrents of gunfire. The sea ran red with blood, bodies were strewn across the sand, and yet the survivors pressed forward. Victory was won that day, but Eisenhower knew the cost: thousands of lives spent in a single dawn. To the world it was triumph; to him it was proof of war’s futility and stupidity, that humanity could devise such slaughter again and again despite centuries of warnings.

The ancients, too, glimpsed this truth. Did not Homer sing of Achilles, who gained glory but lost his dearest companion, and who at the end found his wrath empty? Did not Thucydides chronicle how the Peloponnesian War devoured Athens and Sparta alike, leaving ruins where greatness once stood? Always, the pattern repeats: nations call war necessary, but the aftermath reveals only grief, ashes, and disillusion. Eisenhower’s words join this ancient chorus: the true soldier hates war, for he has seen it naked, without illusion.

Yet within his hatred lies also wisdom. Eisenhower was no pacifist dreamer; he knew that sometimes war must be waged to resist evil. But he also knew that those who long for war, who cry for it from the safety of distance, understand nothing of its reality. The soldier, who sees both courage and carnage, returns with the greatest longing for peace. Thus his words are not only confession, but also warning: let none glorify war, lest they betray the lives already sacrificed upon its altar.

What lesson, then, shall we draw? That we must listen not to the voices that glorify war, but to those who have endured it. We must remember that war, even when victorious, is always loss: the loss of lives, of homes, of innocence, of futures untold. True wisdom is to honor the soldier’s sacrifice not by demanding more wars, but by laboring to make fewer necessary. The highest honor to the fallen is to prevent new graves from being dug.

Practical action begins with vigilance. Resist leaders who speak lightly of war, who promise easy victories without cost. Support efforts of diplomacy, reconciliation, and justice, for these are the weapons of peace. Teach the young not to see war as a game or an adventure, but as the last and most tragic resort. And in your own life, cultivate peace in your words and deeds, for the seeds of war are often sown in hatred and pride long before the armies march.

So let Eisenhower’s words echo like a solemn oath: “I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can.” Carry them as a shield against illusions, that you may see clearly through the false glories of battle. For in remembering his hatred, we may learn to love peace more fiercely, and strive to build a world where no soldier must again utter such a cry.