In the past, war was confined for the most part to men in

In the sober and prophetic words of Frederick Banting, the healer who gave humankind the gift of insulin, we hear not the voice of a soldier, but that of a thinker who had seen the shadow of war fall upon the heart of civilization. “In the past, war was confined for the most part to men in uniform, but with increased mechanization of armies and the introduction of air forces, there is an increased dependence on the home country, and eight to ten people working at home are now required to keep one man in the fighting line.” These words, spoken in the aftermath of the First World War, and on the eve of another, carry a truth as enduring as time: that war, once limited to the battlefield, now consumes the lifeblood of entire nations — that no one, whether in armor or apron, escapes its reach.

Banting was no stranger to both healing and destruction. Though remembered for discovering insulin and saving millions of lives, he also served as a soldier and medical officer during the Great War. He saw firsthand how modern conflict had transformed — how the simple clash of warriors had become the terrible symphony of machines, industry, and civilian labor. His words reflect this awakening: that war was no longer the affair of a few men with rifles, but the work of entire societies. Factories thundered like iron temples; fields were stripped bare to feed armies; women and children bent their backs in service to unseen frontlines. Every bullet fired at the front was forged by many hands behind it, and every victory was purchased with the toil of those far from the roar of guns.

The ancients would have recognized the shift, though they named it differently. Once, in the days of sword and shield, warriors met face to face, and the citizen watched from afar, perhaps offering prayers or tribute. Yet as time advanced, so too did the scale of war. The philosopher Heraclitus declared that “war is the father of all things,” meaning not that it was noble, but that it revealed the structure of existence — the hidden interdependence of all creation. Banting’s observation mirrors this wisdom: that even the warrior depends upon those who are unseen — the smith who forged his blade, the farmer who fed his hunger, the mother who taught him courage. In the modern age, this dependence has grown vast and intricate, binding all people to the fate of battle, whether they bear arms or not.

During the Second World War, this truth was carved into history. Entire nations became engines of war. Women left their homes to build airplanes, tanks, and ammunition, their hands steady beneath the banners of their country. Men too old or too young to fight labored in foundries and fields, sustaining the armies that fought overseas. A soldier at the front was but the tip of a great spear, the shaft of which was the labor, sacrifice, and spirit of his homeland. Banting’s warning — that eight or ten must work to support one — was no exaggeration; it was prophecy fulfilled. The home front became as vital as the battlefield itself, and the line between combatant and civilian dissolved like smoke.

Yet there is a deeper message in Banting’s words — one that reaches beyond war and into the structure of all human endeavor. He teaches that no man stands alone. Every act of greatness, every achievement of power or peace, is upheld by unseen hands. Just as the soldier depends upon those who labor behind him, so too does the scholar rely on teachers, the artist on his audience, the leader on his people. The illusion of independence fades before the truth of interdependence. The wise among the ancients, like Marcus Aurelius, spoke of this same web of unity: “What is not good for the hive is not good for the bee.” Banting’s insight, born of war, is thus also a lesson for peace — a call to humility and gratitude for the countless souls whose quiet work sustains the world.

And yet, his quote is also a warning — that when a nation commits itself to destruction, it drags all its citizens with it, willingly or not. The farmer who grows wheat, the machinist who builds engines, the nurse who tends the wounded — all are drawn into the machinery of conflict. War consumes not only lives, but the labor, hope, and innocence of entire generations. Banting, as both scientist and soldier, saw the irony that while he had devoted his life to preserving human life through medicine, others were devoting theirs to perfecting the instruments of death. His tone is one of sorrow, of recognition that progress, without wisdom, enslaves rather than frees.

The lesson, then, is twofold. First, that in any great undertaking — whether for good or for ill — every hand matters. The smallest effort, unseen though it may be, contributes to the triumph or tragedy of the whole. And second, that humanity must learn to channel its collective strength not toward destruction, but toward creation. If eight to ten people are needed to sustain one man at war, how much more could they achieve in peace — building cities, curing diseases, feeding the hungry, and nurturing the world? Banting’s wisdom invites us to see that the same unity which makes war possible also makes redemption possible.

So, dear listener, heed the voice of Frederick Banting — the healer who glimpsed the shadow of modern war. Remember that no battle is fought alone, and that every life, whether in uniform or at home, is bound to the fate of others. Let the same interdependence that once fueled destruction now fuel compassion. For in the end, true strength does not lie in the power to destroy, but in the will to preserve — in the courage to turn the engines of war into the instruments of peace, and the labor that once sustained death into the labor that sustains life.