A challenge lies in expanding what war is without diminishing or valuing one experience over another. Once, at a small family dinner which included a guest who was a veteran of World War II, the guest was pressed—perhaps by me (I was in college at the time)—to tell the story of his time in the war. The guest told about the steel plate in his head. My Uncle Al hesitated, then said that he had served in the War, too. He was in the military police in France, checking on the security of villages about ten miles behind the front lines, advancing as the Americans liberated village after village. By the time he arrived, there was dancing in the streets, the wine was flowing, and all the girls were eager to kiss the Americans. His war, he felt, wasn’t the war. He admitted that he almost never told the story. An uncle on the other side served, too, but as a chaplain in the Pacific, far from combat. He, too, felt that he didn’t have a story to tell, that his war was not the war. Perhaps this says something about war experiences. No one’s war is the war and, in teaching representations of war we need to keep that observation at the fore.
I spare you the twists and turns of my cogitations, for no conclusion was found on the road to Headingly, and I ask you to suppose that I soon found out my mistake about the turning and retraced my steps to Fernham.
--Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own (1929)