Rick Glen Strandlof, a wounded Marine captain, is in trouble. Strandlof, a Colorado graduate of the United States Naval Academy, has an impressive resume. He survived the September 11th attacks on the Pentagon, served three tours in Iraq, was wounded during the battle for the Iraqi city of Fallujah and received the Purple Heart.
Strandlof is in trouble because none of the above is true. He is a fraud. He never served in the military. Never received a Purple Heart. Never fought in Fallujah. But he must have been very convincing because he successfully carried on this charade, appearing at fundraisers for Colorado politicians and charitable organizations.
Strandlof has been described as “a former mental patient,” but he is not crazy at all. He is hungry. Hungry for applause. Hungry for recognition. He is a bargain basement hero. And he is not alone.
The Nave SEALs have identified over 20,000 men who fraudulently claim to be members. The Army Special forces also has thousands of phony members. Joe, Mauk, for example, has 11 Purple Hearts for wounds suffered in Viet Nam where he was held prisoner for almost 2 1/2 years. According to news reports, Mauk, who frequently spoke to military groups and in school classrooms, had, “stirred awe in Colorado school children and brought tears to the eyes of adults,” but he too, is a phony: no medals, no military, no prisoner of war camps.
The problem has become so widespread that Colorado Congressman John Salazar, sponsored the 2006 Stolen Valor Act, which criminalizes false claims of military heroics.
Perhaps the most surprising fraudulent war hero is historian Joseph Ellis, who won the Pulitzer Prize in 2001 for Founding Brothers. Ellis repeatedly lied to his students at Mount Holyoke College about his Viet Nam experiences, falsely claiming to have led a paratrooper division. He also fabricated his role as an activist in the peace movement and the civil rights movement. Why would someone like Ellis, who has plenty of accolades, recognition, wealth and notoriety, shame himself with such lies? Why do any of them do it?
Most frauds are perpetrated for money, but for the phony heroes, the payoff is psychological gratification. They aren’t satisfied with who they are, so they transform themselves into something better: a hero.
The desire to be a hero slumbers in all of us. Children will never tire of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, who rose from outcast to honor through one heroic act. A story I used to read to my children was about Clumsy Clyde the Cowboy, who became a laughingstock because he continually fell off his horse. After he captured a couple of swarthy bank robbers he was hailed as a hero, and as he rode away the people cheered, “‘Ride ’em cowboy’ And no one ever called him Clumsy Clyde again.”
Children innately recognize the supremely satisfying feeling of rising from helplessness to heroism. Frank Coughlin Jr., who died recently at the age of 93, played crippled newsboy Billy Batson in a 1941 movie serial based on the Captain Marvel comics. When Billy uttered the mysterious word, Shazam, he was magically transformed into muscular super hero, Captain Marvel. “What a great fantasy for kids,” said Bruce Goldstein, director of repertory theater in New York, “a kid who turns into a superhero.”
Yes, it’s a great fantasy for kids, but not for adults. Psychologist Ernest Becker believes that the hunger for heroism can be “a blind driveness that burns people up a screaming for glory as uncritical and reflexive as the howling dog.” Unfortunately, that screaming for glory can lead to all sorts of atrocities – suicide bombings, assassinations and war. “Fascism ” wrote Benito Mussolini, “believes in holiness and heroism.” The heroism of European fascism helped lead to approximately 50 million deaths in the Second World War.
Very few of us are going to pad our resumes with Navy SEAL exploits. We are neither screaming nor scheming nor hungering for glory. Most of us are closer to Clumsy Clyde the Cowboy than to Rick Glen Strandlof. We get our taste of heroism by identifying with fictional heroes from Captain Marvel to Clint Eastwood characters. And yet, I suspect that many of us awaken at three in the morning, wondering what it would feel like to have the world calling our name.
Rick Strandlof knows that feeling. And now he knows the opposite feeling – shame, which is all he deserves.
Fred Singer lives in Johnstown. EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an online-only column and has not been edited.
