The Pinnacle of Heroics
The Pinnacle of Heroics
Self-sacrificing warriors and their preeminence among archetypes
A man who has nothing which he is willing to fight for, nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety, is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself. — John Stuart Mill
Heroes are as old as human thought and stories of their actions and exploits have been passed down, orally or through literature, for as long as humans have possessed the ability to communicate. Heroes have become a cornerstone archetype for most mythoi, but not all heroes are created equal— or more accurately— not all heroes serve the same purpose for the culture(s) from which they spring or subsequent culture(s) which honor them. The heroic categories have expanded with every societal step into the future, but some of the most common are the epic, classical, and tragic hero— even the anti-hero. However, one category often overlooked as a distinctive type of hero is the self-sacrificing warrior. Though many heroes can possess attributes which foster inclusion in several categories, only heroes who sacrifice themselves, usually in a combative engagement, can be defined as self-sacrificing warriors. Two examples of this class of hero are Hector and Týr. A comparative analysis of both heroes, and the archetypal theories of a collective unconscious and dispersion, will demonstrate that contemporary cultures who subscribe to a warrior ethos choose to emulate the self-sacrificing warrior above all others.
It is important to begin this analysis with a calibration of both vocabulary and concept. Within the related words mythology, myths, and mythoi— the root is “myth,” from the Greek mythos, which at its most basic, simply means story, but meaning changes over time, and throughout the course of human history the purpose and usefulness of so-called myths have changed as well. At one time they were “charged with a special seriousness and importance,” (Thury & Devinney 4) insomuch as they offered scientific explanation of human and natural origins, destruction, and natural events affecting the culture or society who believed the myth(s). Additionally, myths served as guidelines for acceptable societal behavior. Contemporarily, advances in technology and a greater understanding of our natural world have synonymously paired myth with antiquated storytelling, and decry them as necessarily fictional tales, irrelevant in purpose outside of entertainment, to wit mythoi are reduced to “false stor[ies]” (Thury & Devinney 4). Nothing could be farther from the truth.
Present-day understanding may be more accurate than the mythologies of old, but the assertion remains as equally and utterly irrelevant to a myth’s contemporary importance as our modern understanding was to those who created and believed the “antiquated” myths in the first place. If a so-called false story can inform contemporary beliefs and behaviors based on those of our ancestors— if a so-called false story can inspire modern cultures and societies to achieve more than they would have otherwise— if a so-called false story can encourage mankind to act heroically, in the face of indomitable opposition, then myths emanate tangible energy, necessarily, and inasmuch as philosophical truths may exist at all, myths can be, and are, real as well. A type of mythological hero who informs, inspires, and encourages contemporary society is the self-sacrificing warrior. This mythological character (or historical figure turned mythological in some cases) is a distinctly identifiable heroic archetype, but what is an archetype and why does it matter?
Multiple archetypal theories exist, but two that are commonly discussed are the Jungian theory regrading a collective unconscious across all mankind and the dispersion theory. Though both offer plausible explanations for how and why certain archetypes and associated mythoi spread— or appeared— in every corner of our world and in every culture which resided therein, the most significant aspect of either theory is how it helps to broaden an understanding of myths.
The basics of Jung’s archetypal theory come from his belief that dreams and myths “are the primary pathways to self-realization” (Thury & Devinney 609) because they offer an understanding of the otherwise inaccessible areas of one’s psyche. This was, of course, an important component of his practice as a psychoanalyst and psychiatrist, but what carried his theory into other disciplines was what Jung recognized as the “collective unconscious” (Thury & Devinney 610) of his patients, and all people. Jung believed the “foundation of [human] personality,” (Thury & Devinney 610) consists of distinctive perspectives within our minds. It is the “software we’re born with” (Pressfield 84). Jung described this as the tendency “to form mythological patterns… characterized by typical figures common to psychic activity in every culture through history,” (Thury & Devinney 610) and called these patterns archetypes. Where a collective unconscious is rooted in the enigmatically universal human mind, dispersion theory is explained by tangible anthropological study. It is explained by human movement throughout the world and all time.
Dispersion theory is a relatively basic concept. Experiences impacted by natural events, and the observation of such events, were accumulated by our earliest genetic cousins in pre-geographic time— that is, prior to continental separation. These accumulated stories— these myths— where then dispersed by way of a “worldwide diffusion” (Witzel). Our ancestors passed these experiences from one generation to the next, first orally and then in written form. This dispersion, or diffusion, of original human experience fostered the archetypes observed today. In short, archetypes can be traced to the very origin of our species and documented through time by the movement of various Hominidae throughout the world. The record of dispersion can thereby increase our understanding of who we are today by discovering who we were during the cradle of existence.
There are some terms which this analysis has already explained: myth, collective unconscious, dispersion theory, and Jung’s definition of archetype. Another term which will aide in this analysis is self-sacrificing warrior. Though a textbook definition of sacrifice would describe the subordination of oneself or one's interest, for others or for a cause or ideal (Merriam-Webster), and warrior as a person engaged in some struggle or conflict (Merriam-Webster), neither self-sacrifice nor warrior status is enough, independently, to help distil the information required for this analysis, as many heroes can put the interests of others before their own and struggle to do so. Therefore, our definition is an amalgamation of the two. A self-sacrificing warrior is a particular type of hero who sacrifices themself, typically with deadly or permanent physical consequences, during a violent and combative engagement, and does so for the betterment of those who rely on them for protection because of the hero’s character and prowess. With this definition in mind, why study Hector or Týr? Why not Achilles or Odysseus? Why not study Thor or Odin? They are, after all, warriors who sacrificed themselves for others in certain and distinct ways— often in combat. A brief look at Hector’s myth will help understand why the Homeric self-sacrificing warrior is a better example than the others mentioned.
Burgeoning Western cultures believed gods and demi-gods controlled every aspect of their life. As such, these cultures drew inspiration from many heroes, but most of them had a divine connection or, at a minimum, patronage from the gods. Hector was not devoid of divine assistance, necessarily; however, the absence of assistance when it counted most is one example of how he was different. Hector stands out as a mortal hero and military and city-state leader, who in the face of insurmountable odds, chose duty to his people over duty as a husband and father, and the honors of a warrior ethos over the privileges of long life. Hector’s myth is a part of Homer’s epic poem, The Iliad, which tells in part, of a mortal’s deadly combative engagement with a demi-god, the all-but-immortal Achilles, and the self-sacrifice with which the mortal warrior, Hector, accepted as a dutiful burden and, ultimately, his alone to bear.
In Homer’s poem, Troy is under siege by an Archaean alliance, who seek the return of Helen. Hector leads the Trojan defense, and in doing so, slays Achilles’ most cherished companion. Achilles had ceased to aid to the Archaean alliance, but at the death of his companion, he rejoins the campaign to enact revenge on Hector. All recognize this as a death sentence for the latter. Though paramount among men, Hector— the “peer of Ares, the bane of mortals” (Homer 13.788)— acknowledges his dilemma and the prowess of Achilles in a brief exchange, when he says to the demi-god, “… think not with words to affright me, as I were a child… I know that thou art valiant, and I am weaker far than thou” (Homer 20.419).
Bold as his statement may be, Hector is not without fear. He explains to his wife that “the day shall come when holy Troy shall be laid low” (Hamilton 183), and though he is convicted to fulfil his duty as a self-sacrificing warrior, and leaves his wife, children, and people to fate, his fear remains. In fact, when he finally meets Achilles in combat, his first reaction is to flee. Achilles chases him around the city three times before they begin to actually engage in close combat. Homer’s allowance for real human emotion serves as a means for his readers to connect with the myth. A warrior might want to be like the fearless Achilles, but a human warrior is not a demi-god. By acknowledging fear as a natural emotion when facing one’s own death, Homer gives the warrior-reader a choice: either act like Hector, accepting fear as natural and something that can be overcome, and chose honor and duty and even death— choose self-sacrifice— or selfishly accept life and with it everlasting shame.
Hector’s example was one in which men in the grips of polis-centric turmoil would have looked to when faced with their own demise. But does this hold true today? Unequivocally, yes. The simple fact is, in America, we are— that is, the general public— the beneficiaries of self-sacrificing warriors— less concerned today with other nations invading our lands than Hector was, and though current events appear to indicate the sentiment is a particularly privileged geopolitical position, that was not always the case. Nor does it diminish the importance and significance Hector’s example has provided every nation’s warrior class since antiquity.
Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman provides a contemporary example of how warriors respond to Hector in his 1995 case study, On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society1. Grossman points to the doctrinal acknowledgement of fear in training U.S. forces for combat during World War II.
… Stouffer’s landmark World War II study of 1949 show that men who exhibited controlled fear were not generally poorly regarded by their peers. Indeed, during World War II, in a widely distributed pamphlet entitled Army life, the U.S. Army told its soldiers: “YOU’LL BE SCARED. Sure you’ll be scared. Before you go into battle you’ll be frightened at the uncertainty, at the thought of being killed.
Steven Pressfield, a Marine veteran and author, wrote in The Warrior Ethos2, “In warrior cultures… honor is a man’s most prized possession. Without it, life is not worth living,” (Pressfield 53) and with respect to selflessness, he asserts, “Selflessness produces courage because it binds men together and proves to each individual that he is not alone” (Pressfield 44). The U.S. Marine Corps requires, both noncommissioned officers and junior commissioned officers alike, to read Grossman’s On Killing— as well as his work, On Combat: The Psychology and Physiology of Deadly Conflict in War and Peace3— and various works by Pressfield, including The Warrior Ethos. Though The Iliad is not required reading for Marines per se, other works which “[Examine] the psychological devastation of war by comparing the soldiers of Homer's The Iliad with Vietnam veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder” are required of senior enlisted and field grade and flag officers (Defense Information School), it is on the U.S. Army’s Chief of Staff’s professional reading list (Army.mil), and at West Point, cadets have The Iliad as one of their options on the reading list for “war books” (Heck & Mills). Clearly, the myth of Hector has trickled through time and been accepted as a model for the ideal self-sacrificing warrior, but how has that been accomplished?
According to the theory of a collective unconscious, Jung would say that within every human being, there exists a fight or flight response, necessarily, and early human experience set a select class of individuals apart from the rest when faced with the decision. Among the throngs, some fought and, in doing so, sacrificed themselves for the betterment and continuation of others. This became a part of the collective unconscious, and today, when faced with combat— even imminent and certain death— some humans access this unconscious artifact and assume the role of self-sacrificing warriors. On the other hand, dispersion theory would argue as humans expanded territory and journeyed throughout the world, conflict would have been inevitable. Such conflicts would have pitted weaker hominids against stronger ones and occasionally the strong against their equal, and this pattern would have continued incessantly throughout our species’ evolution. The result of such conflict would have influenced one generation to the next, and the vehicle for that influence was story— myth—passed along through time in the myriad of locations our ancestors and ourselves settled.
Nuance is required, and beneficial, when analyzing the ancient Germanic self-sacrificing god, Týr. He is different than other mythological gods in that his myth is derived from primarily oral traditions in a pre-literate time and area of the world, and his role in the polytheistic and pagan belief systems diminished mythologically (Thury & Devinney 297). Despite Týr’s lesser mythological self, he maintained a countenance of bravery when other more powerful gods failed to act.
Týr is thought to be the oldest Norse god (Simek 89). He is the cultural evolutionary product of the Germanic chief god, Tiwaz, and the Greek Zues (Thury & Devinney 571). Snorri Sturluson’s Prose Edda identifies Týr as having unparalleled bravery. The wolf, Fenrir, is a contributing agent for the end of all things and must be bound until Ragnarök. He wouldn’t naturally agree to be indefinitely bound, so the gods had to trick him. Fenrir agrees to be bound, believing he will be released, so long as one of the gods places their hand in his mouth as a demonstration of sincerity and a sign of trust. Among a host of seemingly all-powerful god’s, Týr is the only one willing to sacrifice his own body for the good of all. Snorri Sturluson describes the events as follows:
The gods now looked at one another, realizing the seriousness of the problem they faced. No one was willing to hold out his hand until Týr raised his right hand and laid it in the wolf’s mouth. But when the wolf strained against the fetter, the band only hardened, and the more he struggled, the stronger the band became. They all laughed except Týr; he lost his hand.
Jesse Byock’s translated edition of The Prose Edda4 offers that the name Týr became an adjective for someone that is courageous and “the type who advances out in front, never losing his courage” (Byock 25). The fact Týr transitions from the oldest and most powerful god to a minor one-handed god, or that his name was reduced to an adjective, should in no way detract from his importance in the culture(s) which believed in him or those that followed. Týr remains one of the most influential myths Germanic, Norse, and Saxon ancestors carried forward through time.
As Týr’s import waned mythologically, his attributes were divided amongst other Gods and paved the way for mythological successors like Wodan, Odin, and Thor (Thury & Devinney 571-572). Possibly more significant are the contributions Týr had on language and literacy. For example, “the rune [t] ᛏ is named after [Týr]” (Guzii 16). Additionally, ᛏ is pronounced týr by the Norse and “used in migration-age rune-magic as a rune for victory” for Norse, Anglo-Saxon, and Gothic cultures (Simek 89). The rune’s influence has endured and remains present in military cartography, symbology, and battlefield communication today.
Many military unit designators, combat movement functions and equipment and capability designations are variations on t/ᛏ/týr. For example, the symbol for a mortar unit or position is, and the function of direction finding is designated as ᛏ. Search or reconnaissance is its inversion, and machine guns, grenade launchers, rifles, single rocket launchers, multiple rocket launchers, antitank rocket launchers, lasers, robotics, sleds, tracked vehicles, wheeled vehicles, some amphibious vehicles, and even pack animals (Army Doctrinal Publication 1-025) are variations of t/ᛏ/týr— remnants of Týr.
Looking back to theories which might explain how Týr’s myth appears in contemporary warrior cultures and their self-sacrificing warriors, dispersion theory can trace the myth from pre-literate Germanic cultures to the Nordic regions of Europe, and through contemporary times by way of etymology and literature. Current military symbology requires minimal, but distinct symbols to articulate complex battle plans and movements. Adopting variations of runes, and specifically the rune for the one-time god of war only makes sense, and demonstrates the prestige, diminished as it may have become, modern warriors have for the myth, even if unwittingly so. Analyzing the myth through the lens of collective unconscious might point to humans’ inclination to document experiences through art and language. In every corner of the world, discoveries are made which validate this argument. Whether it is cave art, inscriptions on tools or weapons or pottery, hieroglyphs, runes, or other orthographical conventions, anthropologists, archaeologists, and geologist find this evidence all over the world. Týr was an all-powerful god, then lesser god, then symbol, and ultimately influential in more ways than a normal (if there were such a thing) myth might be.
The everchanging purpose of myth(s) has been touched on briefly, but Hector and Týr differ in that regard. On the one hand, the purpose of Hector’s myth was (and remains) equal parts sociological, psychological, and pedagogical. His example demonstrates, then and now, that self-sacrifice is noble, that one can indeed overcome fear, and teaches them a protocol for combative behavior which is modelled by warriors to this day. On the other hand, Týr’s purpose might have originated to satisfy primarily cosmological and aetiological curiosities but was transformed. To be sure, the myth remained tied to cosmological and aetiological aspects of Norse culture; however, the primary purpose of Týr became sociological and pedagogical through an example of bravery and the literal, tangible, function(s) towards post-literacy growth.
Much of the evolution of Hector and Týr’s myths and relevance to contemporary culture has been discussed respectively, but their relevance in and to media has evolved as well. Media is part of the average human existence to such a degree as never before seen. We are inundated with media— social, news, print, electronic, radio, mass— the list could go on and on. Though traditional terminology for the time in which we live is the information age, like mythology, information is changing, and the method of delivery and digestion is too. As a result, society has begun to refer to contemporary time as “the digital age” (Denning), which offers another facet of relevancy to both myths.
Homer’s epic was passed down through oral traditions, then through visual imagery on pottery and static art, and finally theatrical productions. As technologies improved, film and the world wide web became places where the myth could be delivered to a broader audience, thus leaving Hector’s prints on the collective psyche, and reinforcing Jungian collective unconsciousness for the next generation.
The Iliad had been available to anyone with access to a library, but now, anyone with a cellular phone and internet access can read the epic poem and learn about the self-sacrifice of Hector. Furthermore, publication collections like Loeb Classic Library print the Greek and English translation side-by-side, affording an intangible accompaniment to one’s reading experience. For individuals who prefer a strictly digital method of delivery, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology provides access to the complete work at no cost (Stevenson). Where film is concerned, numerous adaptations have been produced with critical acclaim and monetary success varying as much as the size of the production.
While literary critics decry Wolfgang Peterson’s 2004 film adaptation, Troy, as an unfaithful retelling of Homer’s telling, it earned $483,152,040 globally (Nash Information Services, LLC) at a profit margin of 61% (Mucha & Pál), so what is the problem? Is it a true account or not? The answer is, of course, it does not matter. The disparity between financial success and critical acclaim means little to those outside of film and literary criticism, and in the years since its release, home video, television release, and streaming service options have introduced the story to countless audiences. Thury and Devinney use Disney adaptations of mythological tales to demonstrate the difference between authenticity, cultural value, and the so-called truth. “If you want to say that many of the details in the Disney version don’t correspond to the ancient story, that would be true…” (Thury & Devinney 16). But when considering which story is the truest, they point out, “usually, the answer is that one version isn’t more ‘true’ than another” (Thury & Devinney 16), and that community members “[determine if] the story has meaning for them” or not (Thury & Devinney 16).
What critics inevitably fail to acknowledge is the value of an introduction, inaccurate to the primary source as it may be. Helena Smith wrote about this affect in her piece, “Hollywood's gift horse brings hordes back to Troy.” She points out surging sales and massive booms in the tourist industry for local and state governments where the mythological city of Troy is believed to have been (Smith) and excavation projects occur. Media equates to exposure and introduction, which in turn sparks curiosity and study, and the result is galvanizing within our collective unconscious, insomuch as Hector is galvanized in our collective unconscious as a prototypical self-sacrificing warrior. So, is Týr’s evolutionary journey similar with respect to media and cultural relevancy? The myth of Týr shares a tradition of oral delivery with Hector; however, Týr’s myth predates literacy in the region from which it originates. Therefore, it could be argued that the evolution of Týr has come— not necessarily gone— farther by way of media than Hector’s.
Merriam-Webster defines media as “a medium of cultivation, conveyance, or expression” (Merriam-Webster). With that in mind, media has used Týr’s myth to cultivate, convey, and express different meaning. Oral dictation began the process by diminishing the god and assigning powers, rolls, and purpose to other, newer, gods, and Snorri solidifies this reduced prestige with his account of Týr in Prose Edda. Simultaneously, Týr quite literally becomes a function of media as a rune, which contributed to the advent of regional literacy and expansion of religious practices essential to Norse, Anglo-Saxon, and Gothic cultures (Simek 89). Furthermore, the myth’s evolution continues today in the form of cartography and symbology for communication. The myth of Týr is in and of itself media— Týr-media.
Examples of Týr-media can be found in the world of gaming and even comic and fan-fiction genres of literature. A search of “Tyr and gaming” on google.com resulted in 16.1 million results, with many of the early results dedicated to the God of War6 gaming franchise. Through gaming, Týr appears to have reclaimed much of the prestige, and though film adaptations have not come to fruition, Mike Reyes reports Amazon and PlayStation are producing a television series for the former’s platform (Reyes). The ease of use and prevalence of digital media does have a negative aspect to it however, and Týr’s myth and evolution is no exception.
The Strategic Studies Institute, U.S. Army War College, published a report in 2014 which presents evidence related to online extremism and how groups use visual propaganda to destabilize U. S. national security. In a sections titled, ”Visual Imagery on the Internet and Radicalization” and “Valuing the In-Group,” Editors, Carol Winkler and Cori Duber document the use of t/ᛏ/týr by Vanguard News Network (VNN), a “hate websites” (Dauber & Winkler 91), to “[help] radicalize by: (a) recruiting new members, (b) socializing recruited members, (c) cultivating a collective form of memory that encourages identification with the group, and (d) promoting ethno-violence” (Dauber & Winkler 91), through imagery .
The editors assert that VNN’s cartoonist “draws each ‘t’ as an upward pointing arrow,” (Dauber & Winkler 92) and correlate the ᛏ with the “Tyre rune;” (Winkler & Duber 92) however, it appears a lens of presentism obscures the value of t/ᛏ/týr by extending the correlation to a “racist symbol for warfare and battle” (Dauber & Winkler 92). Where Winkler and Duber draw on the logical fallacies to make their point, the truth is that contemporary media can propagandize mythologies and symbols, particularly when there is a religious connotation attached to them, to project racism, radicalism, and totalitarianism. To be sure, the section of humanity which would take up the antitheses of ethical behavior as their mantle are a vocal minority, but history dictates how the silent majority can be swayed by charisma, conviction, and fervor, especially when cultural identity is under a perceived (or real) threat. As such, the scholar and citizen alike, share a responsibility to recognize extremism and avoid participating in its propagandization within media and their subversive continuance within the collective unconscious. For, the self-sacrificing hero is not a murderer, oppressor, or even martyr— he is a hero and she is a heroine.
Jung pulls threads from the primordial human experience and helps define and classify archetypes. Campbell anthropologically traces their dispersal steps across time, helping us understand the archetypes’ purposes throughout history. And both, recognition and understanding, allow humans access to the earliest beginnings of cultural identity and societal function. Collectively, they pull the curtain back on mankind’s ancestral purpose and their descendants’ potential. Each archetype serves as a lens through which we may study various aspects of our nature. Whereas all archetypes help us understand where we came from, and therefor where we could go, only the hero shows us where we should go, and more importantly, how we should comport ourselves along the way. Of the many classifications of hero, one stands out as the pinnacle of heroic action— the self-sacrificing warrior. Hector and Týr are two examples of the self-sacrificing warrior which contemporary cultures— particularly those who have a warrior class or subscribe to a warrior ethos— hold preeminent among countless mythological heroes celebrated today. John Stuart Mill refers to the contemporary mortal example of these individuals as better men, most would just call them heroes, but close analysis demonstrates that they are more than that— they are self-sacrificing warriors, and they are the absolute best of both gods, and men.
Editorial note: This essay was originally submitted online for LIT-229-X1859 at Southern New Hampshire University on 14 Oct 2023.
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More information about On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society can be obtained here.