The Thundering Tree | Fulmen Quarterly

The Thundering Tree

Jack R. Parnell

Fall, 2024

If you are a soldier in the American military and you’re looking for the old man on station—the battalion executive officer—you will look for the man with oak leaves on his epaulets. Likewise, when a soldier has received a commendation for a second time (and each successive time thereafter) they receive a cluster of oak leaves in bronze, and then silver to demonstrate as much, pinned on the initial ribbon. It’s not a symbol peculiar to the American armed forces, either. Oak leaves appear in French, German, and British honors up into the most prestigious heights of accolade. Images of the oak’s foliage and its acorns are hung in gold, and brocade across the visor of senior officers; it has been incorporated into the seals and symbols of the military orders across Europe for centuries. In this study we will conduct a brief foray into the history of the military significance of the oak tree, and offer some perspective as to the reason for why this symbol may have gained a degree of prominence in old days.

At first glance it will perhaps seem hardly an obvious symbol for martial achievement or station. The oak itself, a green and growing thing, is a far cry from more typical warlike heraldry—of predatory beasts or implements of warfare, for example. All the same, the symbol is an ancient one, and almost ubiquitous to the extent that one might miss the tree for the forest. Oak leaves, laurels, boughs, acorns, and even at times entire tree itself crop up again and again in seals, in heraldry, and in the decorations of soldiery and the states that they protect. No other tree shares this quality, and for that matter, few other elements of iconography do either. Looking backward and wondering how it is that the symbol came to be so pervasive, the first fumbling answers one encounters are simple—simplistic, even. The oak is strong, the wood is hardy and well suited to robust construction; but this attitude toward symbolism is reductive at best and willfully ignorant at worst. In looking for answers, some take it a step further and content themselves with the legend of Old Ironsides, the U.S.S. Constitution and her notoriously impenetrable oaken timbers, and similar vessels that sailed in the republic’s infancy. Considering the relatively recent advent of the nation, this suffices to encompass what is considered to be the relevant history. Naturally, this barely scratches the surface.

As a Roman legionnaire it was possible to receive many awards and boons for distinguished actions on the field of battle. The quintessential image of the Centurion is one with his medals of status adorning his chest atop his armor and wrought in glass, bronze, silver or gold. Yet the highest award to which he, not being a general, could aspire is one made of oak. That being the civic crown, the corona civica which is a wreath made of woven oak leaves and worn upon the head as with the more commonly remembered laurels of athletic prowess. Pliny describes the circumstances around earning the civic crown in exact terms. Firstly, the events had to take place on ground that was held previously by the enemy on the day of the action. Secondly, the soldier in question had to save the life of a roman citizen by slaying his assailant. The nature of the citizen, be he a simple townsman or a senator made no difference, the nature of the award to emphasize roman citizenship on the highest pedestal. Lastly, you must be commended for the award by the man saved, no other testimony or witness will suffice to win the civic crown. The only award of Republican Rome which was regarded a higher honor was the crown of grass, won under similar circumstances, in which an entire besieged army had to acclaim the general of a rescuing force and present him a crown fashioned from the battle field.

Achieving the corona civica could raise up the most ignominious man to the heights of Roman society. He was required to wear it to public gatherings where he would be applauded for it even by men far senior to him in age or class and he was permitted entry into the senate chamber. Indeed, winning it rescued one unfortunate soul who, spared death after fighting on the losing side of Sulla’s civil war, seemed destined for a bleak and ignoble career. This, of course, was Julius Caesar.

The record of winners of the civic crown is incomplete, many names lost to history, but we can be assured the earliest civic crown was awarded at least as far back as 455 B.C.E. and likely earlier, the Republic itself only about 50 years older than that and the man recorded regarded a particular hero. His name was Sicinius Dentatus, and he was said to have won the crown 14 times, and several other coronas including the grass crown. Feats of such incredible stature that some historians assume him to be more of a propagandistic figure whose acts were exaggerated. While this author is admittedly hard-pressed to hold that view, it nevertheless does indicate that the award carried enough weight to make his feat particularly notable when compared to previous winners. Either as a politically useful lie or as a true accomplishment, it suggests the origins of the corona civica may belong to an even earlier epoch. Its Roman origin is of sufficient age and venerability that many subsequent militaries seek it out in their own heraldry simply to cut a more Roman figure. The discerning reader will note however, that this does little more than once again push the question back into the deeper and yet murkier waters of history. Why then, did the Romans venerate the oak?

Perhaps we ought to simply consider the oak as a fixture of its natural environment, and begin our search for symbolic rationale there. To some extent, the forests of Europe can not really be said to have ever existed with out the civilizing influence of man; with evidence of human intervention in the natural forest as far back as seven thousand years ago and coinciding with the return of the forests with the recession of the glaciers at the end of the ice age. Regardless, in the neolithic era and well into the Roman period, the continent was ruled by forests where now there is sprawling farm land. Those forests were in-turn ruled by the oak tree. In terms of modern classification, the oak is a wide spanning variety of tree primarily defined by the propagation of acorns. The European varieties are typified by slow growth, strong wood and long lives which result in towering height and sprawling, far-reaching canopies. Competition between trees is usually played out in the struggle for access to sunlight. Older trees can stifle others by casting them into shade and depriving them of nourishment. Due to it’s longevity an oak can outlast older trees of other species and thus tends to inherit any glade in which it takes root. Growing taller than the other plant-life and spreading its canopy wide, the oak slowly dominates its competition. The hegemony is so complete that the ebb and flow of the forest has come to be defined by the turning tides of oak trees. Flowers such as bluebell bloom early before deciduous oaks can block the spring sun, others like primrose will stay green year round to gather light in winter and autumn. Shrubs like hazel and hawthorn have developed to grow in partial shade. Unique varieties of fungus depend on the roots of oaks for nutrients, all manner of insects feed on acorns, which are in-turn taken up by birds and beasts of the wood—to such an extent that the breeding cycles for their young are modulated to best take advantage of the seasonal bounty of the oak. Many wasps and beetles are able to propagate only by infesting an oak tree. Other trees are pushed to imperfect ground less-suited to the requirements of an oak, or else to the edges of the forest that the branches of an oak has not yet overgrown.

These facts of the forest must surely have been dominant in the early settlement of Europe, and, acorn meal was then at the very least a staple of sustenance. The connection of course, goes far deeper as one imagines a man crouching before the fire beneath the same oak that sheltered his grandfather’s father. The oak forms a natural gathering place around itself with a wide clearing free from other trees with its broad, sheltering canopy. The dense wood of the oak burns hot and builds well. Further, it will feed you before winter comes. The preeminence of the oak as both a fixture of, and as an embodiment of the land was undeniable.

It should come as no surprise then that the sacred grove was at the heart of the Proto-Indo-European cultures which define Europe. In fact the importance of the grove may even predate the arrival of those peoples—as a fixture of the neolithic practices of the European continent before. Prior to the advent of man-made ritual space; of the temple, the precinct of the gods was a copse of holy trees. As we have seen, in Europe this typically meant specifically a grove of oaks. Therefore, when one wanted to be witnessed by the gods for important events such as forging a marriage, sealing a bond, or when holding political assembly, one went to the sacred grove. Each tree would become associated with a particular deity and thereby blessings and invocations could be conducted with material from the tree in question. For the sake of scope we shall maintain our attention on the gods to which oaks were consecrated.

Across Europe the thunder god bares many names Jupiter, Zeus, Thor, Thunor, Perkuno, Perun, and Taranis each represent the branches of a single cultural tree, which predates the bronze age wave of Proto-Indo-European settlement. As such, they share many similarities; each one of these names is essentially a transliteration of old Proto-Indo-European terms for thunder. The ancient age of the cult of the thunder god is evidenced by in those iterations who share their pantheon with more modern additions. Consider the traditional accoutrements of Thor, when compared to gods such as Freyr or Odin. Thor rides no horse instead going by chariot, and has no sword or armor despite being universally regarded for unmatched strength. When compared with the swords and spears, the glittering armor and legendary steeds of the others, Thor seems a stone age figure. While these thunder gods obviously relate to one another through rule of the sky, they also share the domain of civic order and the compact, embodying civilization by stint of ruling over the other gods. To whit, each of these gods was also venerated across from the eastern Slavic and Baltic peoples all the way west to Celtic Iberia and Ireland, north from the forests of Germany south into the heart of Rome at the foot of an oak tree.

Armed with our general picture of the oak’s ecological character from those preceding observations, it is easy enough to see why it would be directly associated with the sky-gods. Consider the following passage from William Lethaby, concerning the tree as a cosmological model common to the remotest days in antiquity:

“The unknown universe could then only be explained in terms of its known parts; the earth, shut in by the night sky, must have been thought of as a living creature, a tree, a tent, a building; and these each form the world system to peoples now living.”

The tree is the prototypical pillar between the heavens and the earth; its canopy supplied primitive man the world-over with one of his earliest analogical models of the sky, and of its structure. On account of the fact that the oak so often stands above all other trees, lightning strikes inevitably favor this tree and tie the sky to the earth with the oak serving as a bridge. Further, because of its robust nature, oak trees often survive being struck by lightning. Doubtless, however, it would burn, and such a flame could smolder for days or even weeks. An oak crowned in this fashion, sometimes called a ‘blasted oak,’ was considered most sacred by ancient observers. The dead upper branches of a stricken tree were sometimes referred to as “stagged” on account of the fact that they appeared like antlers. As an aside, the preference of eagles to roost in tall, dead trees may account in some measure for their long-standing association with thunder deities. Likewise, the presence of parasitic mistletoe was thought to show divine favor—the golden color of its leaves ‘gilded’ the holy oak, and featured prominently in druidic rituals among the Celtic cults.

Rituals and convocations undertaken in sacred groves in honor of the Indo-European thunder gods were built upon the symbolic connections between the sky and the towering oak. It was, for example, a custom around the Baltic Sea and down the Volga, to honor Perkuno, Perun, or Thor with a likeness of that deity in the oak precinct where they were believed to dwell. Their altars were frequently marked by an ever-burning flame (likely in sympathetic imitation of a blasted tree) which was tended by the priests of the grove. Allowing it to be extinguished carried the penalty of death. In some cases, as with the Prussians, the glade was enclosed with curtains draped in order to create an enclosure or sanctum for the god. The curtains could be parted to allow for adherents to view the cult image, but only initiated priests were permitted to trod the holy ground. It’s recorded that the high priest lived within the enclosure, in order that he could listen to the sounds of the tree in windy and stormy conditions, and in this way, interpret the will of the thunderer. The term druid thus literally mans “Oak Knower.” It’s worth noting that ideas about separation between spiritual and corporeal powers were absent; the high priest, the war leader, and the political head may well have often been the same man. It’s little surprise then, that the sacred grove beneath the oak would be the site of political meetings as well as mundane ceremonies like weddings. Taking place beneath the gaze of the oak tree lent metaphysical weight to these proceedings, and to the consequences for deviating from oaths sworn on that sacred ground.

It will perhaps serve to offer some thoughts on the slow cultural transformation from sacred grove to sacred temple. Tacitus recounts of the Germanic tribes that they deemed it inconsistent with the majesty of the gods to confine them with walls. The Greeks and the Romans, by contrast of course, developed elaborate temple typologies—which transmuted elements of the sacred grove into stone; maintaining still fixtures such as the flame, and the cult image. Frequently in the ancient world, temples are shown to have been built atop the old groves, as Livy tells us was the case with the sanctuary of Jupiter in Rome. Elsewhere, we can see transitional moments preserved in the material record—where the temple and the grove coexisted beside one another, as at Upsalla in Sweden. Take for another the temple at Dodona, where Zeus was worshiped as Naios, the god below the oak—or Zeus Boleus, the counselor. The complex at Dodona was extensive; it served at times as a religious capital, and featured a bouleterion for democratic congress, but most notable it was the home of a famous oracle. As with the Prussian tradition, the oracle would listen to the rustling leaves of the holy tree, in order to determine the guidance of Zeus. We might note, too, the similarity between the many columns of Zeus (as at Lykaion, for example, forming a solar portal) and traditional Saxon Irminsul, a sacred pillar covered in carvings, which may also be taken as representative of the movement from wild sacred space, to sacred edifices designed and built by men.

The transformation from grove to temple is not well-documented at every step, particularly on account of the fact that the evidence was often destroyed as part of Christian conversion efforts. The acts of these saints are sometimes helpfully recorded, however, as with the sacred trees desecrated and destroyed by Bishop Otto, Saint martin, and Saint Boniface—showing us that many of these sacred groves and images managed to survive in-tact late into the Medieval period in some areas of Europe. In some cases, the destruction of the temples were met with equanimity by adherents, but they begged to be spared the destruction of the groves—the people saying that without them, they would not know where to seek the gods.

Of course as we know the Christian efforts were largely successful, and it was destined to become the dominant religious force on the continent for a thousand years. Though, typically with conversion efforts it’s often the path of least resistance to incorporate certain aspects of iconography rather than eliminate them. The case is no different with ideas like that of the holy cross being made of oak, despite is rarity in the Levant, or as with the acorn becoming a symbol of the rebirth of Christ—these things are examples of a broad process of inculturation which adapted to oak and many old symbols, stories, and ideas into objects of Christian utility.

Regardless, use of the oak as an important witness in one way or another persisted. Low-born weddings conducted under oak trees, often on Thursday (þunresdæg) survived even into the modern era. Oaks are traditionally planted and adopted by royalty, in order to incorporate the symbol into their dynasty, or, in some cases to celebrate its continuity. Such is the case with the British royal oak, which served as a royal savior and shelter during the civil war. The necessity of strong oak groves experienced a resurgence during the age of the sail, and a songwriter took up Virgil’s words describing the Celts, writing of a "race of men from tree-stocks spring and stubborn hearts of oak.” That song was fashioned into an official tune of the royal Navy. And so, we come full circle to the question of modern military iconography.

Recall on the one hand, the oracle of Zeus at Dodona—surely a thunder-god, but also Naios, of the oak, and Bouleus, for the councils. Consider as well on the other hand, that the hammer of Thor is used in the Þrymskviða to officiate a wedding, and by reference, an assembly. The Roman Senate, as if in accord, elected to assemble in the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. As we have seen, the oak symbolizes not only the sky and the immutable strength embodied in the thunder gods, but also the perpetually burning flame of civilization—which must be kept. For thousands of years, just as high priest and chieftain were little distinguished, the state and the grove could be taken reflexively for the same entity. In other words, the nation embodied in the sacred ground beneath the canopy of the oak tree—the oaths sworn, and the laws made there—were identified with one another. What better garland to bless the protectors of the sacred grove and the land of its people, than one woven from the leaves and boughs of the sky-god’s tree? The oak is thus emblematic of the nation in a most tangible sense. It is therefore according to this broad, and ancient train of thought that we owe the tradition of consecrating our soldiery with affects of the oak tree: To honor their defense of the most holy expression of their realm.

end.