Sakorick and I were talking about Agent Orange, and how its use is erroneously blamed on the military leaders of the era, when IN FACT, 100% of the responsibility for its LETHALITY lies at the feet of the sons of bachelors at Dow Chemical and Monsanto. That conversation got me to thinking about how the truth and realities of war are SO often misrepresented. And especially how soldiers, seamen, and airmen are treated when 'the war is over'.

Since early adulthood and my time in the Navy, I've lost interest in "war movies" and pretty much all forms of war-related 'rah rah'. (Although there are a couple of movies that do a good job, in my opinion: Hell in the Pacific with Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune, and Das Boot with Jurgen Prochnow.) Hollywood, and the idiots that run it and play in it, have no clue what war is truly about, and they incite young men to "join" by creating just flat out BS propaganda. This is the primary reason why I loathe John Wayne, who never served A DAY in the military, but was a vicious "Hawk" during Vietnam. (And don't try to tell me he was too old. He WASN'T, and plenty of Hollywood actors SERVED that were older than him.) If you haven't served, shut your @#$%^&*ing mouth about those that choose to OR not to. If you haven't served, you have NO VOICE in criticizing those that have OR have not.

Anyway, climbing down off of that particular hobbyhorse, I have always been drawn to poems about war BY THOSE THAT SERVED or were THERE. Here are three that may be my favorites. Kipling hated how the survivors of Tennyson's "Light Brigade" were treated on their return, and Service was an ambulance driver in France in WWI. Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade was a classic "rah rah" from one that did not serve. All of England loved it. Kipling takes it, and the 'convenient' patriotism of the populace AT HOME, on in his Last of the Light Brigade.

QuoteThe Charge of the Light Brigade BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
   Someone had blundered.
   Theirs not to make reply,
   Theirs not to reason why,
   Theirs but to do and die.
   Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
   Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
   All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
   Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
   Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
   Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
   All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble six hundred!

This particular poem contains one of the most often MIS-quoted lines of poetry:

QuoteTheirs not to make reply,
   Theirs not to reason why,
   Theirs but to do and die.

It is all too often incorrectly written as "do OR die". There is a WORLD of difference between "do AND die" and "do OR die".

The following Kipling poem was his response to the deplorable treatment the returning soldiers got in England, and references Tennyson's Charge of the Light Brigade because it was so popular. Everyone "rah rahed" the bravery of 'their' soldiers, but wanted to forget them and their war-related problems when they returned home.

QuoteThe Last of the Light Brigade - Rudyard Kipling


There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

The italicized stanza was not included in the first publication of this poem because it named the crimes of the British military leadership out loud, and British aristocracy (including the military leadership) didn't like it. Gee, I wonder why.



Robert Service is among my favorite poets. I memorized his "Spell of the Yukon" (ALL the poems in that anthology) when I was 11 years old. However, later in life I found out about his other poetry. The following is another poem condemning those that want to forget the combat soldier after they come home. It is one of my favorites.

QuoteMarch of the Dead by Robert William Service

The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.

And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead."

They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!

"They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop
On this, our England's crowning festal day;
We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay.
We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before."

The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream.

There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.

While I rail against how poorly returning soldiers are treated "after the war is over", I understand that it has been that way throughout history, and will not change. Personally, I would like to see ALL lawmakers (senators and congressmen) of age to serve in the military HAVE to serve if they vote for war. Furthermore, if said senator or congressman has children old enough to serve, those children MUST serve in a COMBAT unit if their father/mother votes FOR war. Also, if you don't have a dog in the fight, (neither you or a family member is in service or has been in service), you cannot vote TO FIGHT! That would change "things", I am quite certain.

Paul

Even when they serve in "combat units" they are still kept safe to hand. Check on Johnsons son-in-law during Vietnam.

Do not get me wrong I agree with your point but those in power always rig the deal.

From the one who quit when they finally learned what that all that great training led to when you were lost, NEXT.

On the beaches of Gallipoli,
in the Straits of the Dardenelles.
The cliffs hung like tattered scenery,
on a circus carousel.
The men rode their rocking ferries,
to a dark and hostile shore;
from the heights the fire was raking,
'cause that's the luck of war.

A man walked with his donkey,
across those alleys of fear.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his burden so dear.
A man walked with his donkey,
through the deadly leaden hail;
a man walking with his donkey,
surely would not fail.

A man walked with his donkey,
but it was no idle stroll.
Not a picnic or fairground fancy,
but a pit of tortured souls.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his donkey, beside;
a man walking with his donkey:
so his fallen mates could ride.

A man leant, (he was weary) ,
on his donkey to stand.
Exhausted with the furies,
on the grey sea and sand.
Such a time spent so easy,
can be a wonder to arrive;
for a man talking to his donkey,
it was good to be alive.

A man walked with his donkey,
with his donkey in tow.
A man walked through shooting galleries,
in this valley of woe.
A man walked with his donkey,
with a sure foot and pace;
a man walking with his donkey,
bravely saved his mates.

On the beaches of Gallipoli,
in the Straits of the Dardenelles.
A man led his stoic donkey,
through blast and bursting shell.
Like the heroes of the ancients,
there are still bards to tell:
how Simpson and his donkey,
made it a little less like hell.
David SmithWhite

Footnote. The donkey's name was Murphy. When private Simpson was killed, Murphy made trips up and down the mountain alone. Simpson was put in for the Victoria Cross, however, the award was downgraded to a lesser medal because of an administrative error.

Here's another:
THE MAN WITH HIS DONKEY
(A SOLDIER CALLED SIMPSON)
 
They never knew
On the day you were born
Of an iron-like steel
To face any storm.
 
Life's big adventure
Folks went there in droves
..You'd do your duty
And then you'd go home .
 
The rosemary smell
Had no connotations
But this place Gallipoli
Would be feared by all nations
 
As men fell like rag-dolls
In an industrial war
But their courage was tested
Like never before
 
How courageous you'd be
Cut down in your prime
A larrikin legend
In your very own time
 
The Man With His Donkey
Were mobile again
With a stubborn tenacity
To win in the end.
 
You fathomed the problems
Some heavily banked
Grabbed your kit and resettled
With an Indian rank
 
You were an ANZAC
With a heart good as gold
If it somehow seemed possible
You would stand bold .
 
Well some said you were a deserter
 - You'd just moved away
And your C.O. even encouraged you
In your own stubborn way
 
 ''Just be there at roll call !''
That was his advice
A renegade legend
That didn't think twice
 
As machine guns kept screaming
You made your way
Steadfast through No- Man's Land
Everyday .
 
Through the Pass they call Shrapnel
You'd save Fifteen a day
Simpson and his donkey
Were again underway.
 
When they said ''He's left his platoon ''.
The reply quick and canny
The answer was ''Stuff 'em
I can save four times as many! ''
 
The effort relentless –
What would be , it would be
But you'd work past sunset
Sometimes two - maybe three !
 
The Indians respected you
Where you set up camp
You were The Great One
You were The Champ
 
They found you no problem
You were never a pest
Even gave you a nickname
Translation: The Best
 
You worked on a thin front
Where the sides were entrenched
Your task must have been hellish
But you would not relent
 
Gone : way too quickly
On that 24th day
A machine started firing
And extinguished you lay
 
Oh the praise stared coming
For the way  that you'd strived
You'd saved 'em your way
- About 300 lives .
 
Well age shall not weary you
Your impervious to time
But there was no outstanding medal
And thats equal to crime!
 
© Copyright Peter .L.Rowe 2003

You're right, Al, and that's the way "it" has been since time immemorial. I have no illusions of 'solving' or eliminating problems. I only want to make it more difficult for the scum to effect their evil plans and easier to see the sons of bachelors for what they are.

That said, I would do whatever I thought appropriate to keep my child from the ravages of war.

Paul

IN FLANDERS FIELDS POEM
The World’s Most Famous WAR MEMORIAL POEM
By Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae

Lieutenant Colonel John McCraeIn Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved: and now we lie
In Flanders fields!

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

48. Gunga Din
 
YOU may talk o' gin an' beer   
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,   
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;   
But if it comes to slaughter   
You will do your work on water,            5
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.   
Now in Injia's sunny clime,   
Where I used to spend my time   
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,   
Of all them black-faced crew     10
The finest man I knew   
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.   
 
    It was "Din! Din! Din!   
    You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!   
    Hi! slippy hitherao!     15
    Water, get it! Panee lao!   
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"   
 
The uniform 'e wore   
Was nothin' much before,   
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,     20
For a twisty piece o' rag   
An' a goatskin water-bag   
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.   
When the sweatin' troop-train lay   
In a sidin' through the day,     25
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,   
We shouted "Harry By!"   
Till our throats were bricky-dry,   
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.   
 
    It was "Din! Din! Din!     30
    You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?   
    You put some juldee in it,   
    Or I'll marrow you this minute,   
    If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"   
 
'E would dot an' carry one     35
Till the longest day was done,   
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.   
If we charged or broke or cut,   
You could bet your bloomin' nut,   
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.     40
With 'is mussick on 'is back,   
'E would skip with our attack,   
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."   
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,   
'E was white, clear white, inside     45
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!   
 
    It was "Din! Din! Din!"   
    With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.   
    When the cartridges ran out,   
    You could 'ear the front-files shout:     50
    "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"   
 
I sha'n't forgit the night   
When I dropped be'ind the fight   
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.   
I was chokin' mad with thirst,     55
An' the man that spied me first   
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.   
 
'E lifted up my 'ead,   
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,   
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green;     60
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,   
But of all the drinks I've drunk,   
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.   
 
    It was "Din! Din! Din!   
    'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;     65
    'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:   
    For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"   
 
'E carried me away   
To where a dooli lay,   
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.     70
'E put me safe inside,   
An' just before 'e died:   
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.   
So I'll meet 'im later on   
In the place where 'e is gone—     75
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;   
'E'll be squattin' on the coals   
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,   
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!   
 
    Din! Din! Din!     80
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!   
    Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,   
    By the livin' Gawd that made you,   
    You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Perhaps my favorite war poet is Siegfried Sassoon, an officer in the British army in WW I.  Siegfried won the Military Cross (MC), roughly equivalent to our Silver Star, for a single-handed assault on a German trench armed only with a sack full of Mills bombs (grenades).  He was later wounded and sent back to England to recuperate.  When he was healed and declared fit to return to front line duty, he wrote an open letter to the London Times vehemently opposed to the war, and said he would not return.  As a result, the War Department sent him to a mental hospital, and later to the Middle East as the war wound down.

I read a lot of WW I history; I am fascinated by how the troops, on both sides, endured the horrors of trench warfare for four years.  Toward the end of the fighting; French, German, and Russian armies had wide-scale mutinies.

This short poem is about the principal weapons of the WW I infantryman: the rifle and the bayonet:

THE KISS

To these I turn, in these I trust;
Brother Lead and Sister Steel.
To his blind power I make appeal;
I guard her beauty clean from rust.

He spins and burns and loves the air,
And splits a skull to win my praise;
But up the nobly marching days
She glitters naked, cold and fair.

Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this;
That in good fury he may feel
The body where he sets his heel
Quail from your downward darting kiss.

War is a terrible thing.  As Plato said, "Only the dead have seen the end of war."