Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

I hate and detest Remberance Sunday. Not because I am some sort of dyed-in-the-wool Irish Republican, (which I am not), but because time and time again it is ordinary working class people (most of the them young kids) that get thrown into wars/conflict.
Yeah, they 'volunteer', but read the remarks of our UK under-strength arrmed forces and who they target.
For everyone who 'volunteered' or was conscripted in WW1/2 my heart goes out to them. I really don't think I could've been brave enough to do what they did.

Respect.

In my older age I think that anyone that joins any army, anywhere is a fool.

The hypocritcal cants, non-stop on the telly right now, the soldiers of WW1 were promised a 'land fit for hereos''. And what did they get???

Wilfred Owen said everything you need to know about war. I salute everyone who took part in it, glad it wasn't me, but the hypocrisy is vomit-inducing.

Apologies to anyone who thinks I am disrespecting The Fallen. I'm not. But if you want to know what it was like, read Wilfred Owen

"Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Or, if you'd prefer a more recent poem/song, and this time by a Scotsman, try this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxkhBvO8_kM