The Horror of War - Support the Troops.

To send a man or women to die is a huge responsibility, to take that decision over a lie is an act of murder. It defiles the sacrifices made by soldiers throughout the ages, it insults the memories of those who have fallen so that we may be free. To send men and women off to die ill equipped is tantamount to murder. To abuse their commitment and manipulate their belief systems for a lie is criminal. To order these brave men and women to kill for a lie is the most hideous evil comprehendable to man. To stand at Arlington War Cemetry or at Fort Bragg and address real soldiers, people who have enlisted to protect their country and their countrymen, people who are prepared to lay down their lives so that their loved ones can be safe, whilst you Dubya, Rove, Cheney, Rumsfeld et all used your priviledge and every conceivable tactic at your disposal to avoid enlisting, makes you nothing more than cowards, liars, manipulators and a disgrace to mankind. To use the deaths of soldiers like Pat Tillman as a political tool, so your percentage points on some BS opinion poll rise, is an evil of the most disgusting kind.

That is why Dubya, you are a murdering cowardly war criminal. That is why Cheney and Rumsfeld, you are murdering cowardly war criminals. That is why Karl Rove, you fat bloated lying pig you are a cowardly war criminal. You are all cowards who ran away from your military obligations when you were young, but you send coalition troops to a needless war so that they may die for your lies. May you rot in hell for what you have done.

This blog is not about Dubya, it is about the brave and noble men and women fighting for what they believe in, hope, freedom and democracy. I for one would like to devote this blog to these people, thousands of miles away from their families, and I for one will not give up the fight to bring the troops home and see the people that have ordered the deaths of 1750 US troops for a lie held responsible.

The following poems are by Siegfried Sassoon, who fought during WW1 in the trenches. These are a soldiers words and these words should be listened to. A lie is not reason to declare war, and for every chickenhawk who supports this war with your pathetic little yellow ribbon stuck on the back of your not paid for SUV, think about the words of Siegfried Sasson whilst you stuff your fat ignorant faces on July 4 and pontificate about Freedom and Democracy, whilst allowing other people`s kids to die so your spoilt little fundamentalist brats can run around spewing Dubya`s propoganda and criticising anyone who opposes this war as being unpatriotic - "You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye, Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know, The hell where youth and laughter go."

Survivors

No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they're 'longing to go out again,' —
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride...
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

The Death-Bed

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls;
Aqueous like floating rays of amber light,
Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep.
Silence and safety; and his mortal shore
Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Someone was holding water to his mouth.
He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped
Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot
The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.
Water—calm, sliding green above the weir.
Water—a sky-lit alley for his boat,
Bird- voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers
And shaken hues of summer; drifting down,
He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward,
Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.
Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars
Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud;
Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green,
Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

Rain—he could hear it rustling through the dark;
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
Gently and slowly washing life away.

He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain
Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore
His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.
But someone was beside him; soon he lay
Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.
And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He's young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

Peace