See my 2009 Remembrance Day post about my grandfather landing in France on D-Day here. He fought a war but he despised war and those who waged it.
Today I just include two of my favourite war poems, anti-war poems, one from each World War. For more of these, see here.
If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,
I’d live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
You’d see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honour. “Poor young chap,”
I’d say—”I used to know his father well;
Yes, we’ve lost heavily in this last scrap.”
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I’d toddle safely home and die—in bed.
Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
Here’s a description of a ball turret gunner:
It is hard to imagine a worse place to go to war in then the ball turret position of the B-17 Flying Fortress. Isolated from the rest of the ten man crew, the ball turret was extremely cramped quarters and required a man with a slight build. In almost every case, there was not enough room for the ball turret gunner to wear a parachute… When the RAF first evaluated the B-17 they considered it impossible for a man to remain in the ball turret for an entire mission but 8th AF ball turret gunners routinely spent 10-12 hours in the ball while over enemy territory.
There are scores of video versions of this poem. One version, animated from photo of Jarrell’s face:
Today I believe my grandfather would have agreed with this:
We can defeat terrorism; the first step is to stop participating in it.