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I cannot articulate any of that effectively. So I'm going to let Sassoon do it for me:
You told me, in your drunken-boasting mood,
How once you butchered prisoners. That was good!
I'm sure you felt no pity while they stood
Patient and cowed and scared, as prisoners should.
How did you do them in? Come, don't be shy:
You know I love to hear how Germans die,
Downstairs in dug-outs. 'Camerad!' they cry;
Then squeal like stoats when bombs begin to fly.
And you? I know your record. You went sick
When orders looked unwholesome: then, with trick
And lie, you wangled home. And here you are,
Still talking big and boozing in a bar.
And, again, thinking about some of those that travelled to Wooton Bassett, or those that publish pictures festooned with their flag asking us to 'support our boys' by not opposing wars or claim that war is necessary to defend freedoms against the terrorists / muslims / communists / totalitarians or whosoever we've decided to demonise lately, Sassoon encapsulates my feelings and says them all the better because he knows and I do not:
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.