In Flanders Field...

[Norman Baker suck my lozenge]

I will always remember one of Mrs Thatchers words when the Belgrano was sunk. ''Rejoice'' she said.


I could never rejoice at the thought of 1000 men slipping below the waves.What thats got to do with anything I`m not sure but too much is written gloriying war and I think that sends the wrong message to our younger generation.


My father was in Burma during the war and he always said there was nothing glorious about any of it. Thats a word writers and poets use...................... very rarely soldiers.

I think you may find Turkey tits,that Maggie said "rejoice"when the Argentines surrendered,meaning that no more killing would have to take place,you really should get your facts right,
****.

 

[Tory Boy]

I will always remember one of Mrs Thatchers words when the Belgrano was sunk. ''Rejoice'' she said.

She said that when South Geogia was re-taken, not when that boat was sunk.

Still who cares about history when you want to score a point.

 

[Shropshire Seagull]

I was never a fan of poetry at school, but the only one's that could ever stir any interest in me were the old WW1 poems. They always seemed so vivid and real.

Particularly this one:

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
Bitten 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.

Did this as part of my O-level English Lit back in 1976 ....
Incredibly thought provoking when decomposed and reinacted in the mind.

Poor bastards ....

 

[Questions]

She said that when South Geogia was re-taken, not when that boat was sunk.

Still who cares about history when you want to score a point.

Sorry you are right there................... just remember some people jumping on the jingoistic bandwagon and celebrating the sinking.I was not against the war at all.............. they had invaded sovereign terroritry but its the glorification of war I am trying to make a point against.

 

[The Large One]

I think the word on the jingoists' lips when the 'Belgrano' was sunk was 'GOTCHA'.

 

[smudge]

The sinking of the Belgrano did one thing. It made the Argentinian Navy go back to their base port & stay there; therefore actually sparing more lives.

 

[Norman Baker suck my lozenge]

I think the word on the jingoists' lips when the 'Belgrano' was sunk was 'GOTCHA'.

One of the all time great headlines.

 

[Da Man Clay]

I was never a fan of poetry at school, but the only one's that could ever stir any interest in me were the old WW1 poems. They always seemed so vivid and real.

Particularly this one:

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
Bitten 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.

I remember that being read in my school by an vetran who had been in the navy in one of my school assemblies. Very touching and very sad.