Of War And Men

War is an interesting topic for me to think upon. Personally, I'm a pacifist. I'm the sort of person that would rather any alternative to war or conflict. I'd never go in the army, I doubt I'd ever be able to shoot someone. If they had conscription back in, I wouldn't go in.

But then I have friends that are in the army/navy/air force, or are planning/have planned to be. One friend in particular pretty much has it running through a lot of his family, you could say. So I know a bit about it. I'm certainly no expert, but perhaps I know more than some.
Also to add to this point - have any of you seen Tomorrow, When The War Began? Basically about Indonesia declaring war on Australia, from the point of view of some teenagers. Anyway, one of them is religious, pacifist, etc. But there's a spot where the soldiers are shooting at her friends. So she's conflicted - and she starts fighting. For her friends. And I think that's me as well - I wouldn't fight for me, or for the sake of fighting, but if it was to protect my friends, and it was the only way, I think I would.

And so I think about wars that have happened from two angles, I suppose. Do I think that they were just all stupid, stupid things that should never have happened; or do I think about the people that fought and struggled through them, that went through the impossible because they believed that it would give us a bit more freedom? I bet you they thought war was pretty stupid as well, for the most part. Of course, there are always exceptions (ala John Watson from the recent TV adaptation Sherlock).

But I suppose that's what history is supposed to be about, really - remembering what happened, so we're not quite as idiotic next time.

This poem found me a while ago - we had to do it for English in Year 12 - and it's stuck with me. I find it an interesting commentary on some of this. It's written by Kenneth Slessor, an Australian poet. Take from it what you will.


Beach Burial

Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.

Between the sob and clubbing of the gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;

And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -

'Unknown seaman' - the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men's lips,

Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as enemies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.