The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke

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If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

that is for ever England. There shall be

in that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.

 

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends, and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

 

A sonnet written by Rupert Brooke after enlisting in the military during the Great War that seems to say what every soldier feels fighting on foreign soil, that if one must fall in that soil, away from home, it becomes sovereign soil paid for in blood.

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A poignant poem that speak volumes for any serving soldier even today.

I have just finished reading Siegfried Sassoon's 'Memories of a Infrantry Officer'; a fabulous read and thought provoking.

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As soldiers we are an extension of our nation, and in such we lose certain rights, the rights to pick our fights for one. I was in the Infantry from 1975-1982 and Americas foreign policy in Central 

America was horrible, I served there for some time as one of supposedly only 150 American military advisers. What a joke there were thousands of US military down there training US supported dictators in various Central American countries. The American military was supposed to train their Army to fight their own people. I couldn't say much and truthfully it took a little while for me to understand what was really going on, some things I wish I never found out. Most wars are like this, but never blame the soldier, he has but one duty; to his Country. The Allies lost over 5 million men in World War 1, about 3 million in World War 2, the loss of life is staggering, the loss to the world is unimaginable.