That time of year is here again....The time where the Royal British Legion goes to the country to ask for donations for the privilege to wear the iconic symbol that represents the fallen souls of wars and conflicts past and present....’The Poppy’...
The monies collected channelled toward the care, rehabilitation and improvement of the lives of the injury victims and their families...

As you watch the strutting and vying for attention before the worlds media flashes by the politicians as they lay their deceitful tributes at the feet of the fallen soldier this year.....Just remember, these are the venal, sycophantic fraudsters, who from their ivory towers have decimated the defence budget to levels unprecedented in the country’s history. The military strength of the nation is at its weakest for a thousand years.
The funds set aside for the charities have been plundered by the financial cuts and as ever the responsibility for funding is abandoned by the government and is duly accepted by the public.

Revolution is in the air!

My Grandad went to war one day, in some green fields far away,
He came back after four long years, from where he wouldn’t say,
He left a tall and and brave young man but returned a different soul,
What that time it took from him, it didn’t leave him whole.

When asked about his works and deeds, his answers they were none,
He only whispered faintly, he was told to carry a gun,
That’s all he said about his time in that far and foreign land,
He’d look me straight in the eye, as he gently took my hand.

He’d say.....

When all is said and done and the battlefields are cold,
When all the tales of heroism and bravery are told,
When all the medals are handed out and citations given to
The only ones who are ever left of the many and the few,
The green fields of that foreign land are filled with many of the dead,
Fight for us, your country too, the leaders they had said.

Tell that to my Grandad as he tries to go to sleep,
Tell that to the millions that were slaughtered just like sheep,
My Grandad goes to bed at nights and cries his heart away,
This is what his debt is, it’s what he has to pay.....

War it is necessary, or so the politicians say,
I don’t believe a word of it, it’s time for them to pay,
If not for me for Grandad, so he won’t have to weep,
For hours every time at night before he can get some sleep.

My grandfather died aged 54 having suffered from the effects of mustard gas poisoning in WW1. He was a gunner and drove the horses, when the mustard gas came over he made sure he found a clearing to turn the horses around and by doing so inhaled more of the gas than he would otherwise have done had he not been in charge of the horses and the gun. He never spoke to my dad about the war, he wouldn't talk of it at all. He sadly died before I was born so I never met him I wear my poppy with pride

..

A point made on the news today was that 1969 is the only year since the end of the First World War that a British serviceman was not killed in action.

having seen the photos and other memorabelia held at Kings Troop, Royal Horse Artillery at St Johns Wood (the place that has the gun carriages that were used for the funerals of both the Queen Mother and Diana Princess of Wales) there is a special bond between the men and the horses.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/co...came-back.html

I saw the Steven Spielberg movie 'War Horse' on the box a few nights ago. Very moving. I was in tears a couple of times and even had to leave the room at one point. Bit of a corny ending I suppose.
Thank goodness when the mad men go to war these days they don't take animals with them anymore.

after spending some time at St Johns Wood on a refurb contract, I think the thing that hit me the most was the "hoof cutter". (hope I have that right).

there used to be an element of fraud involved in the loss of horses. Originally it was just a report but then some seemed to come back into the system, identifiable by common markings.
So the upper hoof of the horse was engraved or tattooed with the horses ident number. If a horse was killed in action/"lost" then the hoof with the markings had to be removed and returned to prove the loss.
This was the same as cutting off a foot at the ankle, something you would only do (normally) to a dead horse.
The army being the army they had a tool to do the job.

as the article says - mans inhumanity to other sentient beings is the most scary possible.

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