It Is Certainly Impossible To Imagine Forgiving

When I Reached Fort Binjemma, For Example, Where My Grandfather Was Stationed For A While, The Whole Victorian Fort Was Decaying. Barbed Wire Surrounded It, Spray Paint On The Ancient Walls Claimed It As Private Property, And The Moat Where My Grandfather And His Men Had Grown Crops - In Desperation As The Siege's Hunger Bit - Was Completely Overgrown With Bushes And Trees.

This Is The Forked Tongue Of Grief Again. It Whispers In One Ear: Return To What You Once Loved Best, And In The Other Ear It Whispers, Move On.

At This Point In Time The War [ Wwii] Is Close Enough To Still Feel Hotly Personal To A Writer, Yet Far Enough Away So That Jingoism And Heroics Are No Longer Required.

Would We Be The Heroes Or The Cowards Of The Piece? Would We Follow Orders Or Stick To Our Principles, If Those Two Things Ever Conflicted? Would We Be The Brave Ones Who Still Found The Capacity For Love - And For Laughter - Even While We Were Terrified?

It Is Certainly Impossible To Imagine Forgiving The Enemy While Their Animus Remains Undefeated.