I travelled once to the Commonwealth graves at Passchendaele, outside Ypres, in Belgium. It is a low, sad, green landscape. The weight of the ghosts is palpable. The farmers still plough up shells each day; some are unexploded cans of mustard gas. Some are duds. When you go to the graveyards, you find betimes a monument with an inscription marked at the bequest of the family of the late lad. This is one I saw, and never shall forget, until the end of my days:
Son,
I Loved Thee So Deeply
My Sorrow Shall Never Be Healed.
Mother.
War is sick and stupid, and I'm ashamed of myself for finding it interesting.
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