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It has become clear to me that fame as a poet is in this aspect largely irrelevant. The stories of other common soldiers was every bit as telling albeit less resonant beyond an accepted art form. I will indulge myself here. As a young child I once asked my grandfather what he had done during the First World War. I wasn't expecting tales of heroism, simply tales of his own experience as a matter of curiosity - especially since my parents were grooming me for a career in the armed forces although at that young age I wasn't aware of it. I remember his face darkening. Quite shocking to me, given he was always a cheerful positive soul. He didn't tell me about derring do, comradery, or the acts of courage on the battlefield. He told me about the privations of life in the trenches, the ever present threats, the grim reality of being part of a such a conflict. He even made me promise never to join the Army. It was an agreement that would cast a shadow of my life ever since but he was a good man, and I will stand by that agreement even though the choice is now academic given my age. I learned later how he was sent ashore at Gallipoli, to assist the Australians, in attacks on Turkish trenches. He had made bayonet charges against them and that affected him for the rest of his life. He could never completely rationalise what he had done, knowing in his own words that he had killed some mother's son. In the event, in 1916 he was sent home as a skilled shipwright to the yards on the Tyne, because after the Battle of Jutland there was a huge demand for replacement vessels. That order probably saved his life on the Western Front. I don't resent the Armed Forces, nor the undesirable conspiracy that took place to persuade me to join the Army to follow my father (of whom I have rather less respect). I agree they are protectors of freedom and life despite their violent profession, for in the course of human activity, aggression is part of politics, even everyday life. My path was to be different. My awakening self determination as a young man, my increasing resentment of parental influence, and my own desires to forge a path unique to myself would dominate. But whilst I might not make big noises about the tragedies of the Guns of August, I do nonetheless respect the price they paid as what they considered their national duty and moral imperative, whatever our contemporary revision of history might say, for I remember the words of one veteran at least.