In Memoriam: The Somme.

Most British people alive today, including many from the former colonies, will be remembering the battle of the Somme this week. Almost all of us have lost family members. Two of my grandfather's elder brothers died in the Great War, as did my grandmother's father. I can walk half a kilometer to the War Memorial in our town centre and point out our family names to my daughter; further afield, there are memorials in Flanders and north-eastern France bearing those young men's names. "A generation died", I say glibly, not really knowing what that means.

When my daughter asks real questions, I let (and sometimes oblige) her to watch the BBC coverage, and I read the Great War poets to her. She likes Owen because I do, I know, because I read his poems differently than Brooke, for instance, or Sassoon. It doesn't matter, this is only retrospective aestheticism on my part. Often I think Brookes idealistic "If I should die, think only this of me" is as true to the spirit of those far off days as Owen and his Anthem.

Pace, though, tonight; peace to all those who died, those who had the misfortune of surviving, to the women who waited alone, and even to the leaders who led so disastrously. We should celebrate the sacrfices and forgive the stupidities; they're both equally human, and until we change what we are we should pay due tribute to those who've died for what we were, and still sadly seem to be.