Signs The drums beat on as we clear our ears and wait on answers Blair can't give. We question what he thinks he means. The children of Baghdad sleep on, air hums with lessons hard to understand, like a dose of napalm. Vietnam haunts our past, horrors we can't name or even bear to think about: a girl stripped of skin with open hands. The gall is what enrages most, although we too legitimise those things we know they do. Perhaps we have invoked the Lionheart, a rampage through those countless other lives, sanctified within the vicious heat of his belief; profit legalised by a sword or suicide bomber in a car intent on virgins and the peace they bring. A girdling up, existence past all care of infants in the dust, their stare benign, bewildered by that blightedness the race to covet souls and oil seems to embrace. It's said we've seen this many times before. Take Potemkin's rage against the far from certain Turks, Napoleon in Egypt, the Siege of Stalingrad when Hitler groped the deadly teats of Mother Russia, Mai Lai, Verdun, Gallipoli's southern shore; a carpet laid with young and fragile flesh consumed before the Gorgon's staring flash. We take account of what is dearly paid, this disequivalence of the betrayed. I was raised with names my dad took from his dead two comrades, lying still beneath the sand they fell upon, carrying out the deed commissioned from a bunkered Thames. They send these young men in their place to fight the fiend. They told young Arthur Wesney his place in time is assured by sacrifice; a theme refined by martyrs ever heading to their tombs. Young David Baker's limbs spread by a mine foreshadowed Laos, Cambodia, Palestine.