"It doesn't help that each new generation gets a barrage of propaganda pushed onto them equating military service with heroics, honour, patriotism, and so forth."I certainly agree. In my opinion, the basic principles are simple but in practice things get complicated very quickly. If I'm not careful here I'll be quoting everyone from pacifists through to Clausewitz and we will all be bogged down in a mire of detail. This is a huge subject, thousands of books have been written about it.
I'll keep it short. The propaganda and heroics are long inbred and they go back a very long way - thousands of years and there's no better place to start than with the famous Latin quote from the Roman poet Horace:
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori"
"It is sweet and fitting to die for the homeland (one's country)"
Just about everyone knows these facts but for the few that may not I'll repeat them. During WWI the English poet Wilfred Owen wrote probably the most famous poem of the War and it's a very cynical and poignant reminder of how terrible war is. Therein he lashes out against the wisdom of Horace's quote.
Lttle else need be be said. The poem is short enough to quote here:
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Dulce et Decorum est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer,
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_et_Decorum_est
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_et_decorum_est_pro_pat...