I don't like Owen's poetry much but the last two lines there go straight to the heart of things.

My great Uncle Jimmy was killed at the ballsed-up Gallipoli landings in August 1915. Nineteen he was. My grandad's beloved older brother. No body, no grave, just a mention on the Helles memorial and his name, misspelled, on a plaque in Salford Cathedral. I imagine him dying wallowing in the soft wet sand as they landed on the wrong side of the bay, target practice for Johnny Turk. It hasn't exactly helped me to be a fan of Winston's. How my family's history might have been different, happier, had those men not been so "well-led..."