Hubby:

Go, yourself, to war, and watch your friends crumple and die in the sand. Go call on the bereaved mothers and explain it to them.

Stand up to some blasts, bullets; watch some children bleed to death in your arms, due to a slight error in azimuth made by an exhausted artilleryman. Haul some of your buddies out of harm's way with their legs left behind and their blood covering your bootlaces. Take point on explaining collateral damage to the mothers of children accidentally wiped out by a misaimed bomb.

Then come back here and yap about the glory and nobility of war in a High Cause.

Let me add, too, that your so-called High Cause smells as rotten as a mackerel in moonlight; it was never articulated as the purpose of this war until well after the war was begun, and your hollow-headed leaders ran out of steam on their other excuses. This war was not begun to free oppressed people. It is the right words, but not to this song. It is a pretense, added to a string of pretenses, rationalizing violence with after-thoughts cloaked in hollow and hypocritical rhetoric. . Specious, unthoughtful, inhuman and bestial.

A