PushingJelly

With the recent events here in London and the 60th anniversary of the end of war in Europe has reminded me just how good the majority of us in the UK have got it. We live in relative peace and are mostly treated with respect and justice.

Things on 7/7 could have been so much worse. Imagine the damage to London if the attacks had been tinged with chemical, biological or radioactive elements. A dirty bomb in the number 30 bus would not have effected just the 13 poor soals the died in the attack but would have made most of the west end a no-go area.

Yes the criminals that perpetrated the atrocity should be strung up for what they did. Prison is far too good for them. The casualty count pales into insignificance however when compared to the deaths in Iraq since the US and UK invaded, where almost every day, suicide bombers explode themselves killing civilians, police and soldiers alike.

There are times however you have to sit back and think about what happened and be thankful that the London bombers were not that good at their job.

My father sent me a link from the BBC (http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/ww2/A2661996) to a poem about a guy in the war, I have included it below.

Death In Oosterbeek
By Bob Scrivener
People in story: Lt. Edmund Scrivener, other unknown
Location of story: Arnhem, Holland
Unit name: Border Regiment 1st Airborne Division
Background to story: Army

My father, Edmund F. Scrivener (1916–2003) served with 1st Battalion, The Border Regiment, Air Landing Brigade, at Arnhem. He wouldn’t talk much about his nine days in hell, but he did once say to me, ‘Why is it a man’s scream sounds so much more blood-curdling than a woman’s?’

He wrote this poem about an incident near the end of the battle.

Death In Oosterbeek
At the dawning he came to me again,
That gentle smile, and blood upon his cheek
Reminding me, for his end had come
In the dappled woods of Oosterbeek. 
A passing shower of German mortar bombs
Had driven me beneath a fallen tree, 
And when, at last I rose, prepared to go, 
I saw him turn his head and look at me. 
The wonder and compassion in his eyes, 
The friendship of the smile upon his face, 
Mocked the blood that trickled from his lips, 
And made me curse aloud the human race. 
He knew they could not hurt him any more, 
No longer would he feel the pains and fears, 
Forgiveness shone from that young soldier’s face, 
The mem’ry brings a flood of angry tears.
I wish these tears would wash away the thought
That e’en in death we humiliate them so; 
I saw him later at the First Aid Post, 
A label tied to his bare and lifeless toe. 
I often wonder who that young lad was, 
Who gave his life to cross the bloody Rhine; 
And if no loved ones have him in their thoughts, 
Come haunt me lad, and live again in mine.