As I suppose is fitting for the blog of an archeology enthusiast, I have *very* slowly been reading through the archives of Detritus of Empire. Here I was, with some movie marathon being ignored on the Idiot Box and Darling Wife scrolling down through Facebook posts, reading about this guy’s European vacation, when he knocked my props out.
That right there is a place to make me cry.
DW was LOLing at a picture of a dog in a bathtub while I was over here ordering my tears not to flow. Those are part of the defunct works of either German or French soldiers long dead by now. Dead, in fact, since 1916. Notice how the row of construction sort of stops near the middle of the screen? That was probably collapsed by one of sixty MILLIONS of artillery shells that fell on this ground. An average of 150 per square meter. A half million-ish men injured, a quarter-million-ish dead. Right here in this grassy, flowered clearing in a forest, men were blown to smithereens once upon a time.
I know where it comes from, but I have a special dislike of death in general. But when it comes to the deaths of men-at-arms, there is a special kind of hurt I get inside. I would like to go to Verdun. But I would not like to have any company. I think I might need some extra water bottles, too. Cry enough, and you’ll get dehydrated.