War, ultimately, is not glamorous, nor patriotic, nor elegant. It is brutal and futile, suffering and death. It is not to be sought after or revered.War has its purposes, and at times is necessary. But the effects are terrible. The poetry coming from the Great War (1914-1918) is stark in its honesty. Let us never forget."They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them." — Laurence Binyon, 1914Let us never forget.