The Corpse Factory

By Bruce E. Jones | Extract from book, Kill War, Save Vets. Via AfterDowningStreet

“The Corpse Factory” was the title of a military expose written by Lord Arthur Ponsonby after WWI.

The corpse factory is war, but mostly it is the mindset that causes war.

To put that final nail in the coffin of the war mindset, to lock down that corpse factory, think about the “drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo” … and the flags and the parades and the bands, and the bunting and the Support The Troops stickers, the uniformed men and women marching in spit-polish patriotism. The young men and women, heads held high, hearts beating like the drums before them, as they loyally follow orders aiming them into the darkness of the corpse factory.

Who built this corpse factory? Who did it this time? Who are these mother fuckers, these molesters of a generation’s children? Why did they, you know, really do it? Have they been arrested? Have they been water boarded? Or did they get presidential medals and honors and book deals?

And only the brave few ask: Was this war—the one today and the ones yesterday and those next to come—manufactured on behalf of corporations and capitalism (that is, oil)? Was it propagated by the cowardice of the media that cannot get too close to killing grounds, that cannot question the motives of government? Was it ordered by fat old men with a political agenda build on dreams of nationalistic grandeur and “American Exceptionalism”?

Did anyone think about the dead men walking?

If they talk about dying for principles that are bigger than life you say mister you're a liar. Nothing is bigger than life. There's nothing noble in death. What's noble about lying in the ground and rotting? What's noble about never seeing the sunshine again? What's noble about having your legs and arms blown off? What's noble about being an idiot? What's noble about being blind and deaf and dumb? What's noble about being dead? Because when you're dead mister it's all over. It's the end. You're less than a dog less than a rat less than a bee or an ant less than a maggot crawling around on a dungheap. You're dead mister and you died for nothing. You're dead mister. Dead. -- Dalton Trumbo, Johnny Got His Gun

When Johnny comes marching home again the old church bells will “peal with joy” and the village lads and lassies “with roses they will strew the way” and the “laurel wreath is ready now to place upon his loyal brow...”

When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give him a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer and the boys will shout
The ladies they will all turn out
And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home...

Hurrah! Hurrah!

But Johnny can’t come marching home again. Johnny is bits and pieces of rotted gore hidden in a shiny coffin with an American flag spread across the top that cannot be opened for viewing. He’s in one of those secret coffins that during the Cheney/Bush years were not to seen, not to be discussed, not to be mourned by a nation.

Or Johnny is lost in the agony of his empty mind after an IED, “improvised explosive device” – a roadside fucking bomb – shook his brain into bloody short circuits. Johnny can’t come marching home again, because Johnny is in a fucking wheel chair with no legs or a severed spine.

Johnny may come marching home again, but he will be bitter, in pain, unemployed, maybe homeless. He will in time be forgotten, he will get only minimal or sporadic care from a government that makes promises. He will cling to a remembered pledge of honor and duty and country...because it is all he has left.

Oh, Johnny, we hardly knew ya’ ...

...With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo

With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo

With your drums and guns and drums and guns

The enemy nearly slew ye

Oh my darling dear, Ye look so queer

Johnny I hardly knew ye.

Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo

Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo

Where are your eyes that were so mild

When my heart you so beguiled

Why did ye run from me and the child

Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo

Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo

Where are your legs that used to run

When you went for to carry a gun

Indeed your dancing days are done

Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

… Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo

Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo

Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg

Ye're an armless, boneless, chickenless egg

Ye'll have to put with a bowl out to beg

Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.

They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo

They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo

They're rolling out the guns again

But they never will take our sons again

No they never will take our sons again

Johnny I'm swearing to ye.

Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye, -- Irish ballad, early 19th century

The builders of corpse factories must be held accountable. We must kill war.