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I'm afraid that the battlefields make me feel very maudlin. All those brave men who died in the most awful conditions. I can feel their fear, resignation and frustration mingled with camaraderie, bravado and dogged determination. I weep every time.
This poem by Sigfried Sassoon says it all.
Dreamers
Soldiers are the citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.
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