In the good old days, war used to be a fun, cheap way for young men to hang out together and travel the world. That's why as soon as big wars broke out, 15 year olds magic'd up moustaches with ash from the fire so as to get on the first boat. Absolutely no-one wanted to miss out on rip-roaring stag parties like WW1.
Or perhaps I'm viewing history through rose-tinted fighter pilot goggles?
To be fair, there were the odd slightly hairy moments at the bigger battles like the Somme. Sometimes, Ted, Wally, Jock and the lads did have to pop 'over the top,' and wade their mazy way through barbed wire whilst being distracted by a tsunami of ratatat gunfire.
But let's not get carried away - it wasn't actually that dangerous. That's because at least ninety-nine times out of ninety eight (fact), Hun bullets lodged in either the a) metal cigarette case or b) Holy Bible in our boy's breast pocket. Ha! That's a good one to tell the grandkids.
The biggest problem with old-fashioned warring was that it could get a little boring in the trenches when your feet begun to rot and the army of navel-gazing war poets started to bleet on about mustard gas. Give a rest will you Wilfred, we trying to enjoy our Spam.
I'll mull modern warfare later this week. Here's a teaser ... it's much scarier now autonomous killer robots have got involved.