This coming Sunday, June 28th, marks an important centenary - at least an import one as far as my family is concerned. On June 28th 1915 my great-grandfather was killed at Gallipoli while serving with the 8th Scottish Rifles. It was his first battle. Who knows if he even managed to fire a shot. I doubt it. He died fighting the Turks. He joined up to fight the Germans. It's quite possible he never met a Turk before he took the King's Shilling. Perhaps the only ones he ever saw were prisoners of war herded on the beach at Gallipoli. The nature of war is such that you don't always get to choose your "enemy". If you take the Queen's Shilling, you do the Queen's business; no questions, no choice. Of course, it's not the Queen who personally decides who you try to kill. That decision is down to Her Majesty's Government. And these days few, if any, of the Queen's ministers have ever been at the sharp end of a war. Too often these men, and it's nearly always men, are not even figuratively in the same room when the Pandora's Box we call War is cracked open. War is a necessary evil and should never be undertaken lightly. The attack my great-grandfather died in, at Gully Ravine, was a mess from the British point of view. It is hard not to conclude that his life was squandered by men who had yet to learn how to do their jobs properly. I wonder how many of those back in London who were responsible for sending him into the bullet-whipped hell of Gully Ravine lost any sleep either before or afterward.