That letter and the PM’s eye.

That letter and the PM’s eye.

OK, look at it this way. The PM has ordered a generation into a war that carries no chance of victory, knowing if they come back they will see there are no jobs for the young generation he under-equips them so more get killed or maimed. But before bedtime he is told he must write letters to loved ones of all who died that day as a result of orders he gave. He threw the printer out of the room in a fit of temper and is now banned from access to printers, and keyboards, and pointy things like pens and pencils - all he has to do the job with is felt tipped pens and some headed writing paper. So he rushes off a few and leaves the room for others to do the folding and the posting. Knowing how violently explosive he has become they would not dare suggest maybe he has done it not well enough.
Then he finds the letter is doing his reputation no good at all and phones the recipient to keep her quiet, make her sorry she sent it to the press. She records it and quick as blinking the words are all over the Internet, would have been all over TV and radio if his organisation had not managed to frighten broadcasters into not broadcasting his voice on the tape.
What will he do next? What can he do?
There is his monthly press briefing coming up that same week, his one next chance to get away with having blotted his copybook, so to speak. His eyesight is poor, and like many others he has been attending the eye clinic and using the drops they tell us to use. The solution in that eye medicine is not exactly the same Ph as that of the eye so when we apply the drops it makes a stinging sensation that soon passes, but generates eye watering for a few minutes. With a flash of inspiration he puts the eye drops into that one good eye he has been told to apply it to, steps through the curtain into the public gaze with one eye still glistening. Right across the nation people with nothing better to do see him of their screens with one weeping eye. His reputation goes up. He is safe for another day – but the young people in the services are not, and the young people queuing in abject futility for every job vacancy are growing depressed and angry.
Keep using the eye drops, Gordon; you must know the side effects will give you cataracts and an excuse for leaving that job without crawling away in ignominy!

What you or I would have done is this. Having been informed that a young man, someone’s son or husband, has died as a result of following orders you initiated you know you have a duty to write to those who are grieving to let them know you are sorry for what happened. That you are sorry the consequences of your decisions led to the death of another highly trained and committed young man. You take a walk and sort out in your mind how to say what you have to say, figure out what would be the best choice of words, and think through the effect that wording will have on the recipient. Then you sit down at the desk and take up the selected writing implement. You look at the blank piece of paper, a lump developing in the throat and hand shaking, you know this had better be done right, no mistakes will be forgiven in a letter craving forgiveness. Getting the line straight you start moving the pen on the paper, so hesitantly that blots soon appear and that sheet of paper is crumpled up and dropped into the bin. On a piece of notepaper you scribble out the text, edit it and amend it and then you start again with the best ink pen on best paper, painstakingly forming every word in line and properly spaced, properly spelled. When it is done you hold it up and imagine yourself as the bereaved recipient, asking yourself if this good enough. If you decide not you do it all again. Then you have it checked over by one of the many secretaries ranked throughout the building. Only then would you fold it into the addressed envelope and place it carefully in the post out box on the sideboard by the door and get on with ending the day.