And what men shall farm it? The dead? You soft fat burghers and officers don't see what I do on the front. Thousands dead, young men in the prime of life! They shove a tin hat and a spear in their hands, and send them away to the war, and all the while the marching band plays Evaline's Waltz. Were you there at the battle of Suvla? When we hit that beach, the blood had already stained the sand and water, and three thousand of our boys were dead within the first day. Then night hits, and the band plays Evaline's Waltz, we bury the dead, and the Elves buried theirs, and then it started all over again. For seven long weeks, I kept myself alive in that hell called Suvla bay, and when we finally won, they gathered us all up and sent us home; they collected the cripples the wounded, and maimed and send us back home. The legless, the arm less, the blind and insane, those proud wounded heroes of Suvla. And as we who still had use of our bodies carried them down the gangway into our home port, the fucking band played Evaline's Waltz while the crowd gathered around, and nobody cheered like when we were shipped out, they just stared, and turned their faces away, like not looking would make it all not true.
But no, by all means, if it means you might profit off some cheap farmland to feed your fat wife and fat children, we soldiers are delighted to loose our lives for it.