Years ago I used to get a ride into Oxford from Wootton, near Woodstock, in a half-timbered Morris Minor. "What was it like, at the end of war?" I asked the driver. He paused and, doubtless taking pity on me because I was eight years old and a child replied. "They were incredibly disciplined, even in retreat," and on we drove.
Pan to the Bakhmut pocket. Do you think, mind-band punters, that history rhymes? Russian guns, it seems, are a constant, as is the West's perennial push to take out and own Moscow. All hail the Panzers. We nearly got there in '41, and then we didn't, Rudel and Wittman notwithstanding.
Today? The West finds itself on exactly the wrong side of the bet it's wagered everything on. Viz. We'll never, ever, ever have to fight a conventional war again ever again and after all, all those immigrant votes don't come cheap. Doubt me? Just examine the risible state of UKLF.
Whatever and oops, 30,000++ shells a day argue otherwise, all you Ivy League, OxBridge morons. And here's a thought, maybe you'd be better off organizing tranny pantomime than FORPOL.
In the meanwhile, Bakhmut's heading for a fall, despite Russia's lack of ammunition, computer chips, fighting ability, supply lines, common sense, people, slavic idiocy, corruption, washing machines, (enough - Ed.).
So, and with utter respect to the fallen on both sides, perhaps history rhymes.
Best,
LSP
