War's stupid. Nobody wins. You might as well talk first; you

Hear the voice of Henry Allingham, one of the last surviving witnesses of the Great War, who declared with simple clarity: “War’s stupid. Nobody wins. You might as well talk first; you have to talk last anyway.” His words are not polished with rhetoric, but heavy with the weight of lived suffering, like stones carried across a century. They echo not as mere opinion but as testimony — the voice of one who saw the futility of slaughter, who lived long enough to understand that after the smoke clears and the graves are dug, men always return to the table of speech.

To call war stupid is to strip it of the false glory that poets and kings have woven around it. Allingham lived through the trenches, where the mud swallowed bodies and the air was thick with poison. He saw young men, filled with dreams, reduced to silence in foreign fields. To him, the grandeur of banners and the honor of medals were but thin veils over the monstrous truth: war consumes life and gives back nothing but grief. Thus he spoke, as an elder speaking to his children, warning that wisdom lies not in the clash of arms but in the courage to prevent them.

When he said nobody wins, he did not mean only the losing side, but all of humanity. The so-called victors of the Great War found themselves burdened with debts, haunted by loss, and soon enough drawn into another global conflict. What kind of victory is it when fields lie barren, cities lie in ruins, and mothers weep for sons who never return? Allingham had lived long enough to see that the spoils of war are ash, and the triumph of one nation often plants the seeds of the next conflict. The earth remembers, and blood once spilled cries for more.

Think of the Treaty of Versailles, which followed the First World War. The cannons grew silent, but the talk that ended it was filled with bitterness and vengeance. Reparations, humiliation, and resentment laid the foundation for Hitler’s rise and the horror of World War II. Here, Allingham’s words ring prophetic: men fought, millions perished, and in the end they had to return to talk — but talk poisoned by anger rather than tempered by wisdom. If they had spoken first with mercy and foresight, perhaps the rivers of blood might not have flowed again.

The wisdom of Allingham’s saying also reaches into the battles of daily life. How often do families quarrel, friends divide, or nations bicker, each insisting on being heard only after conflict has broken out? Yet, in the end, every strife must end with dialogue. Even enemies must eventually talk, for it is the only bridge across hatred. Why then do we not talk first, before the wounds, before the bitterness, before the graves? This is the heart of his message: to choose speech over violence, reason over destruction, peace over pride.

And let us remember: war is not always fought with guns. It is also in the harsh word, the stubborn silence, the pride that refuses to yield. In every quarrel, every division, there lies the chance to choose either the path of destruction or the path of conversation. Allingham teaches us that peace is not weakness, but strength — the strength to lower the sword and extend the hand, to master one’s anger before it masters oneself.

So, beloved, let this be your practice: when anger rises, talk first. Listen even when it hurts. Speak with humility, not with the poison of pride. In your homes, in your work, in the councils of nations, remember that true courage is not found in shouting loudest or striking hardest, but in seeking understanding before harm is done. For in the end, as Henry Allingham taught, all battles end not in victory, but in the silence of the dead and the voices of the living who must still find words to heal what was broken.