We Britons were taught a lovely poem at school about a brave little French sailor boy who refused to leave his post and was subsequently consigned to Valhalla by our accommodating ancestors. It began…
“The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck,
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.”
Proud and heroic he was no doubt but even he, gallant garçon though he was, wasn’t so cool that he pulled out a guitar and started strumming.
We wandered gobsmacked around the Vietnamese Fine Art Museum and stood gazing at an image of a naval battle in which the brave Vietnamese sailors were hammering away on their anti-aircraft guns at the imperialist planes overhead.
But wait ! What’s that sound above the battle’s cry ? Can it be a (rather Picasso-esque) chap oblivious to the danger all about strumming out an uplifting tune on his guitar ?
Egad ! So it is ! Give that man a Hero of the Revolution medal at once !