Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred

Into the Valley of Death

Alfred, Lord Tennyson's The Charge of the Light Brigade

"Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred," but none returned. Set in 1854 in the bloody but highly forgettable Crimean War, Tennyson's classic poem recalls a futile yet heroic cavalry charge.

Ponder the question of when heroism crosses the line into stupidity - when doing one's "duty" to country (or family or church) without question becomes immoral rather than patriotic.

To say that authority, whether secular or religious, supplies no ground for morality
is not to deny the obvious fact that it supplies a sanction.
- Joseph Addison

Extend the question across history, including when Nazi soldiers faced the choice of following orders or committing the treason of insubordination.

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Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

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Into the Valley of Death

Alfred, Lord Tennyson's The Charge of the Light Brigade