Suzanne Vega gets this right.

The soldier came knocking upon the queen’s door
He said, “I am not fighting for you any more”
The queen knew she’d seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.

He said, “I’ve watched your palace up here on the hill
And I’ve wondered who’s the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why.”

Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.

He said, “I see you now, and you are so very young
But I’ve seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I’ve got this intuition, says it’s all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?”

The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, “You won’t understand, and you may as well not try”
But her face was a child’s, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.

And she said, “I’ve swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I’ve bled”
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.

“Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won’t march again on your battlefield”
And he took her to the window to see.

And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.

And he said, “I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don’t understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange.”

But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.

Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangeling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on

The elite of this age treat soldiers with contempt. They have no understanding of the military discipline, or the everyday heroism.

If we routinely refer to all soldiers as “heroes” too glibly these days, conflating true heroism with the random tragedy of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when a roadside bomb explodes, there is something undeniably heroic about the willingness of young men and women to risk everything for their country. That should not need stating. What I was drunkenly trying to convey to these lads – even if, sober, I know it’s impossible to puncture the shield of youthful optimism – was that their country doesn’t give a stuff about them. And, compared with the squaddies, these Sandhurst-bound ex-public schoolboys are the lucky ones.
By their country, I mean the political class that treats soldiers so abominably. This is nothing new. For as long as there have been leaders and soldiers, the former have used the latter as cheap commodities to be sacrificed, in just wars and more often unjust wars, to an imagined greater cause. They have paid them atrociously, equipped them inadequately, fed and housed them wretchedly. They pay lip service to the courage of military personnel, and the unique esteem in which they are held, while the fighting endures. When they become ex-soldiers, governments down the ages have lifted not a finger to help the literally and metaphorically shell-shocked find civilian work, turning a blind eye when they turn to drugs and drink and end up on the streets.
In 1794, so legend or martial myth has it, at the Battle of Boxtel, the Duke of Wellington came across a soldier lying mortally wounded in the mud. “It’s all right, sir, all in a day’s work,” the dying Private Tommy Atkins told the Iron Duke, and almost exactly a hundred years later Rudyard Kipling wrote the poem named after the character,

The author then alluded to the poem below. I would add this: that the elite in other countries treat their soldiers worse. The exceptions exist. They are when all serve. Where time in the military is needed to go to any profession, for any career. When the state is at risk.

Then the military virtues, in sane states are honoured. But this elite is at risk, and treats such with contempt. Again, this elite are not sane.

Tommy

I WENT into a public ‘ouse to get a pint o’beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mr. Atkins,” when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music ‘alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy how’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an “Tommy, fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’schools, an’ fires an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot;
Yes it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
But Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool–you bet that Tommy sees!
Rudyard Kipling