Despite the fact that this thread has changed tracks, changed trains, gone back to the stations a few times, resisted various attempts of hijacking and demolition, it remains an interesting read.
But let's skip warfare for a moment, as that's too removed from many people's lives. Or at least let's look at the ravages of another war, a war we all fight and lose, the war against time. Throw into the mix disease, and you have yourself a pretty picture of the primary world we call life.
Visit a care facility where people - real people - are biding their last few days of life. See how many, once noble, are reduced to the kind of care of that of an infant. Look in their eyes and see that divine spark missing - the body is there, but the mind, the spirit, has already left. Smell the underlying scent of disease and decay and death and offal, and hear the moanings of the lost and suffering, and beeps and hummings of the life-sustaining machines that continue on long after the person has been declared dead.
If a loved one is in such a place, would this be how we would want to remember him/her? Or do we remember that warm but not yet hazy day on the ball field, with the early sun casting shadowed trees long across the field, when we helped the 'Old Man' get ready for his softball game by playing some catch?
So can we blame Tolkien for not wanting to write a perfectly accurate description of life? Don't we all want to leave this world and all of its ugliness behind for a while? Not only did Tolkien created characters without feet of clay, but also kept their semi-angelic feet out of the muck as well.