My great uncle died in France a few weeks before the war ended in 1918. He was about 24. I've always felt a strong sense of attachment to the man, because, take away the Kitchener moustache, he looks just like me. My great grandfather still missed his brother when he, too, finally died aged 94. I was 13 when my great grandfather died, so in a different universe I might have met my great uncle.
"On the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, the guns fell silent. Lest we forget."
(Of course, everyone did, and keeps forgetting.)
