My dad was born just as World War II began and his dad served overseas for the first five or six years of his life.
He says his first memory of his father is of a man in a long black coat limping towards him up the road. When he saw the man, he turned to him mom and asked "Who is that?" To which she replied, "Your father."
It breaks my heart to think of that little boy.
And it makes me grateful for all the sacrifices that were made - by those who stayed home and by those who went overseas.
And it's reason enough to make my way to the local cenotaph tomorrow - however bad the weather - to listen once again to "In Flanders Fields", pay tribute to those who gave so much, and pray that some day, somehow, we will put an end to war.
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