Kevin, you've gone and done it again - told in one line the essense.
I have stories to tell - most of them awful, they teach nothing except man's inhumanity to man.
But I though of one:
In 1940-41 my dad was fighting the Italians on the mountain ranges between Greece and Albania. Well, he never fired a shot, he was the radio man. One day in deep winter, when the troops were already slaughtering their own horses for food, as he was walking along a mountain track he came across this Italian guy, who came to him with raised hands, because he was hungry and wanted to give himself up. After the shock, my dad understood the sign language, and duly "arrested" him and "took him prisoner".
Afterwards, the Italian bloke, to thank my dad, gave him the only personal possession he had: a pair of nail scissors, shaped like a pelican with the cutting edges as the snout.
I still cut my fingernails with these scissors, and think of the two unwilling participants in the war (the Italian guy and my dad) every time.