In remembrance of my great-uncle Cecil, who died after "a fall in the mountains", possibly while trying to cross into Canada to find his brothers during the Depression, having been refused entry at the border due to being destitute. Cecil had spent many years in a US military hospital, a hopeless drunk, after the end of what was then known as the European War in 1918; he had served in the US army as a medic then rejoined as a cook - both non-shooting but highly dangerous front-line positions: the cooks had to crawl up through the trenches bringing food to the man, for instance.

In forlorn hope that people will stop killing each other forever.