Well I've been in tears all bloody evening trying to find out about my great uncle Jimmy for my mum. Somewhere in panels 158 to 170 on a war memorial in Turkey is his name, Pte James Curliss, along with 21000 others. I haven't found a pic of it yet but there'll be one somewhere. He has no grave of his own, as nothing identifiable could be found of him. All for king and country, your bits smeared all over a foreign beach, your name carved on a couple of slabs, all that's left of you. Next time I paddle in the Med I might reflect on the thought that some molecules of Uncle Jimmy may be sloshing around my ankles. That's a nice thought and that's as much glory as he'll ever get from now on. You earned a legacy for someone else who might have been "running things" from several hundred yards behind the line, quite likely with a few bottles of champagne to hand, but your name isn't mentioned in their biographies. Times seven mIllion. But they were all so well led. My mum told me. Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori, eh? Sometimes, when you talk about war you have to bring it all back down to human scale, otherwise you might go insane. I'd rather go a bit soppy over Uncle Jimmy than go insane, thanks.