I'm watching the television programmes marking the march by the Cenotaph in London, listening to the ladies who worked long hours at Bletchley Park deciphering code during WW2, to men and women coping with combat stress after the Falklands, the Gulf War, and all the rest, to the young men with missing limbs determined to build a new life for themselves. And I think of the local families grieving for their loved ones.
I wanted, too, to remember the young men who, in 1944, left in a Halifax from an airfield close by my home and came down in a field not far away.
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