The Great War they called it. Great being the misnomer of the century- horrendous or murderous would have fit better. Yet when my day came to join the lads at the front I set out, like most of those poor sods did, with hope in my heart and the sense that I was doing the right thing.

I shall not dwell on the horrors of those days for they were many and horrific in the truest sense of the word. They are times I would rather forget, but times I know I shall never forget. Yet throughout the days and nights of abject terror and misery I always carried hope in my heart. For what is a life without hope?

Fighting, or rather surviving, those weeks of hell took all my strength so when the news came through that it was all over and we were to be returned to our families I was happier than even I could have imagined, and knew that the hope I had held of returning safely was about to be realised.

After the war I continued to hope, for anything and everything that I could. For I knew I had been spared because of my hope and now I could make a life from that very same hope…


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