My grandfather enlisted the day after his brother was killed in action. He was too young to join, but back then the rules weren’t so rigid. If you looked eighteen and strong enough to fire a riffle, the army needed you.
During an air raid at the Battle for Caen, he got hit by shrapnel. It tore through his left arm.
While recovering in the hospital, he met my grandmother, who was a nurse in a neighbouring ward.
So in a way, I have the World War II to thank for my existence. My grandfather died months before I was born. He had never fully recovered from his injuries, the physical and other much deeper wounds.
I sometimes ponder of my grandparent’s sacrifices while sipping a beer in my yard. I sit on a lawn chair, staring into the forming clouds. They struggled, all so that I can have an afternoon nap in peace.