I know this is anglo-phyllic and all, remarking on Remembrance Day and not Veterans Day, but my grandfather was in the RAF in WWII, crashed in North Africa, shattered both legs and was hobbled for the rest of his life. His presence in my life, and his constant suffering and struggle with his injuries and the mental scars, was the one real and personal connection to the war for me, and a small testament to the sacrifice that his generation made for subsequent ones like mine. That he recently died serves as a reminder that his generation is dwindling and that we must therefore be the keepers of their memories.
My uncle, a Canadian whose regiment was thus under British command, was killed in Normandy. He died as a result of wounds suffered in the D-Day invasion of Juno beach. He is buried in Calvados, France.
And so today I remember their sacrifice and give thanks.
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