There’s a graveyard near me that, in the middle of the various graves of different sizes and colours and ages, some of them almost two hundred years old, has a long row of simple white headstones.
Last week I went for a walk through there and I studied these white stones for a few moments. They’re the graves of military lads from World War 2, and I saw the average age was about twenty-four, and they were mostly airmen, with a scattering of squaddies. There were four graves in a row with German names, young lads who’d been killed bombing my home town in 1941.
They lay quietly alongside their foe – enemies no more.