Every year on Remembrance Day I reflect on our family’s loss during the Second World War.
He was 22 years young.
Dad said he borrowed money for an engagement ring before he left.
But he didn’t return.
I grew up with the story that Uncle Wally was a pilot and killed during the war. His body never found.
The truth is, he was killed on an airstrip. Shortly before the end of the Second World War.
It took hours after the initial name search. I scrolled through pages and pages of Royal Air Force links. Finally I made a connection.
Shortly afterwards I found out a snippet of the truth.
When I learned where he was buried I contacted the cemetery.
Immediately I was forwarded a picture of his gravestone.
Happily I shared this information with my family.
Maybe dad knew. Or, maybe not.
Regardless of what I know now.
He’s a soul at rest.