It was to be the battle to end all battles and the enemy seemed to fill the horizon. The soldier took a photograph from the breast pocket of his battledress jacket. He looked at it for a second before tenderly kissing that beloved face.
Half a world away, his young wife felt that kiss as she laboured to bring his son into the world. She was comforted.
Three hours later as she held her newborn babe to her breast, she felt those lips again. This time, though, she heard a longed for voice.
“Sorry, love,” it said.
And she knew.