Rays of late autumn sun glinted on my wheelchair armrest.My beloved L.ady Henrietta shivered in the Autumn chill. We shaded our eyes as we gazed at the military plane just touched down from Paris.
Relatives and friends stifled sobs. Just nineteen years old Viscount Edward died instantly from a shrapnel wound. Here we were at the latter end of the nineteen thirties and little had changed in the theatre of war since I was a young soldier some twenty years earlier.
Our beloved youngest son, Lord Henry and Viscount Edward had spent their early youth together at Grandfort Academy .
'Father,' he used to enunciate when fired up with a young man's enthusiasm' I'll carry the torch of freedom for our generation'. For nigh on one year now he was on active service, bearer of that torch.
Henrietta's face was masked in deep sadness on receiving his missives, her being pervaded by a sense of 'deja vu'. She relived the fear and uncertainty, just as she had, when, as newly weds , I was dispatched to Verdun. A stray shell within my first six months of service changed our lives forever.
I felt powerless to dissuade Henry.
As we stood in respectful silence on the tarmac, paying homage on the occasion of the sacrifice of another young man's life, what now of our son Henry's flame of freedom. Had it begun to flicker?