For three generations my family had close escapes during times of war.
The short story in this post was written to commemorate the fallen of The Great War, but it could be written for any conflict, anywhere, at any time.
My grandfather fought in WW1, and was bayoneted in the trenches; he was saved by his helmet.
My father survived the bombing of the SS Ranchi in Alexandria harbour at the end of WW2. Because the ship was in dock for two months, they were late arriving in India, to bring back the troops whose tour ended with the end of the war. The delay led to the relatively unknown mutiny of the Royal air Force, in 1948. From what I heard, my father was present when the Japanese Commander of forces in India handed over the sword.
I was involved in a shooting incident crossing the border into Germany from the Netherlands while travelling on a train. It was more luck, than judgement there wasn't a serious incident. I was in Germany months after the Red Army Faction were imprisoned, all NATO personnel were on alert for years, expecting a terrorist attack.
Years later I served in Ireland during The Troubles, I disputed I was worthy of the General Service Medal I earned, until a year ago, when a person I was chatting to online pointed out any Armed Forces in Ireland were in a war zone.
My time at RAF Lossiemouth, Moray, Scotland was a rough time. Until the late 50's, the base was held by the Royal Navy, inter-service friction was mixed with being English on base in Scotland. The station commander had heard of the fights in the NAAFI most weekends, so he decided to have a picket guard to break-up the fights. I was chosen for one guard, my reaction was "what am I going in with, Sarge?"
The reply was, "fists."
My comment on that was "No way, unless I go in with at least a pick axe handle, I'm not going anywhere near a fight with a drunken sailor. The CO has no idea what goes on."