I never met my Great Grandad Paul, though I remember my Great Grandma Sanders, his wife, with great fondness. I see the medals occasionally on the wall in my Dad’s house and I wonder now, if I’m being honest with myself, even though I looked at them and read the inscriptions beneath the glass, without meaning to, if I took them for granted. This process, this tile, has made me engage properly with the fearless self-sacrifice of these teenagers. It’s breathtaking: Teenagers. My Great Uncle Joseph, who died at the Somme, faked his age in order to go and fight. It fills me with pride to think of these working class boys going over the sea, far from home and everything they knew to defend what they believed in.