Possibly, my generation is the last where We'll Meet Again will remain entrenched in our psyches. We are the last generation whose grandparents or parents fought in WWII. Our childhoods were full of personal recollections narrated by aging relatives, Sunday afternoons glued to documentaries like World at War (morosely narrated by Laurence Olivier) and evenings transfixed by television adaptions of novels like A Town like Alice and The Winds of War and films like The Guns of Navarone and Cross of Iron. The War, and all that it stood for, was still very much part of our recent history and, as a consequence, we were never allowed to forget the sacrifices that were made to ensure our feedom and liberty.
Nor indeed should we.
So the sentimental attachment to We'll Meet Again, a forces favourite, was actually still quite profound in my youth. But the sad reality of WWII was that meeting someone you loved again had the odds stacked against it. Relationships were often brief and painful, duty came before love and marriage and frequently a telegram on the doorstep would put an end to thoughts of any sweet reunion.
They just ain't Vera.
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