Tucked away, amongst our family's possessions, exists a sinister looking dagger.
It is sharp to a razor's edge on both sides, arriving at an even more sinister point.
Sheathed in a self-sharpening metallic scabbard, the blade is long enough to reach vital organs and is designed with one cold purpose – to kill.
We know little of the man from whom our grandfather took it. We know they found themselves on opposite sides of a conflict that claimed more than 16 million lives in what was one of the deadliest conflicts in human history.
And we know they fought one another in hand to hand combat, knee deep in the mud of a land foreign and hostile to men from both sides.
Grandfather returned, gassed and traumatised, but alive. From that viewpoint he was one of the lucky ones.