My grandmother's favorite brother, Willy, was a successful rugby player, a well-loved member of his mining company's social circle, and his sisters' darling. Answering his government's call to duty he enlisted, entrained for service in Africa, and on 25 October 1916 fell to a German bullet at Iringa in Tanzania. My grandmother told how their mother broke down on receiving a letter from a girl they did not know, asking that a ring that would be among Willy's effects be returned to her. 

This little tragedy was part of a struggle between the forces of Germany and like-minded powers who saw the world as a playground for the powerful, who sought to impose their will on peoples and nations on the one hand, and more or less democratic nations on the other hand, seeking a global order that would ensure peaceful discourse between nations. 

One of the most powerful reminders of the Great War is the poem:

In Flanders' fields the poppies grow, 

Between the crosses, row on row

While in the sky a lark still sings,

Scarce heard amidst the guns below. 

Corporal Willy McHardy death contributed, in a small way, to the Peace of Versailles, a deeply flawed treaty that sought to end the use of force to impose political decisions and domination. The war ended the rule of absolute monarchs in Europe and saw the creation of the League of Nations, the first supra-national organisation to resolve international disputes. The failure of the League, and the Second World War, saw the creation of the United Nations in San Francisco in 1945.

And now, 104 years later, men prepare for winter in the mud and trenches of Ukraine. Civilians plan their survival with a smashed electricity infrastructure. Once again a Great Power sought to impose itself on people who rejected it. 

We have forgotten.