Two soldiers. The Great War. A day out for John in the lanes of Picardy. Four years of slaughter in the mud for George. John was a boy with a bicycle, killed on the war’s first day. George was a man with a family, dead on the first day of peace. Today they lie buried together quite by chance in a quiet French cemetary. They’re people - a son, a brother, a father, a husband. They are you and me. They are the first and the last.