All language subtitles for 1996-The Great War and the Shaping of the 20th Century-EP5-Mutiny

In 1917, Siegfried Sassoon was in the south
of England recovering from a bullet wound.

Aunt Evelyn's delphinium spires were blue
against the distant blue of the sky,

and the shadows of Irish yews were
lengthening across the lawn.

Out in France, the convoys
of wounded and gassed

were being carried
into the field hospitals.

And up in the line, the slaughter went on
because no-one knew how to stop it.

The men are beginning
to ask for what they are

fighting, Dottrell had
written in his last letter.

Could I be blamed for being one of those
at home who are asking the same questions?

As the year 1917 began, prospects for the
Allies were bleak.

The naval battle of Jutland had ended in
stalemate.

Lord Kitchener, the British Secretary of
State for War, had been lost at sea.

On the Eastern Front, the Russian army was
exhausted.

On the Western Front, the
slaughter at the Somme and

Verdun had taken its toll on
the French and British armies.

Europe was in the grip of a freezing
winter.

By now, nearly every family had seen a
loved one die.

To continue the war or to give up, this
was the universal preoccupation of 1917.

For individuals, for military
units, and even for whole

nations, the limits of endurance
had been all but reached.

Every week, Wilfred Owen wrote home to his
mother from the front.

January 4th, 1917.

My own dear mother.

Since I set foot on Calais Quays,
I have not had dry feet.

We were let down gently into the real
thing.

Mud.

It has penetrated now into that sanctuary,
my sleeping bag, and that holy of holies,

my pyjamas.

I chose a servant for myself yesterday,
not for his profile, nor yet his clean

hands, but for his excellence in bayonet
work.

I censored hundreds of letters yesterday,
and the hope of peace was in every one.

Wilfred Owen's letters are interesting
because he was a literary genius and

because they reveal the mind
of the British officer, a young

man who'd been raised on
the classical literature of war.

When Owen came to the Western Front,
of course, he discovered that you could

show fortitude and endurance, but there
wasn't battle in the Greek sense where men

went forward, weapon in hand, and clashed
with the enemy.

It wasn't like that at all.

Um, and so, in a way, Owen, like so many
of the young British officers,

was an innocent at war.

Oh, meat it is and passing sweet to live
in peace with others, but sweeter still

and far more meat to die in war for
brothers.

Commissioned a second
lieutenant, Owen joined

the 2nd Manchester
Regiment on the Somme.

It was the worst winter in memory.

My own dear mother, I can see no excuse for
deceiving you about these last four days.

I have not been at the front.

I have been in front of it.

I held an advanced post in the middle of
no man's land.

The Germans knew we were staying there and
decided we shouldn't.

Those 50 hours were the agony of my happy
life.

I nearly broke down
and let myself drown in

the water that was slowly
rising over my knees.

I suppose I can endure cold and fatigue and
the face-to-face death as well as another.

But extra for me there is the universal
pervasion of ugliness.

The distortion of the dead, whose
unburyable bodies sit outside the dugouts.

In poetry we call them glorious.

But to sit with them all day, all night,
and a week later to come back and find

them still sitting there in motionless
groups.

That is what saps the soldierly spirit.

Many of the soldiers had to cope with
images that wouldn't go away.

Many of these parts of
human bodies were actually

used to shore up the
trench system itself.

Some soldiers found it
humorous to hang their water

canteens on a protruding
arm or a protruding leg.

These were not people who were
disrespectful of the dead.

They were living with the dead.

One can imagine the possibilities of
becoming numb to such images.

But those who couldn't turn off their
feelings, internalized them, brought them

home with them, lived with them, dreamt
about them, and went mad because of them.

Wilfrid Owen was having to learn how to
live with the dead.

He spent days trapped near the dismembered
body of a friend.

When finally relieved,
he tried to make sense

of it all in a letter
home to his sister.

My very dear sister, you must not
entertain the least concern about me.

You know, it was not the Germans that
worked me up, nor the explosives,

but it was living so long by poor old Cock
Robin, as we used to call 2nd Lieutenant

Kroger, who lay not only nearby,
but in various places around and about,

if you understand.

On the 6th of June, 1917, Owen was sent
home.

He had lasted only four months.

The diagnosis?

Shell shock.

Physicians of the time
described shell shock as the

nervous system's withdrawal
from an intolerable reality.

During the war, doctors used training films
to show the effects of mechanised warfare.

These films have been buried in hospital
archives for almost 80 years.

This man had been forced to bayonet an
enemy in the face.

This soldier responded to nothing,
except the word bomb.

This French soldier couldn't even look at
an officer's hat.

It was part of their therapy to film the
road to their own recovery.

There is some extraordinary material about
the way in which soldiers who were

incapable of acting were taught first to
sew, then to weave, then to farm,

then to carry a gun and then to shoot it
again.

As if they're moving from a kind of feminine
recuperation to masculine combat status.

Then they can go back to the men's war.

Electric shock treatment was given to
thousands of shell shock victims.

For training purposes, French physicians
filmed their colleagues applying

electrodes to the spines of shell-shocked
men who had trouble walking.

This was an entirely new kind of illness.

One that left doctors grasping for
solutions.

Far from the Western
Front, doctors started to

experiment with another
new treatment for shell shock.

Psychotherapy is commonplace today.

It was an innovation in 1917.

My own dear mother.

We left Nettley on Monday morning.

I woke up as we were rounding the coast by
Dunbar.

The castle looked more than ever a
hallucination with the morning sun behind it.

A taxi brought me up here about two and a
half miles from the town.

There is nothing very attractive about the
place.

It is far too full of officers,
some of whom I know.

Wilfred Owen had been sent to Craig
Lockhart on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

In this former sanatorium,
doctors attempted

the emotional repair
of British officers.

It was here that Freud's
pioneering work in psychotherapy

was put into practice in
Britain for the first time.

For Owen, it gradually began to take
effect.

My dearest mother,
last night I had a

consultation with Dr. Brock
from 11 till midnight.

I still have disastrous dreams, but they
are taking on a more civilian character.

Motor accidents and so on.

Nothing more to tell, I think.

Ever your own, Wilfred.

Whilst at Craig Lockhart, Owen first
encountered a book of verse, written at

the front by one of Britain's most
controversial soldiers.

I have just been reading
Siegfried Sassoon and

am feeling at a very
high pitch of emotion.

Nothing like his trench life sketches has
ever been written or ever will be written.

Shakespeare reads vapid after these.

It's bad to think of war when thoughts
you've gagged all day come back to scare you.

And it's been proved that soldiers don't
go mad unless they've lost control of ugly

thoughts that drive them out to jabber
among the trees.

They'll soon forget their haunted nights,
their dreams that drip with murder.

And they'll be proud of glorious war that
shattered all their pride.

Siegfried Sassoon had
suffered many close

encounters with death
while serving at the front.

But the war hit him hardest when his younger
brother was killed at Gallipoli in 1915.

His family never recovered from the shock.

Sassoon's friend, Robert
Graves, witnessed the depth

of the family's grief when
he visited the Sassoon home.

Later he would recall what it was like to
stay in the dead brother's room.

The mother kept the bedroom exactly as he
had left it.

With the sheets aired,
the linen always freshly

laundered, flowers and
cigarettes by the bedside.

The Sassoon's were not alone in their
grief.

All over Europe, mourning families were
finding it hard to let go of their dead.

Many began turning to the occult.

The first night I spent
there, Sassoon and I sat up

talking about the war
until after twelve o'clock.

The talk had excited me, and though I
managed to fall asleep an hour later,

I was continually wakened by
sudden rapping noises, which

I tried to disregard but
which grew louder and louder.

They seemed to come from everywhere.

Soon, sleep left me and I lay in a cold
sweat.

At nearly three o'clock, I heard a
diabolic yell and a succession of

laughing, sobbing shrieks that sent me
flying to the door.

In the passage, I collided with the mother,
who, to my surprise, was fully dressed.

It's nothing, she said.

I'm so sorry you've been disturbed.

There were thousands of
mothers like her, getting in touch

with their dead sons by
various spiritualistic means.

In the morning, I told my friend,
I'm leaving this place.

It's worse than France.

Siegfried Sassoon followed
Graves back to the Western

Front, and to some of the
fiercest fighting of the war.

His bravery at the Somme in 1916 earned
him the military cross for gallantry,

and the nickname, Mad Jack.

While I was running, I pulled the safety
pin out of a Mills bomb.

My right hand being loaded, I did the same
for the left.

Just before I arrived at the top,
I threw my two bombs.

Quite unexpectedly, I
found myself looking down

into a trench with a
great many Germans in it.

Fortunately for me, they were already
retreating.

It had not occurred to them that they were
being attacked by a single fool.

In April 1917, Sassoon was hit in the
shoulder by a sniper's bullet,

while leading an attack on Arras.

Even after his physical
wound had begun to heal,

it was apparent that
Sassoon was still not well.

Like his mother, the dead were visiting
him at night.

When the lights are out, and the ward is
half-shadow and half-glowing firelight,

then the horrors come creeping across the
floor.

The livid, grinning face with
bristly mustache peers at me

over the edge of my bed, the
hands clutching at my sheets.

There is a hole in his
jaw, and the blood spreads

across his face like the
ink spilt on blotting paper.

I wish I could sleep.

Sassoon had had enough.

On July 31st 1917,
he published an open

letter to his commanding
officer in the Times.

It caused a sensation.

I believe that this war, upon which I
entered as a war of defence and

liberation, has now become a war of
aggression and conquest.

I have seen and endured the sufferings of
the troops, and I can no longer be a party

to prolonging those sufferings for ends
which I believe to be evil and unjust.

The army had a problem.

What to do with a clearly
decorated, brave, honorable man,

who reached the conclusion
that the war was dishonorable?

What will they do with him?

The answer was very subtle.

It was to claim that anyone who found that
the war was mad must be mad himself.

On August the 23rd 1917, Sassoon was
committed to Craig Lockhart.

Throughout his time at Craig
Lockhart, Siegfried Sassoon

was in touch with various
close friends of his at the front.

He doesn't seem to have been
blamed at all by them for the

protest, and indeed many of
them supported what he said.

Here, Sassoon met Wilfrid Owen.

The two poets became friends and spent
hours analysing each other's work.

Between them, they would
produce some of the most

important war literature
of the 20th century.

I am banished from the patient men who
fight.

They smote my heart to pity, built my
pride.

Shoulder to aching
shoulder, side by side, they

trudged away from life's
broad wheels of light.

Their wrongs were mine, and ever in my
sight they went raid in honour.

But they died, not one by one.

And mutinous I cried to those who sent
them out into the night.

The poems, Secrete Sassoon,
produced at Craig Lockhart's are

among the very best that he
ever wrote, and the most bitter.

He did feel very deeply for the men at the
front.

He knew his protest had been absolutely
ineffectual.

And in the end, I think it was suggested
to him very subtly that in continuing to

stay at Craig Lockhart, there was an
element of running away.

And for a man of
Sassoon's pride and courage,

that thought was
absolutely intolerable.

After three months of treatment,
Sassoon returned to the front.

Not for the sake of his country,
but for the men he had left behind.

Love drove me to rebel.

Love drives me back to grope with them
through hell.

And in their tortured eyes, I stand
forgiven.

In March 1917, the German army on the Western
Front drew back to a stronger position.

The Hindenburg Line was an enormously
deep, thick belt of wire and

entrenchments, which was
the strongest position that either

the British or the French
had seen on the Western Front.

And it meant that the war now would take
longer to finish.

The German army on the Western Front
retreated to the Hindenburg Line,

partly to shorten their line, which meant
that they would have more men available,

and partly to retreat to a stronger
position.

With no end to the conflict in sight,
a rebellion took place in the French ranks

that could have cost the Allies the entire
war.

What a sorry scene.

Seven straight days of insomnia,
fatigue, thirst, and sheer agony have

transformed these healthy young men,
these proud, disciplined companies,

into a ragged band of laggards.

Corporal Louis Barthas was
one of the survivors of Verdun,

where France had suffered
almost half a million casualties.

The experience led him to see himself as
fighting two wars, one against Germany,

the other against his own officers.

Louis Barthas wrote a diary during the
war, and it's an exceptional document,

because Louis Barthas
was a socialist and a pacifist

from the beginning of the
war to the end of the conflict.

And in this diary,
he tried to keep some

parcels of humanity in
the brutality of the war.

Barthas cared little for promotion.

He wanted only one thing, the
survival of his unit, which the

year before had fought alongside
British troops on the Somme.

In one night, more cannon shells were
fired than in any of Napoleon's campaigns.

These men, exhausted,
poorly fed, stuck in the muddy

trenches, took the order to
attack grumbling to themselves.

Not everybody can be a hero.

One man determined
to be a hero was Robert

Nivelle, the new commander
of the French forces.

Dashing, self-assured and
vain, Nivelle promised new

tactics to break out of the
trenches and win the war.

The plan was to break
through German lines

and join a British
thrust southeast of Arras.

Nivelle succeeded in convincing
Governments, politicians, and generals

alike about his ability to break through
the German front.

And for this reason, there was a real
optimism at the end of 16, beginning of

17, in the French army and
in the French opinion about

the French army's ability in
breaking through this front.

To guarantee his victory,
Nivelle embarked on a massive

build-up of arms that amazed
even battle-hardened soldiers.

He insisted that violence, brutality, and
speed should characterize the offensive.

The greater the numbers, the greater the
victory.

The aim, total success within 24 to 48
hours.

Many were caught up in Nivelle's bravado,
but not Louis Bartas.

We had read to us an order of the day from
the great executioner, General Nivelle,

saying, amongst other absurdities,
that the hour of sacrifice has arrived.

Oh, no-one was enthused by this lecture of
patriotic gibberish.

On April the 16th, Nivelle's forces massed
on the fields of Chemin des Dames.

Their aim was to pierce the German lines
near the city of Soissons.

Here were gathered 700,000 French
soldiers, and on the ridge above them,

600,000 Germans.

As morning broke, the French
soldiers went over the top,

hoping this would be the
decisive battle of the war.

The plan called for advancing six miles.

By sundown, the troops had moved only 600
yards.

Ignoring his promise to
stop the offensive, if not

successful within two days,
Nivelle pushed ahead for 10.

200,000 men were killed or wounded,
and still no breakthrough.

After a few hours, after the
beginning of the offensive,

soldiers considered that
the offensive was a failure.

It was perfectly clear to them that it was
a failure.

By now, the war had claimed a million and
a half French soldiers.

One casualty for every minute of the war.

The survivors had reached breaking point.

Soldiers going back into the lines began
bleating, pretending to be sheep,

being led to slaughter.

Two weeks after the
offensive, the only

full-scale mutiny on the
Western Front broke out.

At first, groups of men, then entire units
refused to re-enter the trenches.

There were very emotional scenes between
the officers and the men.

I don't mean that it was grand opera,
but it was charged with emotion on both

sides, for the officers, because their
worst fears, nightmares had come true,

that their men wouldn't obey them.

That's what every officer fears most.

Our captain arrived on the scene with a
police escort.

He tried to speak, but his first words
were drowned out by the crowd.

Seething with rage, but powerless,
he ordered an immediate roll call.

The several hundred soldiers crowded
around and mocked these orders.

For an hour, they hurled abuse at him.

For emphasis, several shots were fired
into the air.

More units began refusing to return to the
front lines.

Louis Bartas' regiment began to discuss
election of new officers.

To my amazement, they put my name forward
as a replacement for the Colonel.

Imagine, me, an obscure peasant,
commander of the 296th Regiment.

It was beyond belief.

Naturally, I refused, since I had no wish
to be tied to an execution post.

Nivelle was powerless to stop the
mutinies.

If his soldiers would
not fight, the Germans

would overrun the
country and win the war.

Fortunately for France, it was not that
kind of mutiny.

For the men, it was the emotion of divided
loyalty, because they were loyal to their

officers who had shared their sufferings,
and they were loyal to their country,

but they couldn't bring themselves to
attack any longer.

They said that there was no
point, that they'd got nowhere,

that too many of them had
been killed for no purpose.

And so, they would defend their country.

They would defend the trenches that they
were in, but they wouldn't attack.

Half of the French army took part in the
mutiny.

The Germans never found out.

The French soldiers never fraternised with
German soldiers.

The mutinies were, in fact, a sort of
general strike.

And during this strike, soldiers tried to
negotiate a new balance of power between

generals and themselves,
a balance of power

more favourable to
their own expectations.

In this way, soldiers were not soldiers
anymore.

They were citizens.

Nivelle was replaced by Philippe Pétain.

Leave arrangements and
living conditions began

to improve, and the
protests slowly faded away.

Of the half a million mutiniers,
49 were shot.

Pétain stopped the assaults against the
German lines.

He would wait for tanks.

And the Americans.

Isolated individuals, military units,
entire nations.

Mutiny expanded as the war expanded.

In Russia, not only an army, but an entire
nation rebelled.

After three years of bloodshed,
no country had suffered more than Russia.

Facing stalemate on the Western Front,
Germany had aimed for a breakthrough on

the Eastern Front, by shattering the will
of the Russians to carry on the war.

Nearly two million Russian soldiers had
been killed.

One aspiring Russian soldier, a young
woman, described the hardships.

The winter was severe, and life in the
trenches unbearable.

Death was a welcome visitor.

There were many cases of men snowed under
and frozen to death.

But we were patient.

Like true children of Mother Russia.

Maria Bochkayova, known
as Yashka, left a detailed

account of war and
revolution on the Eastern Front.

The daughter of a former
serf, she had petitioned

the Tsar to allow
her to join the army.

Do you know what war is, I ask myself?

It's no woman's job.

Are you strong enough in body to shed
blood and endure the privations?

Search your soul for an answer of truth
and courage.

And I found strength enough in me to
answer.

Yes.

Yes.

By the winter of 1916, the Russian army
had little more to give.

After a good start, the war was going
badly.

Socialists and revolutionaries had many
converts among the ranks.

Discontent was rising.

The spirit of insubordination was growing
among the soldiers.

The men were weary, terribly weary of the
war.

It was the third winter and there was no
end in sight.

Civilians were angry too.

Relief from shortages of food
and freezing conditions was

becoming more important
than victory on the battlefield.

The difficulties stemmed
from the rise in the

cost of food and the
serious shortage of bread.

The government was held responsible, for it
truly was responsible for bread shortage.

The killing at the front
and the suffering at

home had driven the
Russian people to despair.

Demonstrations and strikes erupted.

169 in Petrograd in January alone.

But Sergei Mstislavsky, army
officer and socialist, wrote in

his diary that what happened
next took everyone by surprise.

The revolution found us, like the foolish
virgins in the gospel, fast asleep.

Political protests had always been
contained by the Tsar's loyal troops.

But not on February the 24th, 1917.

After three years of
war, many soldiers,

Mstislavsky among them,
had socialist sympathies.

They shared the crowd's anger.

Ordered to fire on civilians, they instead
shot their officers and joined the people.

Army revolt transformed a bread riot into
revolution.

Caps are thrown into the air.

Everywhere there are motor cars and
crowds.

The arsenal has been taken.

They say that about 20,000 automatic
pistols have been handed out.

The state was overwhelmed.

Police stations were torched by crowds on
the rampage.

Prisons were stormed.

Their inmates set free.

Liberals and socialists seized their
opportunity to take power.

Mr. Slavsky was among
those defending Petrograd

against the threat of
loyal Tsarist troops.

Our machine guns have been hoisted onto
the palace roof.

But it is all for show, since they still
don't work.

A huge crowd is reportedly gathering in
front of the government alcohol house.

If they break in, the revolution will
drown in a sea of vodka.

Those who receive orders do not fulfil
them.

Those who act, act without orders.

And after all, could it have been
otherwise during a revolution?

Within a week of the uprising,
the Tsar had abdicated.

He handed over power to
a provisional government

of members of parliament
and industrial leaders.

4-699-2018.

Jashka described how the news was received
at the front.

The miracle had happened.

Tsarism, which enslaved us and thrived on
the blood and marrow of the toilet,

had fallen.

There were tears of joy, embraces,
dancing.

It all seemed a dream, a wonderful dream.

On the home front, as the news spread,
people surged into the streets.

Dare I confess it.

I envied all of them to the point of pain.

All those happy people
with shining crystal clear

gazes who so sincerely
believed it was all over.

As I was listening to another succession
of orators barking the same sounds about

liberty from the podium,
suddenly the clear,

quiet, and hard words of
my wife came to my mind.

Over?

Oh, no.

It can't be over.

Not enough blood has been shed.

Amidst the chaos, the provisional
government met at the Winter Palace.

Crucially for the Allies,
they remain committed

to throwing the German
army off Russian soil.

In terms of the provisional
government's own view

of things, it makes sense
to carry on with the war.

And I think the provisional government
thought that, inspired by a new kind of

revolutionary efficiency, and with new
revolutionary personnel, that the army

would prove to be more efficient than the
old Tsarist army had been.

But many soldiers disagreed.

Revolution had led to confusion at the
front.

Yashka described how inactivity bred
dangerous friendships.

Come over here for a drink of tea,
a voice from our trenches would address

itself across no man's land to the
Germans.

And voices from there would respond,
come over here for a drink of vodka.

Why do you continue the war, asked our
men.

We have overthrown the Tsar, and we want
peace.

But your Kaiser insists on war.

Get rid of your Kaiser, and then both
sides can go home.

The revolution undermined both discipline
amongst the soldiers and the authority of

those in charge, both in the civil and in
the military units.

These events explain how, in just a few
months during the spring of 1917,

the Russian army virtually ceased to be an
army.

The provisional government tried a
symbolic gesture.

If Russia's men would not continue to
fight, Russia's women would.

A special women's battalion was created,
with Yashka in command.

There were nearly 2,000 signed pledges.

I marched the recruits to
four barber shops, where

barbers closely cropped
one girl's head after another.

As soon as one of them disobeyed an order,
I quickly removed her uniform.

And let her go.

In July, a loyal remnant of 300 women was
sent to the front.

They were to take part
in a new and decisive

offensive on the
Austrian front in Galicia.

Victory here would convince the Allies that
the new Russian regime had to be supported.

Defeat would mean disaster.

Yashka's battalion found the Russian army
in retreat.

The colonel gave the signal.

But the men on my right and to the left
would not move.

The officers begged, implored their men to
go forward.

We decided to advance in order to shame
the men.

Some of my girls were killed outright.

Many were wounded.

The provisional government and its troops
had lost to one enemy.

Now they would face another challenge.

Lenin, leader of the
Bolsheviks, was in exile

in Switzerland when
the revolution began.

With German help, he had returned to
Russia.

By the late summer, the Russian people
would tolerate war no longer.

The time was right to seize power with a
promise of bread, peace, and land.

What we have to appreciate is that the
longer the war went on, the more and more

the simplicity of the
message of the Bolsheviks,

bread, peace, and land, the
more attractive it became.

And what the Bolsheviks did was simply
wait.

Lenin liked to say that
power fell into his hand

the way in which a
ripe fruit falls off a tree.

By autumn, discipline at the front was
close to collapse.

The war was over on
the Russian front, as was

the authority of the
provisional government.

In late October, the Bolsheviks took
control.

All the strategic points of Petrograd fell
into their hands.

The last stand of the provisional
government was at the Tsar's Winter Palace.

It was defended by a handful of soldiers
and members of the women's battalion.

Sergei Mstislavsky helped plan the
Bolshevik takeover.

The palace had then been
cordoned off, and the battleship

Aurora was already moored
just beneath its windows.

It certainly wasn't within the power of
the women's battalion to deflect the blow,

which was even now being aimed at the
palace.

Communist propaganda would
portray the storming of the

Winter Palace as the climax
of a vast historical movement.

The truth was otherwise.

The Bolshevik revolution was not a product
of history, but of war.

In my opinion, the Great War was the main
cause of the revolution of 1917,

of the February and October revolutions.

Had the Great War not
taken place, we may suppose

that there would have
been no revolution in 1917.

Decrees began to flow from the new source
of power.

The first was the decree of peace.

Yashka described her last moments at the
front.

The disbanding began.

Every 10 or 15 minutes, a girl was sent
away.

In the evening, I made my way to be
smuggled out.

So, when Lenin takes over, and it is,
after all, just before the winter comes,

the soldiers, with their feet rotting from
the endless mud, without much hope of

anything happening, will say, well,
no, we can at last go home.

The Bolsheviks signed an armistice with
the Germans in December.

Three months later, they learned the
price.

In the Treaty of
Brest-Litovsk, Russia lost over a

million square miles of
land, and 62 million people.

The vast empire, stretching from the
Baltic Sea to the Pacific Ocean,

whose support for Serbia, and whose
alliance with France, had been one of the

catalysts of the war in 1914, was in
turmoil and disarray.

The eastern arm of the Allies was broken.

The Romanov dynasty, which
had ruled over one-sixth of

the world for over three
centuries, had gone forever.

The BBC's 90 Years of Remembrance website
gives you the opportunity to share your

family members' stories on the BBC
Remembrance wall.

And there's a brand new episode
of My Family at War at 10.

35 tonight over on BBC One.