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It was Henry’s funeral last week, in our ancient village church, attended by his extended family and many neighbours. His was a moving send-off. The rector presided, assisted by the local

Methodist minister, and Cathedral choristers sang the Ave Maria. The congregation gave their all in the 23rd Psalm and _Abide with Me_. Henry was 94, and a quietly devout church-going

Anglican who hoped to be reunited with his beloved wife Gill, dead these 17 years. The service was the more poignant, knowing that he absolutely believed the words of Jesus recited by the

rector: “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life.” How many still believe these words? Hard to tell, but fewer than when Henry was young. Henry was one of the last men in our neighbourhood to

have served in the Second World War. He was musical and bookish, and had started reading English at university when he was called up late in the war. He trained as a glider pilot, and, aged

20, took part in the assault crossing of the Rhine in March 1945. Having delivered his cargo of 30 paratroopers, he would have been expected to join the battle as an ordinary infantryman. He

never spoke about it. After the war, he considered becoming a professional orchestral musician, but chose instead to teach English in two leading grammar schools. He led a fulfilled life,

and raised a happy and musical family. Later the same day I ran into Isla, a vivacious octogenarian. How was her husband James, I asked. Gently fading away, she said: he doesn’t speak any

more, but he seems content. James is 95, and he too was a wartime pilot. In his case he flew Swordfish torpedo bombers (“Stringbags”, as the Navy sardonically called them) from escort

carriers on the Arctic convoys carrying aid to the Soviet Union. The voyage around the north of Norway to Archangel and Murmansk was extremely perilous, with the convoys exposed to

relentless German air, surface and U-boat attack. The cold was intense, and anyone who ended up in the water would die within a minute. James did occasionally speak about his experiences,

but with gentle humour, as in describing the enormous amount of clothing he wore when flying his Swordfish. After the war, James also trained as a teacher, then pioneered English language

schools in the nearby cathedral city. These were a great success, and helped set the pattern for a dynamic British educational sector. He and Isla have enjoyed long and remarkable lives,

quietly giving back to the community in charity, mentoring and general good neighbourliness. The wartime generation encompassed much more than the soldiers, sailors and airmen subsequently

celebrated in films and books. Civilians – above all the women and children – had a harder time. “It was the civilians I felt sorry for,” an old soldier once remarked to me. “Most of my war

was spent waiting for something to happen, and at least when things got tough I had a weapon in my hands. The people at home just had to take whatever the Germans threw at them.” It worked

both ways. My mother’s best post-war friend was a beautiful Berliner who survived the British bombing, but was multiply raped by Red Army soldiers in 1945, and could never have children. My

mother suffered two traumas which marked her for the rest of her life. She returned home from the cinema to find the family house destroyed by a V-1 flying bomb, and her sister dead in the

rubble. A year or so later, a V-2 rocket hit the front of the tube train on which she was travelling. Though physically unhurt, she was unable to speak for three weeks. I am a baby boomer,

born in 1952 to parents who had survived the war and were determined to make the most of the peace. Baby boomers are often criticised as a selfish, pampered generation, and no doubt there is

something in that. But I always felt privileged to know the wartime generation, who seemed to combine _joie de vivre _with an underlying seriousness. They were after all the people who

built the post-war world, with the increasing wealth and security that my generation enjoyed, and perhaps took too much for granted. It is ironic that the post-war rules-based order is now

disintegrating, largely because one notable baby boomer, President Donald Trump, has decided to take unilateral action in a trade dispute with China. He has also made it clear that he is not

very interested in Nato, the IMF, the World Bank, the EU – and certainly not the UN. Let us hope that some of what these bodies represent may survive and continue to help stabilise an

increasingly turbulent world. And as the baton passes to Generation X and the Millennials, let’s remember with gratitude Henry and Gill, James and Isla, and the countless millions of others

like them who have gone on before.