Do we need yet more words and photos of WW I, its shattered trees in a wasteland of shell holes, its young men staring death in the face? Why more? In this instance, for two simple reasons:

The first, and most important, is personal. Within the plethora of histories, memoirs, novels and poems that so finely document WW I, it contents me, who compiled this volume only to honor my Father, that he should now be shelved in the company of Winston Churchill, Robert Graves, Erich Remarque, and Siegfried Sassoon. This suits me fine, and beyond the grave permits him a good guffaw.

Second, lost though it will be among those miles of other volumes, his adds its own small voice to their mighty chorus. Let that be quite sufficient.

Such said, if some day you miraculously find yourself with this volume to hand, idly turning its pages, do so with tolerance and gently, for these are the ashes of my Dad. You would have liked him, and he you.

-Charles E. Moore