On one page in the small pile of my grandfather’s letters that survive from World War One, the handwriting changes entirely. Through the seasickness and the tense languor of troop transport, the waiting in Egypt, his time in Gallipoli and the early weeks in France and Belgium, his notes home – “Dear Mother … love, much of it, Harry” – are written in now-faded back ink with a steady, almost meticulous hand. The paper is yellowing, foxed a little here and there and ragged at its edges, but the words form ordered ranks, eight or 10 to the line.