They were found under his bed. Dirty, dusty and cold. A broken back had one and all yellow with age. Some water stained, but still holding the stories, of the many who had passed and never grew old.

I swear I could hear whispers, laughter and cries, still alive, desperate to let the truth unfold. Some had names, Stand Easy and Victory Roll, holding secrets of another time. This treasure trove of war stories, were my Grandad's pot of gold.