I have been remembering remembrance Sunday, for as long as I can remember. BBC Radio 5-Live asked their audience last November if young people still remember, and I answered with a resounding yes.

I can still picture sitting on the hard church wooden pews, the smell of burnt candles in the air. I was very still, as the names of the fallen rang out around us. Yet while the service had my mother in tears every year, I always left a little isolated. My paternal grandfather had served in the second world war, and died when my dad was twelve of a heart attack. I never had my own person to remember.

One year, they called out “W. Carter.” i wanted to know him, and remember him if know one else did.

Twice I tried to find him, his family, anyone who could tell me anything about him. I never even found his first name. My mother texted my story into BBC Radio-5 last year, and the reporters reached out to me, wanting to interview me and my story for Peter Allen’s afternoon programme. Huddled in the school changing rooms, I spoke through my shaking voice to let everyone know that we do remember. The wide eyed children at church remember, our history lessons teach us to never forget. As I ended the call Peter Allen thanked a girl called Poppy, for calling on remembrance day.

What seems even more poignant are the forgotten war graves which have recently come to light in the churchyard of St. Andrews in Steyning. I spoke to the church warden John Downe, who early offered me everything he knows, that very afternoon I was sitting in his house, with information from the commonwealth wargraves society spread out around us, a key to another world.

Information on these new graves are limited, I did, however, manage to locate some in the yard, and paid my respects for everything they have done for us.