The First World War ended amidst the sounds of church bells on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918. On that final day of the Great War, British and Commonwealth forces suffered 863 deaths. In America, we celebrate the 11th as Veteran’s Day, a day to honor the sacrifices of all the men and women who have served in our country’s military, people like my grandfather, who lost much of the use of his arm after being hit by shrapnel in World War II. In England, however, it’s not called "Veteran’s Day"; it’s Armistice Day, soon to be followed by Remembrance Day. America lost 116,000 men in the First World War, but the casualty rates for Western European nations were unimaginable. England, a small nation, suffered 700,000 dead; Italy, a smaller one, lost 600,000. Mocking the French for their cowardice was briefly fashionable; over the four years between 1914 and 1918, over 1.4 million French soldiers, roughly 3% of the entire population of the country, died, largely in the blood and muck of the Western Front. Ninety thousand Bulgarian troops were killed, almost two Vietnam Wars’ worth of dead from a country the size of Tennessee. Afterwards, throughout the twentieth century, wars grew less bloody, because the science of soldiers killing soldiers and being killed in turn had reached its apex. Today, there are still a few survivors; a 108-year-old Scot, a 111-year-old American, 103-year-old Australian. Eric Bogle (and later Shane MacGowan) called them "tired old heroes from a forgotten war". Today is Veteran’s Day, and I thank every American wearing a uniform. But Sunday is Remembrance Day, a time to remember Europe’s spasm of murderous self-destruction, the most gruesome war in the history of mankind, and General Sherman’s dictum about war, true in the twentieth century as it was in the nineteenth and today: "Boys, it is all hell."