It’s Monday morning. Back to work. Back to normal. Back to sitting at a desk in an airy office in Aberystwyth whilst outside the sun dries the morning dew.


Except I'm not quite the same person who sat at this desk last week. Four days ago, 1st July 2016, I was one of the 1,400 volunteers who took part in #wearehere, commemorating those who died 100 years earlier on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. We represented a handful of the 19,240 people killed on that first day of battle.


I signed up after seeing a cryptic e-flyer for a project shared by Aberystwyth Arts Centre. National Theatre Wales were calling for physically-fit males between the ages of 18-41 with short hair and willing to be clean shaven, but for what?


After more than a little coaxing from my curious wife I decided to follow it up. I sent an email simply saying, “I’m in. I’m Andy, I’m 30, I have short hair and a temporary beard. So, what now?”


The almost immediate reply from the indefatigable Bud invited me to a taster session. Still there were no details! I was intrigued.


Performing is not my day job. I’m an accountant, with the Civil Service. Possibly as far removed from the world of theatre as it is possible to be.


That first meeting was bizarre to say the least, I met Bud (Buddug James Jones) along with Claire Turner, and Gethin Evans who was to be the director. They still couldn’t tell me anything, but their enthusiasm was infectious. Bud told me they were looking for 100 men in Aberystwyth and that I was the first and only to turn up thus far.


I’ll be honest I had my doubts at this point but thought I’d throw myself in regardless. What’s the worst that could happen?


Slowly our group grew. One by one they volunteered. Students, project managers, call centre agents, HR advisors, digital mapping consultants, farmers, public health protection officers, building facilities managers, security guards, academic operations assistants and planning managers as well as some professionals and actors all joined our band.


All walks of life coming together for a single purpose. We had enlisted. And we had no idea of the profundity of what lay ahead of us.


On 1st July 2016, WW1 soldiers (us) would appear in public places around the country, each representing a specific soldier who died exactly 100 years before.


The soldiers would just be there, loitering in public spaces, lounging in plain view, waiting, always waiting. We would only communicate with the public through handing out printed cards that contained our soldier's name, rank, regiment, age (if known) and the #wearehere hashtag. It was their headstone. We were handing out the details of a generation's deaths.


I represented Private William Campbell of 2nd battalion of South Wales Borderers, service no 25130. That’s all we had on him until I did some digging of my own. I found his medal record, his enlistment record, his effects on death records as well as census from before the war.


William was born in 1888 to James and Mary Campbell in Whitehaven, Cumbria. He was their 5th of (at least) 6 children, his father was a shoemaker, the only reference to pre war occupation for William is possible inclusion in 1911 census as a lodger in Durham where he worked as a coal miner.


He seems to have enlisted with 29th Division of Cyclist Corps (reg no 2414) before being transferred to South Wales Borderers 2nd Battalion (reg no 25130) who were the main casualties of the battle of the Somme. He would have been 28 when he died on 1st July 1916. His posthumous medals were sent to his sister Mary Ann Brown, who later emigrated to Canada. His pay was divided between all five of his siblings.


Finding him, seeing his name on handwritten records, made him into a real person. He wasn't a faceless soldier from a long lost past. He wasn't a mass of men, just one of more than a million casualties of the Somme. He was William.


I felt a connection with him, especially as I’m also from the North of England originally before settling in Wales. He was two years younger than me when he died. He was someone real, someone who would have been grieved for by his parents and siblings. A person taken out of existence, before having a chance at life.


Yesterday, I spoke to my Mam about the day, the build up, the secrecy of it. I could hear her pride as she congratulated me and told me about her Gran’s brother, my Great Great Uncle, who died, in WW1 but she didn’t know where or when. All she could tell me was his name. Frank Brack. So off I went to more digging and I found him too. Private Francis William Brack 10935 10th Battalion Yorkshire Regiment, killed 20th July 1916.


My Great Great Uncle Frank’s name is on the same memorial as my William. Goosebumps.


Last Friday I engaged with people in a way that I may never get to again. They told me, as I stood silent, what remembering meant to them. I saw strangers' tears for something that happened before any of them were born. They connected with William in the same way I did. We were suddenly real. Suddenly present.


It was hard not to look around at all the young men and wonder what the world would be like without them. It was hard not to feel an enormous sense of loss.


Then I got to come home and moan about my blisters and hold my children. Hundreds of thousand of men, just like me, never got that chance, they never came home.


I didn't learn anything new from the experience. I didn't learn new facts, I didn't learn new details. It was far more important than that. I got to feel the loss of a generation. I got to share those feelings with everyone who connected with us that day. I got to be a part of true remembrance, and for that I will always be grateful.