Private Winefield stood outside the cold stone walls of Maryhill Barracks

Private Winefield stood outside the cold stone walls of Maryhill Barracks, the weight of history and war still fresh on his young shoulders. It was 1919, the war to end all wars had concluded a year earlier, and like many of his comrades, Winefield was trying to find his place in a world forever altered.

The barracks, located in Glasgow, Scotland, had been a centre of military life for years. Soldiers from across the British Empire had passed through its gates, some heading to the bloody trenches of France and Belgium, others returning broken or never returning at all. For Private Winefield, this place had become a temporary home during a time of great uncertainty.

At only 19, Winefield had enlisted just after his birthday in 1917. The call to serve had echoed through the villages and towns across the country, and like many of his peers, he had answered. His uniform was a little too large, and the kilt he wore, with its tassels swinging as he walked, was a stark reminder of the Highland traditions he proudly represented. The oversized jacket, worn at the edges, reflected the rough times they had lived through. Yet, his beret, tilted jauntily on his head, showed a glimmer of the youth he still held on to.

Maryhill Barracks, during that post-war period, was a strange place. It was no longer filled with the same urgency and chaos that had marked the war years, but a deep melancholy hung in the air. Soldiers, like Winefield, wandered its corridors and courtyards, unsure if they were still soldiers or simply men waiting to be forgotten. Many of them had survived the unimaginable, yet the future seemed just as daunting. Jobs were scarce, and the scars of the war — both physical and emotional — ran deep.

Private Winefield’s thoughts often wandered to the friends he had lost, both in battle and to the ravages of disease. The Spanish Flu, which had swept across the globe just as the guns had fallen silent, had claimed many lives, including those of his closest comrades. He had shared meals, stories, and dreams with them, and now they were gone, leaving only the echoes of their laughter in the long, stone hallways of the barracks.

As the days passed, he awaited his demobilisation orders, a process that was slow and disorganised. Every morning, he stood in formation with the others, their breaths visible in the cool Glasgow air. The officers would read off a list of names, sending men home to uncertain futures. Winefield’s name hadn’t been called yet, and while part of him longed for the familiar fields of home, another part dreaded the idea of leaving the structure and purpose that military life had given him.

On Sundays, he would walk down to the river, the soft murmur of the Clyde a welcome respite from the regimented life inside the barracks. He would sit on the banks, watching the barges glide by, carrying coal and goods from the industrial heart of Scotland to the rest of the world. The world outside was moving on, but for men like Private Winefield, time felt frozen in place.

In 1919, Britain was at a crossroads. The war had changed everything — from the political landscape to the role of women in society. The soldiers who had fought for king and country were coming home to a land that was grappling with what it meant to rebuild. Glasgow, too, had been transformed by the war. Once a hub of industry, it was now a city scarred by loss, its streets filled with returning soldiers, war widows, and children who had grown up too fast.

As Winefield walked back to Maryhill Barracks one evening, the autumn light casting long shadows over the buildings, he couldn’t help but wonder what his future held. Would he return to the quiet life of a farmer’s son, tending to fields and livestock? Or would the experiences of the past two years lead him down a different path, one filled with the echoes of the war he had fought in and the friends he had lost?

For now, though, he was simply Private Winefield, standing at attention in his worn uniform, waiting for his name to be called, waiting for a future that seemed as uncertain as the war that had come before it.