My great-uncle -- my mother's father's brother -- survived the Allied bombing of Dresden during World War II. He was interned in a German POW camp at the time. As it happens, so was Kurt Vonnegut.
I read Slaughterhouse Five last night. I won't be overlooking Vonnegut any longer.
I was named for my great-uncle, and also for my grandfather on my father's side. My great-uncle was considered an eccentric. My cousin, married to a manufacturer of orthodontic equipment, once ridiculed his eccentricities.
My cousin didn't witness the Allied bombing of Dresden as a POW, so nobody listened to her nonsense.