It is now October 2017, my dad died 20 years ago last May, and I’ve only just started to piece together his part in World War 2.
When we were still children, dad never spoke about his war years,
other than to warn us that Bert Scott’s stories were just fairy
Bert was our next-door neighbour, having moved his family out of
Walthamstow during the early 1960s to the other half of our
semi-detached bungalow in Benfleet Essex.
Clearly dad (centre of this picture from 1940) and Bert (on the right)
knew one another really well, but they were two very different
people. Dad certainly had no intention of trivialising or glorifying
war in front of us kids.
Don’t get me wrong, we kids loved Bert’s stories, like the
time he was thrown in the glasshouse (a military prison) for being a
naughty boy, only to be let out a few hours later because he was the
only one that could fix some bit of broken equipment!
My mother used to tell us that when dad was posted over-seas in
1942, he wrote her a letter in which he asked her not to forget to
give the dog a bone.
They didn’t have a dog. So she looked on a map and worked out
exactly where dad had been posted. I’m amazed that those
responsible for vetting the troops letters home, had allowed this one
to slip through the net!
<<BACK HOME NEXT>>