Dad never said much about the war when he came back.
 

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that quite often a Dad (or Grandad) would never say much about his experiences in the Forces in WWII after demob in 1946, and actively disliked being questioned about them. This was by no means limited to that war. My own father, though he used to keep me spellbound as a boy with his tales of Nigeria in early Edwardian days (when he had been seconded from the British Army to the Nigeria Regt. as a young SNCO Instructor), told me nothing about his later years in the trenches in 14/18.

Of course, there were many cases where this was perfectly understandable. A prisoner of the Japanese on the Burma railway, for example, captured in Singapore in '42, had no hope of release from his sufferings other than a wretched death after years of beatings, torture, starvation, and overwork. Freedom would come suddenly in August '45, but he didn't know that, as no one had any inkling of it beforehand. It was natural that survivors of this would need a long time to recover from their three years of living Hell. Many were broken in body and mind, and would have nightmares about it for a long time. Obviously it would be cruel in the extreme to question him about it or to say a word which might awaken terrible memories.

But there were many others who had the good fortune to have had a much less stressful time in the six years of war. For (as has been said somewhere earlier on the "Pilot's Brevet" Thread): "We each had to fight the war we were given". No two servicemen were given exactly the same war, and there was no choice. You did not choose your war - it chose you ! The surprising thing was that even among this group the same reluctance to speak about it (even to close family) was frequently to be observed. This was so common a behaviour that I feel there must have been some deep psychological basis for it, and it might be interesting to try to find it.

There is no doubt that, in total war such as WWII, the Forces and the civilian population were, in a broad sense, "all in it together". The non-combatants suffered all the hardships of rationing and shortages, the dangers of bombing, the mental strain of being separated from loved ones (for years, and maybe for ever), and all the other disruptions of family life. But all these were additional burdens on a normal daily routine, they did not displace it. The Law and normal civilised conventions remained in force. Apart from those directed into war work, people did the same jobs, lived in the same houses, took the same bus or tram to work through familiar streets, had the same friends and neighbours and used the same shops, cinemas and churches as they had done before. The dangers and difficulties of war were simply "bolted on " to normal life, as it were. I have mentioned before that wartime civilian life in the UK quickly became the "norm"; "before the war" soon became a distant memory; and "Don't you know there's a war on ?" became the stock answer to any grumbler.

But in the Forces it was vastly different. The recruit left behind him, not only the comforts (such as they were) of civilian life, but the whole framework of his former existence. All the old rules and conventions were turned upside down, for example, "Thou shalt not kill" became "Kill or be killed !"; a former settled life turned into a gypsy existence, in which you might be sent right across the country, or half way across the world, a helpless pawn in some Great Game which was being played by elemental forces which you could not possibly understand, still less control. You had the novel, salutary experience of realising that other men were actively trying to kill you, and it was your duty to try to kill them.

In place of your former coterie of friends and family, your life was now centred on the other men of your unit, on whom you had absolutely to rely (and who in their turn had to rely on you) to keep alive. It is not surprising that the comradeship which developed in consequence ("the one great golden thread", as I think of it), which went through Service life, was the one thing that helped to make it all worth while.

And it was worth while. We knew what we were doing in those years, and that it was all part of winning the war. And the war had to be won for we were fighting an evil thing (if ever a war was a "just war", it was WWII). We believed in what we were doing. Referring to the whole nation, Churchill put it into imperishable words: "If the British Empire ..... lasts a thousand years, men will still say 'This was their finest hour' ". And for many of us who served, it was our personal Finest Hour, too. By no means our happiest, or most fortunate, or most successful, or most rewarding, or most satisfying - simply our Finest. We could echo Dickens' Sydney Carton: "It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done" (and, as many of us thought when it was all over: "or will ever do again").

The cumulative force of all these experiences made us feel that we had almost been "on another planet" during our war service. Many of the things we had had to do were distasteful, even shocking or revolting; when we "got back", and tried to explain them to our nearest and dearest, our stories were often met with incredulous horror, anger or disgust: they simply could not comprehend how their husbands, sons or brothers, whom they thought they knew so well, could have been capable of such things. Dad or Grandad soon learned to keep his mouth shut. And there was another, I suppose subconscious, feeling, that our time "away" from life as they knew it was in some way "special" or "precious" (even "sacred", in a way) to us: it would not be "right" to talk about it now that we had left our "planet" and could never return to it. We must close that book, and never open it again.

Reunions, and old comrades' associations proliferated, as for a few hours you could exchange reminiscences with others who knew how things had been and understood why they had been so. You spoke a "common language", as it were, which was incomprehensible to civilians, even to your own family. But, even then, many avoided them, in the belief that we should "savour" our past, but not try to exhume it. Best to let it lie and forget about it.

What do other PPRuNers think about this ?

Danny42C

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Support for this analysis is contained in the following excerpts which have recently appeared in Posts on the "Gaining a R.A.F. Pilot's Brevet in WWII" Thread in the Military Aviation Forum (block text mine):


SOURCE
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(p.6 #111 - Jun 2008)
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(p.389 #7768)
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(From the memoirs [No.6] of Tempest Pilot Flt.Lt. Jack Stafford (RIP), DFC RNZAF, submitted by Geriaviator 3.12.15), under the heading:

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From Google the following:

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(p.406 #8120)
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(p.405 #8096)
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(p.406 #8120)
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And no doubt a more extensive trawl would reveal more examples of a similar nature.... D.

Very good summary.

My Dad, who wasn't allowed to go with his mates to WWII, never heard his Dad say anything about WWI. He'd never discuss it and the only time he even mentioned it was when my 15 year old Dad asked for his signature to sign up. The exact words escape me but it was along the lines of "After what I saw in the War, there's no way I'm signing you over to those Bastards!"

Years later, my English Grandfather came out to Oz, 1963 I think it was. When he met my paternal Grandfather, they quickly established which battles they were in, and they even realised their units were on the same battlefield during certain actions. My Dad sat to the sides listening to this banter, fascinated by stories he'd never heard before. As you'd imagine, the shutters went back up after he'd gone home.

It's clearly the shared experience that opens up the conversation. As a non Military man, I can only liken my experiences during the Black Saturday bushfires and, by no means do I intend to compare combat with fighting a bushfire*, but that's as 'exciting' as it gets for me. Our Driver saw some horrors on that day and he is still dealing with them. I was exposed to none of it as I was sheltered in the back of the truck but, he'll only open up to me "because you were there." He's told me things that I wish I never knew but I will listen as long as he needs someone to talk to.

It's the shared experience that allows him to open up & let some of his Demons out I guess. Best I can do is listen.

* Bushfires can kill you, but they lack malice, or the will to do so.

D42

That was a very eloquent summary of how I have observed ‘veteran’ behavior. I have a veteran colleague at work (GWI) who is not the person he should be.

My father was the same age as you (as indicated on your profile) and never talked about his WWII RAF experiences. Unfortunately he died when I was twelve, so I never had the chance to bond with him when I was old enough to ‘shoot the ****’. My understanding was that he was mostly involved at the ‘end’ in transporting VIP’s (I have several BW pics of various treaty signings).

I am an expat Glaswegian now residing in the USA and swmbo’s father who is 95 has finally started talking about his experiences in WWII. He pulled out a box filled with mementos, Casino, Anzio, Auschwitz and a lot more where his ‘outfit’ was involved. He even has a couple of Nazi flags and rank flashes as well (oh oh)

My only military experience is in the CCF, I have been lucky to avoid a major conflict; I am not so sure I could cope as well as your generation.
As a foot note

When I asked my father in law for his daughters hand in marriage, we went for a walk (deaf as a coot for most of his life due to being on an artillery unit) I asked if it was OK to marry his daughter, he paused for a while (not sure if he had heard me) and eventually he replied “Bunch of Jocks camped out next to us”, they were OK guys”. I took that as a yes, 

I've spent the last few months interviewing veterans for the International Bomber Command Centre. One of them, a man named Denis, told me the most astonishing story I've ever heard first-hand, about his time on the run in occupied France after being shot down in July 1944. I sat there for fully an hour, mouth agape but saying not a word, as he told his tale. He still suffers nightmares as a result of his experiences, which included (among many, many other incidents) hiding and fighting with the Marquis, being captured by the Germans briefly before escaping right on the point of boarding a train for Berlin, and eventually being picked up by Patton's tanks and liberating several small French villages with them.

It was only after his wife died that his son managed to convince him to tell his story. He subsequently wrote the rawest, most honest account of feelings and experiences of life in Bomber Command and beyond for the benefit of his grandchildren.

After we'd finished the interview Denis mentioned that he'd told me more that morning than he had ever told his late wife. And I'd only met him the morning of the interview.

It's only been in recent years, really, that a lot of these stories have come out. A lot of it I think is because grandchildren are suddenly showing an interest. In Denis' case, the other motivation is the respect he has for the two members of his crew who died when the aircraft was shot down, and the others who have all died now as well. He has belatedly realised that he is the only one who can tell their stories, and given he is now well into his 90s he realises he mightn't have all that much time left in which to do it. And so he's now been happy to talk to total strangers such as myself who ring up one day out of the blue.

Spot on. WW11 is very much on the primary school agenda- has been for 15 years. There was a Granddad who was very well known to me at school because he was on pickup duty a lot. Served in the RN in the war. Turns out he was on one of the ships that went down with few survivors (Hood?). He was pulled off with 2 other shipmates days before the ship was sunk. Obviously a profound sense of loss and probably survivor guilt.

He never spoke about it to his wife and daughter (my boy's Mum). Then, because of his studies, the grandson simply did the, "Grandad, what did you do in the war?" thing, and he just told him the whole story. The Mum was absolutely gobsmacked. His response: "You don't tell those things to your little girl."

CG

Danny,

Your OP is beautifully written.

Skua

CG:-
There is the nub of it. Rather than the initiative of grandchildren or their schools per se, it is rather the initiative of the survivors that has moved the goal posts I think. Danny grasped the white heat of technology to tell his tale on the Pilot Brevet thread, and encouraged his peers to do likewise. We are forever in their debt. The tales are engrossing, informative, and above all pull no punches of how terrible war is, especially one of the intensity and scale of WWII.

This is the story behind the stories. Why did we wait this long to read the minutiae of the experiences of millions like us, rather than the dramatised or fictionalised accounts that begin in a dockside hut or a Cotswold Cottage? Now we know that it was Lords Cricket Ground, seaside boarding houses, and many other unlikely venues that were the opening scenes for obtaining that highly prized brevet.

Thank you Danny for starting this thread that underpins the best ever thread which was started on 5th June 2008 by Cliff Leach. He was encouraged to do so, he had the means (this very forum) to do so, he had the will to do so (or never to do so?). It was he though that elected to be OP, and it was the same with those who chose to tell their stories in turn after him. Thank you all, past and present, for through you we have studied war, its triviality, its impersonal nature, its very personal effects, its comradeship, its terror.

There is not glory but there is worth, and that outweighs all else. We value that worth, we value those who ensured our freedom. We now must value that freedom or the worth becomes worthless.

Danny42C

A very timely post describing something I have often thought about. My father was the chief officer of a small coastal steamer that had been requisitioned by the Royal Navy. He was a BI Merchant Navy officer now in the RNVR.

They left Singapore on 12 February 1942 at 19.30 with orders to proceed to Batavia via the Durian and Banka Straits. There were nearly 500 people on board, mainly women and children, and they were grossly overcrowded with people sleeping wherever they could, on floors, hatchcovers, decks etc.

They dodged bombs and managed to get as far as the Banka Strait just off Muntok. There they ran into the Japanese fleet at night. Two other similar ships had already been sunk, some of the survivors being picked up by my father's ship. They were ordered to stop and surrender. They did so, after destroying all the secret equipment and documents, feeling they had very little option with so many refugees on board.

The passengers were interned in Sumatra and suffered horribly - you may have seen the BBC series 'Tenko'. My father was sent back to Singapore where he spent the war in Changi jail. He survived and eventually returned to England in October 1945.

He never talked about it other than to tell my mother rats were a delicacy. And I remember him becoming exceedingly cross whenever I left food on my plate. Later, as an adult, I understood why!

The reason I now have so much detail is that I have been researching those events so that I can write it down for my grandchildren.

But I have a question for Danny42C (I have admired your writing very much; thank you) my question is how do you think he and his crew must have felt? Not only for the reasons you have so eloquently described but because they must have felt terrible for having surrendered, even though they had good reason. After the war, when details emerged about how terribly so many prisoners had suffered, he must have felt so responsible - no satisfaction from having done glorious things, only terrible memories.

He died when I was ten years old, I will never know.

Didn't get on with my pa so didn't ask him but I did talk to my mates dad. He flew spits with 317 Wilno. I asked him about his experiences in Siberia just before he died. I also asked his wife what he told her. He did talk about "The Long Walk" down to Persia then India. He talked about training and flying. The Magister and the Martinet featured strongly. He was the one who got me into it. Interestingly he said spitfire for sheer fun but Hurricane for security and a stable gun platform.

He said a few things about other people's suffering and deaths but never complained about his own. The things that stuck in my head were the attitudes of NCOs to the poles during basic and the treatment of Poles etc. during victory parades and celebrations.

I know he saw some dreadful things and did some. But he never explained and never complained. I asked my mate what he told them and he said that he was brought up with the horrors of Auswitz not Vorkuta. When he was a little be asked his mum what dad had been through and she said that he didn't have any lavatory paper. Figure it out! I know now that he was tortured in Russia, starved and beaten in Siberia and suffered typhus and minus 51c temperatures. His wife tells of feeling his spine through his stomach and he had been in the RAF a while by the time she met him.

His grand children are now showing an interest and my mate now feels comfortable talking about him.

My father in law, a REME staff sergeant, went over to France on about D plus 3 and went right through to Northern Germany in the next 13 months. Until he succumbed to Alzheimers he would talk at length about his war experiences which did not seem to have affected him adversely, even though he witnessed some horrific events.

More surprisingly, when I had a shop, a regular customer was a chap who had been a POW under the Japanese. He must have been unusual but he seemed to have coped extremely well with the experience, and had just made up his mind when he got home to accept his good luck in having survived and get on with life. He was well into his 80s when I knew him, and fit and well. He was happy to talk about life in the camps, and interestingly he attributed his small stature (only around 5'5") to the fact that the Japanese left him alone pretty much alone, as they took a delight in picking on tall men.

I did an Arnhem battlefield tour with a chap who piloted a Horsa there. He couldn't remember much (or chose not to) about his actions from landing up to his final position fighting on the Oosterbeek perimeter. Finally the guide asked him what actually he did remember. "I remember the bastard paras left without telling me"


For my part I knew little of my father's part in WW2 until after his death when I was given all the letters he had written to my mother. Whilst not going into much detail so as to not frighten my mother its interesting to see by how he writes how the war changes his mood from excitement at the start, through despair as the fighting starts, to resignation as the war takes its toll of his friends. Through all this humour seems to have been his defence, to the point of dismissing a close call with a mortar round which shredded his trousers as being the reason he attended a COs 'O' Group bare arsed below the waist.

As a TA and RAF 'cold warrior' who has never been in combat and came closer to death in industry and the Merchant Navy than I ever did in the mil, my big mistake was to mention to a fireman (firefighter, not boilerman) with whom I was sailing on a square rigger, "You must have seen some pretty dreadful sights."
Five minutes later I was wishing I'd kept my mouth shut.

That initiative manifests itself in many different ways. My children's primary school has an annual visit by a group of Pathfinder aircrew who flew from a nearby airfield. There is the occasional telling of stories from the war, but on their insistence they concentrate on reflecting their wartime teamwork and camaraderie, and continued friendship post-war, in the presentation to an individual or group within the school for achievement that year. The "Pathfinder assembly" is one of the most looked-forward to events in the school calendar, made all the more special a couple of years back by a display by the BBMF Lancaster over the airfield and local church on the day after the assembly.

http://www.cambridge-news.co.uk/SLID...l/story.html#7

My dad was in the Paras during WWII, served in Greece and in Italy, and after the war in Palestine when the King David hotel was bombed, before he was demobbed.

He didn't talk much about his experiences, but I know he had performed combat drops, and he did say that his time in Palestine was a lot more dangerous than what he went through in the war. He never had a good word for the Israelis up to the day he died.

I understand why he found it difficult to talk about it, particularly to his family, and I totally respect that, but it does not stop me wishing I knew more about it.

As a post-war 'baby boomer' it was my parents' generation who went through WWII and I have a slightly different experience to most as it was my mother who was in uniform, my father being medically unfit for service.

Mum was a Wren and a 'Bomb Range Marker' at naval air stations from St Eval in Cornwall to Donibristle in Fife, Scotland ending the war as a CPO. Whilst she, obviously, never saw 'active service' she was closely involved with naval aircrew who did. She managed to log quite a few hours in Swordfish, Albacores, Barracudas and even a Grumman Martlet! I believe she sat on the pilots lap! Or so she told me.
As a small child in the 1950's she told me of various experiences from her time in the WRNS many good, but some less so, like having to comb the beach at Inskip with her 'girls' to collect pieces of the crew of an aircraft that has crashed during training. And the time she ended up wearing a pilot's 'mae west' after helping to extract a pilot from a burning aircraft and using her uniform blouse to wrap around his burns.

In later life she was a proud member of the Royal Naval Association and enjoyed meeting with other veterans. She passed away two years ago at the age of 97 after a pretty full life.

Many many times at 'the old aeroplane flight' you would hear "he never mentioned this before" or "this is the first time we've heard that" etc. It was always amazingly humbling to hear first hand the experiences that those who went through the mill of WW.2 had to say, and also to see their families responses. I think they opened up because we were servicemen, there was a kindred spirit and a shared interest.

Thank you Danny.

BTW, I assume that you and your comrade aircrew know about this:

Project Propeller: Project Propeller 2016

My Father, a Wireless Operator flying Lancs with 57 Sqn, very rarely spoke about the war, particularly any of his missions. However a few years before his death, he was reunited with his pilot and the conversation & recollection of shared memories went on for hours. Crews have a very special bond.

His pilot, Bill McRea , wrote an autobiography called Chequer Board of Nights. In it, my Father's role is described in detail. The book describes some incredibly dangerous and arduous missions that my Father never, ever spoke about.

I only found out by chance last week that a movie is being made of one of the missions described in the book! I am really proud that my Father and his mates are being honoured in this way. If anyone is interested, the status of the movie can be found in Facebook, under the same name as the book.

His brother, put a landing craft ashore six times during D-Day. We only found out on the day of his funeral! Another quiet hero.

Cheers
BFB

My Grandfather, was at Dunkirk, this I knew, but that was it. Apart from the odd hurrumph, if a war film was on. Oddly, I was on leave at Christmas in the mid 80's, and while everyone was at midnight mass, bar ourselves. He began to talk, the fall back, crap tanks the chaos,. How he was sure the French were shooting at them at the port. Turned out he was a territorial and had answered a call for volunteers with motor skills to join up, attaching to the Cheshire regiment and out with the BEF.
Once they'd been recovered being about 30, he was sent to the Orkneys or the Shetlands, I can't remember, and three weeks later he died, so never got the chance to dig any further.

On the wifes side, no opportunity at Grandparents other than we know know he joined in 1914 was part of the September 1918 assault on Vierstraat Ridge by the Hampshires. And that was the end of that.

Her father was a guardsman - he guarded royalty and parts of London for the entire war - I'm led to believe they were on ceremonial at commencement and therefore stayed there - But dont know if thats the case.

My Grandfather, was at Dunkirk, this I knew, but that was it. Apart from the odd hurrumph, if a war film was on. Oddly, I was on leave at Christmas in the mid 80's, and while everyone was at midnight mass, bar ourselves. He began to talk, the fall back, crap tanks the chaos,. How he was sure the French were shooting at them at the port. Turned out he was a territorial and had answered a call for volunteers with motor skills to join up, attaching to the Cheshire regiment and out with the BEF.
Once they'd been recovered being about 30, he was sent to the Orkneys or the Shetlands, I can't remember, and three weeks after the converstation he died, so never got the chance to dig any further.

On the wifes side, no opportunity at Grandparents other than we know know he joined in 1914 was part of the September 1918 assault on Vierstraat Ridge by the Hampshires. And that was the end of that.

Her father was a guardsman - he guarded royalty and parts of London for the entire war - I'm led to believe they were on ceremonial at commencement and therefore stayed there - But dont know if thats the case.

Danny, you are the most excellent writer! Thank you for the scope, intelligence, insight, clear expression and most of all - the heart of kindness and understanding behind your thread.

I'm on the "other side of the counter" - often bewildered about how to express my admiration, gratitude and respect for those, like you, who fought the war that they were given. Often, I am not sure what I can say or how I should say it, how it will be received or what their hurts are that hinder a reply. The best I can manage seems to be a handshake and a "thank you" to a vet wearing some symbol of their former service (hats, patches, etc.)

In the US, many veterans have returned with what I would call the "hidden injuries". And, not all returned from a war that the public considered "righteous". But it was no less the war they were given to fight. The citizens of my country, as well as those of yours, are obliged to receive these veterans with gratitude and understanding, and also kindly help them in every way they need (fellowship, employment, medical care, housing). We more easily grasp the need for sacrifice and service during the conflict than we do shouldering the debt we owe these veterans after the conflict ends.

Press on, Danny. Please help us get our act together. And, by the way, thank you for your service, during and, now, after WWII.

I originally posted this on the VJ Celebration thread, but perhaps it merits reposting here.
I think some of today's generation may find this piece of family history educational. My father was a civilian doctor in Malaya and was called up as an MO in the Federated Malay States Volunteer Force (FMSVF), the local TA, when the Japs invaded.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LIFE AS A POW OF THE JAPANESE

This is the transcript of a letter which my father wrote by hand in 1986 to James Bradley, the author of “Towards the Setting Sun”, an account of Bradley’s wartime experiences as a POW and in particular of his escape, subsequent recapture and treatment by the Japanese. Jim Bradley escaped from Songkurai Camp on the Burma-Siam Railway in 1943 with 9 other British and Indian soldiers. Five died in the jungle and the survivors were recaptured. Bradley was tortured but, amazingly, was not executed. He knew Dad, mentions him in the book and sent a signed copy of it to him.

Dad writes:

Many thanks for sending me the book. You did a very good job for the rest of us, particularly the F Force part which, so far as I was aware, had received no publicity whatsoever. It was gratifying for me to learn that the efforts to produce the book had a salutary effect on you, Jim.

My own recollections are extremely vague. On the march up, our policy was that anybody who had to fall out should take a pal whose duty it was to mark the spot where he went off the road to squit. One of my friends, 2nd Lt Dave Jennings, 1 Pahang Bn, FMSVF, stayed at the rear of the column and scooped up the stragglers. I used to join him later in each leg of the walk. I am told that we never lost a man. The midges nearly drove me mad towards the end.

I can remember little about the cholera work. After a day or two I went and lived with my orderlies in a lean-to outside the cholera ward. There were no highlights. Just a relentless round of utter futility trying to save the few saveable, trying to get needles into collapsed veins. Getting up from squatting by the patients on the bamboo slats becoming more difficult as we grew weaker. Ash from the bonfire, which was kept going outside the hut, to mop up the mess on the slats and on the gangway down the middle: it (the ash) was about 9 inches deep all over the gangway by the time we left.

In fact, come to think of it, there were some highlights:
A Nip beat me with a bamboo when I was returning from a visit to the crematorium and your side (I suppose I had forgotten to chuck the bastard a salute).

When we got the daily count wrong and David Price came over – they said he would be shot – but we found the extra corpse.

My chaps knocked off the Japs’ black Labrador and casseroled it in a bucket – I have always regarded Labradors as fine dogs and this one was a Godsend.

Giving an anaesthetic to Lt Col Hudson (appendectomy) on my return to the main camp (I fancied myself as quite an artist with the rag and bottle).

One afternoon I saw a small group of Nips floundering up the road going North. One man, supported by two others, had a rope around his neck: the other end was a few yards ahead over the shoulder of another Nip. We weren’t the only ones!

I don’t think anybody gave you any hope for a successful run, but the gloom caused by news of your recapture was profound.

The trip to Tanbaya was a walk for a few kms to Kami-Songkurai, then truck to a train and so to the “hospital”. The three pagodas were a let-down; the largest was only about 30ft high, it seemed to me. I sat next to a fellow named Renton (?unit) whose name always brings lice to my mind. I lent him a rug (travelling, I had had it since I went to my prepper); it was full of lice when we got back to the camp. Al was lousy (still? or again?) in the truck. When I saw Bruce Hurst and told him, I was banished from the medical hut. Dave Jennings and I settled the men in and saw them “fed” and then reported to Bruce Hurst. Al told us to go to the cookhouse and get some grub. We hadn’t finished before a young Aussie officer came screaming for us accusing us of dereliction of duty. We were “court-martialled” in the morning, but as Bruce Hurst himself was our chief witness for the defence it was a farce. He had the grace to apologise (and later we became firm friends): in fact he embarrassed me and us all by putting me in charge of a regular RAMC Major’s (I only had 2 pips) “work”.

Tanbaya was a vast improvement on Songkurai. The monsoon ended and the forest was less of bamboo.
One was not forever slipping and skidding when walking about.
We were allowed to bathe in a nearby stream, if we could get to and fro on our own feet.

There was some “meat” in the diet and a sort of “fudge” could be bought at Thanbyuzayat and was occasionally brought in. The meat was revolting and putrid, but it may have had a slight effect on our survival.

It was here that I suffered from two afflictions which I do not recall seeing among my own patients; painless abscesses about the size of half a tennis ball; and jaundice. Mercifully the abscesses healed up after Frankie Cahill (Australian surgeon) incised and drained them. I do not know the cause of the jaundice; it was afebrile, but eating required a real effort; it lasted about 10 days.

Malnutrition was still a problem at Tambaya. I did not have ulcer patients, but Bruce Hurst ordered me personally to do the dressings on sores which affected the knuckles of a fairly well known young violinist. I spent about 11⁄2 hours daily on him and we managed to mark time. (I suspect that his chums were passing over morsels of the “meat” to him).

I recollect being called upon to amputate a man’s leg above the knee. Frankie Cahill looked on, but was not fit enough to operate that day. Jock Emery (see Duckworth’s broadcast) gave the anaesthetic. We amputated above the knee (the ulcers were on the lower leg) and all seemed well. Two days later the stump was all ulcer. Seemingly healthy tissue in such men just had no kick.

I remember little of the return to Kanburi; I had almost non-stop squits. No blood, so I would not call it dysentery. We were in open wagons on that trip and I managed to do my jobs squatting on the couplings. At one point we stopped for a few hours. I was parked in the shade of a tree with what I assumed was a private slit-trench latrine. I was told later that it was my grave!

Luck again came to my rescue and the trots eased off during the remainder of the journey. I don’t remember getting from the train to the camp, but it must have been only a fairly short walk. There we met up with K Force (I think). Anyhow there were some fit MOs and ORs who were able to help out with our survivors.

I had a small ulcer under the inside “knuckle” of my foot (L); very painful and smelly. I had visions of the underlying artery being involved and of bleeding to death one night. (This happened to some patients; probably the best way of dying if that was one’s fate). But I didn’t want to die then. We were in the “egg belt” and things were looking promising for a change. Lt Col Houston scraped the ulcer (under partial anaesthesia) but I was horrified when they took the dressing off; we were back to square one (just like my amputation patient, I thought). However, I had been on 4 – 6 duck eggs per day for about 10 days and a few days later, when the “dressing” was removed, there was pink granulation tissue.

Everybody flogged watches or whatever at Kanburi. I got 80 tickals for a watch which I kept in my pack most of the time.

The eggs were cheap (10 cents) and we could also get little dried fish (size of a sprat). Everybody started to improve; it was wonderful.

After that I remained “fit” until the end.

In Changi I worked in Medical Ward 1 with Eric Cruikshank until the end. I never had any more gut-rot and was in reasonable nick.

You remark that F Force should be written up. I can’t imagine that there is a survivor who could do the job. A compilation of the sources of information which you cite might be the only possibility.

You also remark that you hope the medical personnel got some recognition. Well some did. I was fortunate that my name was in the lucky dip and came out with an MBE stuck to it. My Father-in-law sent me a copy of the London Gazette. Of the medical personnel on that list a WO also got the MBE and two RAMC officers did so (Max Pemberton, the surgeon, and Capt WH McDonald); and there were numerous “mentioned in despatches”; 32 officers, 1 WO, 24 other NCOs and 25 privates. I think that a lot of the ORs deserved better than that.

It was kind of you to name me on page 56, but not really deserved. I was only one of many who tried to do something. (Incidentally, I was not in the RAMC, I was the dogsbody of 3 (VR) Field Ambulance, FMSVF (Federated Malay States Volunteer Force)).

PS.


Dear Lindy, (James Bradley’s wife, who wrote the foreword to his book).
Your last sentence – “In Jim’s war there was no glory” – I know what you meant, I think. But I looked up “glory” in the Concise OD and one of the many definitions does fit; “honourable fame”. And as I said to Group Captain Cheshire, Jim is my notion of a real hero.

Dad was part of F Force on the Burma-Siam railway. The Japanese decided to build the railway to assist with their invasion of India, using allied POWs held in Singapore in the work force. The POWs were divided into batches, Forces, for the task. Most Forces moved all the way to the railhead in Burma by train in cattle trucks, 30 men per truck. F Force left Singapore on 28 April 1943 with about 7,000 men, British and Australian, but was disembarked at Bampong in Siam. They then had to march on foot for the remaining distance through mountainous jungle during the monsoon at night, 185 miles in nearly three weeks, to five jungle camps near the Burma/Siam border. Many died. Songkurai camp, where Dad ran the cholera hospital, was the worst camp on the railway with a death rate at its peak of 25 per day. Of 1,580 F Force personnel who arrived at Songkurai Camp in May 1943, only 180 were still alive in 1945.

I have nothing much to say other than Danny's original post is one of the few pieces on here to make me stop and think; subsequent contributons from others seem to indicate that they feel the same way. Excellent post, thank you.

Kilty2 (your #4),

First let me welcome you into the good fellowship of PPRuNe (you won't regret it !) And may I draw attention to the "Gaining an Pilot's Brevet in WWII" Thread. This, the best of all Threads on the best of all Forums on PPRuNe (at least, we think so), is full, from Page 1, of first-hand stories about flying in the war in which your Father served, and which deals in the times he would have known so well.

Now there must be an Army (Artillery ?) Forum comparable to "PPRuNe" - look it up, and if your SWMBO's Dad is not putting his two cent's worth in already, get him going. Time is very short for all of us of the "Old Brigade" now, an enormous store of priceless memories has been lost already, we can't afford to lose any more.

Cheers, Danny42C.

Skua (your #7),

Thank you, (and thanks to the others who have been so kind as to compliment me on my writing).

For that I'm grateful to the times in which English was rigorously taught, and corporal punishment was the norm in all schools in the land !

Churchill memorably said:
Danny42C

Bergerie1 (your #9),
They must have felt awful, although they did the right thing. When further resistance is futile, and can only result in more (non-combatant) deaths, surrender is the only option. How do you think General Percival felt, when he had to surrender Singapore to a force half his size, the alternative being to condemn many of the population to die of thirst ? (the Japs had control of the freshwater supply).

After the surrender, your father had no responsibility for the sufferings of the prisoners. That shame lies fairly and squarely at Japan's door.

Now you might be interested in this quotation from my Post p.148 #2946 on "Pilot's Brevet":
You must be rightly proud of your father.

Danny42C

effortless (your #10),

Presumably your mate's Dad was on a Spitfire detachment in Russia. Too late to ask now, but several years ago there was on the UK market a petrol additive in the form of marble-sized litle spheres of some tin compound; these things were supposed to act as a catalyst in your tank and enable you to run on much lower octane rating fuel. The "blurb" said the inventor was involved in the maintenance of the Spitfires in Russia, apparently these magic things enabled the Merlins to run on low-octane Russian fuel (sounds like a tale to me). But my then garage owner swore by them, used them in his big old BMW and said they let him run on unleaded fuel with no problem. Didn't try them myself.

There is a very good book about the "Long Walk", I have it somewhere.
Probably right (I had only a handful of hours in the Hurricane, and was never in combat with the Spitfire). The Hurricane was said to be able to take more punishment.

Under the (metaphorical) clag ? Surely not ! - it wasn't Shoreham's fault (if fault there be at all).

Danny42C

Project Propeller.
 

JOE-FBS (your #18),

Yes - but am far too frail and immobile now to take advantage of this supremely generous Project (more power to its elbow). I only hope Mr Marshall (?) and his staff take care to confirm the bona fides of the old-timers who join them. There are "Walter Mittys" about in our age group ! :*

Danny42C

Boy From Brazil (your #19),
The title is from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khyyam:
Should be a good film (might see it in about five year's time, when it's downgraded to "Freeview" - and if I'm still alive !)

Danny42C

It come to pieces in me 'and, Mum !
 

Clockwork Mouse (your #23),

A graphic description of the miseries of Japanese imprisonment. There but for the grace of God, go I ! If I hadn't noticed my loss of oil pressure when I did, we might have had to bale out over Jap-held Burma, been unlucky, and got captured. (Story "Pilot's Brevet", p.143 #2860).

Danny42C.

B-24 Pilot Experiences
 

Thanks for the interesting thread.

My dad flew B-24's out of N. Africa and Italy during WWII. He would answer questions about his experiences, but would not really talk about it unless asked. You could also tell he would leave a lot out. "I flew 13 and a half missions!" he would laugh. But it clearly was meant to deflect much more talking about it. He was shot down by flak on mission 14, then spent the next year in Stalag Luft 1 with Gabreski and other airmen.

One time I asked him if he was ever attacked by fighters, and he really balked, and never answered the question. I got the feeling to never ask that question again. I just dropped it.

Years later I read "I Flew for the Fuhrer" by Heinz Knoke. Knoke describes his attacks on American bombers by a head on attack, aiming to kill the pilots in order to knock out the plane. You tube videos have gun camera film attacks on B-24's where you see hits going right into the crew cabin. They are terrifying films. I then understood why my father refused to speak about the subject. An attack by fighters (at least early in the war) meant certain death for the pilots even if the rest of the plane survived.

After the war my dad never had any interest in flying an aircraft again.

Danny42C

You are spot on using the quote from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khyyam!

I will personally make sure that you get a copy of the DVD when the film is released. Could you please PM me your postal address. The release date is still unclear.

Best regards

BFB

My cousin's uncle landed on D-Day +1 or +2, and only started to speak about it in the last year or two before he died. I'm not sure he really spoke much of what actually happened, but more about the fact that he would regularly have flashback nightmares that were so realistic it was as if he was back on the battlefield - to the extent that he could smell it as well as see and hear it - before waking up in a cold sweat.

My grandfather served in the RA (mostly UK based HAA followed by time in North Africa and Italy I believe), but died a few years before I was born. Dad knows nothing more of what his dad actually did in the war (mainly because he didn't talk about it), although he has recently been researching this and digging in to the available war records.

Another example of "the war you were given" - my grandfather spent a lot of his time in the UK and was able to get home, whereas Horace definitely experienced one of the more traumatic actions of the war, and it affected him deeply for the rest of his life.

Every word from Danny is a gem.

It must have been difficult for all concerned in post-war Japan. Dad was posted there from '46 to '47 before returning to flying. I don't know how these things are arranged, but as a Flt Lt Nav instructor he ended up as DAPM chasing armed robbers & such in Otaki, & I have some interesting old newspaper cuttings of these scrapes.

My mother had a pearl necklace which had been presented to dad by a Japanese father. Apparently the man's daughter had been raped by two RAF people, and dad's efforts ensured that they were tried & convicted. I can only imagine the strange set of circumstances and emotions in Japan at that time.

Danny,

I am. I just wish he had lived long enough for me to have really known him.

Spitfire chum
 

I met an aged chap in the course of volunteering at a well known aviation museum several years ago now. Very pleasant, and very unassuming with a twinkle in his eye, but very quiet.

I found out from a mutual friend that he used to fly Spitfires during the war- I was researching the aircraft as part of a tour I was preparing so I asked, would he mind sharing his thoughts about the aircraft (well who better to get an opinion from than a bloke who's flown one).

Over the course of several months, we met up whilst volunteering and he was very patient with me and answered all my questions. He then started talking about his WWII experiences.

It turns out this quiet, unassuming and highly modest man was a Spitfire FR pilot for the SAAF, and served in the Desert, into Italy and ended up in Austria at a Luftwaffe airbase. He was also a DFC and bar, and later went on to serve with the RAF, commanded his own FR squadron in Germany and had various positions at FCHQ and in flying training before leaving the service to run a successful business.

I was very honoured that he took the time to tell me of his experiences (he had not done so very much previously). A typical man of his generation.

He even told me the story of how he won one of his DFC's, which actually made my toes curl a little at the very though of doing what he did.

Sadly missed-a lovely kind, gentle bloke. RIP 'Mac'.

My Dad was in the Fire Service in NW London, but spent much of 1940 and 1941 in Central London and the City. Hardly ever talked about his experiences, but did show my brother and me his fireman's belt and tin hat, and an inert German incendiary bomb. He must have seen some horrific sights on a day to day basis, and endured some pretty awful conditions. I suspect that, and Woodbines, led to his early death at not quite 65.


After Mum died we found even the few photographs he had shown my brother and me had disappeared, although another copy of one was shown on Tony Robinson's "Blitz" series on TV a few years ago - six appliances in a row at the kerbside, all burned out. Dad's appliance was one of them, that was the day he was posted "missing" three times in 24 hours.

My father fought in the Korean war with the South Staffords and only told me one or two little anecdotes which I will never forget. Finding any information about it is truly a difficult task, it's called the forgotten war for a reason.
I had the privilege of chatting to a lovely old chap at my cousins wedding one day and after telling him I was ex AAC (cold war hero!) he then proceeded to tell me that he was at Arnhem as a Para! Well that was the end of any other entertainment on offer for me. He told me so much about it, riveting stuff and such a modest and humble man, praise for everyone else but himself.
He even mentioned that (if you remember 'A Bridge Too Far') that he was with Urqhart as they were running between the houses dodging the Germans!
Strangely it is also very rare to talk to someone from 'the other side' about their experiences which is why I was very surprised to meet an ex Luftwaffe anti-aircraft gunner who was stationed in France during the war who confessed that he had no idea if they ever hit anything but had a bloody good go at it, and even more interesting was a an old chap who was stationed on the Moehne dam the night it was attacked, he mentioned that they all knew straight away they were in for it and ran off the dam to safety after firing a few token rounds at the Lancs.
I'm still trying to find out more about my Fathers exploits.
We really do need to talk to these people as much as we can, they have a story that needs to be told.

Danny42c (#28)

No he was sentenced to 8 years in Siberia, walked to Persia and India. Did basic in Brighton, qualified in Hucknal I believe and didn't fly in anger until D + 3 I understand. He was one of the heroes of Ghent when the polish pilots refused to leave during the German push back. His family didn't know this until they visited his daughter in Ghent and he was recognised.

The trouble is, it seems to be that one is always too young to ask the questions when those that know are still around...or, sometimes, the nature of their work was too secret. My grandad was always happy to talk about his time as a flight mechanic in the RFC in WW1, and I remember looking at his photograph album (which disappeared in mysterious circumstances after his death). There were two photographs in it I remember... one of a Vickers Gunbus with two doughty chaps dressed in long leather coats, and the second of the same aeroplane ten minutes or so later, as a total wreck...and the two chaps covered up on stretchers. He was later shanghaied into the Guards Machine Gun Corps, of which he never spoke a word; no chance of ever finding out more, as fire and bombing destroyed the records of the Machine Gun Corps.

My father was involved with radar and so forth in WW2; he was, to start with, a Calculator Maintenance Engineer...this was the equipment that gave the WAAFs on the plotting table the co-ordinates to plot from the raw radar data...Later he was at Trimingham in Norfolk with the "Mouse" station of the Oboe navigation and bombing system. He said they could, by remote control, drop a bomb down a factory chimney in the Ruhr....unless someone opened the door to the equipment hut, at which point the change in temperature would wreck the calibration!

After the war he was responsible for the maintenance of the first ever application of electronics to telephone switching...electronic directors, which decoded the dialed number to the required routing through the London network of telephones and replaced the electromechanical system. This system, using vacuum tubes called cold cathode counters, was, I understand, designed by Tommy Flowers at the Post Office Research Station at Dollis Hill; there he had built the world's first programmable computer - "Colossus" - installed at Bletchley Park, which had been used to decode the "Lorenz" cipher. These electronic directors sprang from this wartime effort, and were installed at Richmond telephone exchange, in South West London. Dad had spent a year at Dollis Hill with the team, learning how the system worked. The Leading Technical Officer at Richmond had been a prisoner of the Japanese, and said that the prisoners used to teach each other about whatever it was they knew....it kept their minds off their plight..and that was where he had learned about automatic telephony, as it was in the 1940s and up to the electronic era. One day some Japanese engineers were scheduled to come and view the electronic directors, and he had to be given the day off as it was considered that their presence would adversely affect him.
He was well liked throughout the service, and had never been known to be late; so, on the day he retired, all the clocks in the exchange were set forward by an hour and, when he arrived at 0750 as usual, the line had been drawn and he was nearly an hour late! Every one had been briefed for this, and no matter who he telephoned, they all kept up the story. He was more than somewhat bewildered, and it was only at lunchtime they let him in on what had happened.....