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I would like to share the story of my father, Harry ‘Butch’ Cross, of the Northamptonshire Regiment.

An early posting to Egypt

Dad was born into a large family in Wingfield, east Suffolk, on 25 July 1911. His father was an itinerant farm labourer, and the family home was wherever there was work.

As soon as he got the chance, dad joined the army. He was posted to Egypt with his regiment, the Northants. While he was there it was discovered he had exaggerated his age and had been too young to join up. But they let him stay, as by then he was nearly old enough.

Trained as a gunner

I have no record of how long dad was in the army, but I do know that he was in India for a long time. He trained as a gunner, and he loved the life.

One of his mates in the army was Dennis Webster. They were about the same age, became pals and met each other’s families. Subsequently, dad married Dennis’s sister Rosetta, my mum, who was a nurse in London.

Happy to be back in uniform

When dad left the army and moved with mum to one of the Medway towns in Kent, he was still an army reserve. When war was declared he was called up again. Mum said he was so happy to be back in the army that he walked down the road whistling.

I have only scraps of information about what he did during the war. I know he served as a gunner on the convoy boats in the Atlantic. He was also in France, Belgium and the desert. I have a photographic portrait of him that he had taken in New York.

One of the unsung heroes

Thankfully, my father survived the war by several decades, though, sadly, he died in 1982. It was not until recently, when I read one of the few war letters that my late mother had kept, that I fully appreciated what he had been through then.

Most of what he did was no different from the behaviour of many of the other unsung heroes of that time. Yet even if there are no specific, particularly individual acts of bravery to report, the very fact that they were there, doing what they considered to be their job, deserves our acknowledgement. Now that I have a better understanding of this, I would like to voice my appreciation to them, one and all.

Acknowledging their courage

The undoubted courage of those men who went off to fight in World War Two is summed up for me in the following letter. On a sheet of paper headed: The Services Club, Mill Street, Ludlow, 5881570 Cpl Cross, H.21 Northamptonshire Regt, Att 11th Holding B, Ludlow, Shropshire, it was written to mum by my father, from a holding base in Ludlow, Shropshire, following his rescue from Dunkirk.

'Darling, Hoping you and baby are quite well, as it leaves me the same. But I am jarred off hanging around here waiting for them to sort out where we have to go.

Well, dear, it is grand to have a little peace at last. I never thought that I ever would again after that mad scamper in Belgium. I suppose you read about it in the papers and heard it on the wireless, but don’t take to much notice of that — they put it on a bit.

Dear, I don’t know when they are going to let us come home. It seems like a month since we landed, and everybody is getting impatient and keeps grumbling on about us being kept here. They are trying to straighten things out as soon as they can.

Dear, I am having a really good time here — sleeping until nine o’clock, then breakfast and a stroll around the park. In the afternoon we have a boat on the river and swimming. In the evening we can go to the pictures or a sing song and dance at any club that we like. We are allowed the run of the town.

Dear, I have just heard that the men here are going to their units today, so it won’t be long before I am home. I think before the weekend.

Well, dear, if you answer this letter, put your address on the back to be returned if I am gone. You did not say if you received the telegram I sent, but I suppose you forgot to mention it.'

He signs off ‘Cheerio, love, I love you, Harry,’ and the letter ends with a row of kisses.

My father’s greatest regret

Dad was hit by enemy fire as he was taken out of Dunkirk in a small boat. As he’d been wounded, he was ordered on to a hospital ship, in which he returned to Dover.

Fortunately, he wasn’t badly hurt — a piece of shrapnel had lodged in his groin but was never removed — but the incident remained the source of his biggest regret. During the action, the front of his battle dress had ripped open and a great number of packets of hooky cigarettes he had hidden there fell out into the sea. He lost the lot. All dad ever complained about thereafter was the loss of those cigarettes.

My father, my hero

Over the years I have seen a great deal of television-documentary footage about the evacuation of Dunkirk. It has done nothing to lessen the admiration I have for my dad. This is compounded by how he described Dunkirk to his young wife as though it had all been exaggerated.

My father certainly is my hero. Regrettably, I never told him so.

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