大象传媒

My name is Caroline Foster-Doan, I was born in London on 24th November 1942. My mother, Patricia Foster was 17, just comimg up to 18 years old. She was in a distressed state as my father L/Cpl Joseph Foster of the Royal Canadian Army, Essex Scottish Regiment had been reported missing believed killed during the raid on Dieppe on 19th august 1942. In fact, he was killed, his body was never found.

On a damp morning in August 1992 I was standing on a London street waiting for a coach. I had been up since 5am and was not feeling my best, but this was a journey I had wanted to make since I was a little girl. I was on my way to Dieppe in France for the 50th anniversary of the raid on Dieppe on August 19th 1942. The raid on which my father had been killed. I had never seen my father as he was killed 3 months before I was born. I felt I was following in his footsteps. On the ferry from Newhaven, I was passing the same landmarks that he had seen on that dreadful day. I remembered my mother telling me how she had run alongside the train holding Joe's hand, crying, and feeling she would never see him again.

It was an eventful three days. On the ferry there were many veterans of the Dieppe raid, both British and Canadian, I got talking to them, and when they knew my father had been killed on the raid they took me under their wing for the whole trip! On arrival at Dieppe I felt myself go cold, I felt nauseated and was very worried about how I was going to react to the emotional events ahead of me.

On the morning of the 19th August we left our hotel early and went to the Canadian Cemetery just outside Dieppe. It is a beautiful place, quiet and peaceful, with all the graves well looked after. My father has no known grave. There had been an all night vigil by present day members of the Canadian Army, they were still there, young men in their smart uniforms. looking much as my Dad and his comrades would have done. The ceremony proceeded with digniteries from the UK, Canada and France, all paying tribute to the fallen. Each regiment laid a wreath of poppies.I recognized the uniforms of the Essex Scottish immmediately, and the tears began to flow. Afterwards, I wandered around the cemetery looking at the graves, especially the "unknown" graves, wondering if it could be Joe. The rest of the day there were many ceremonies, all attended by huge crowds of local people. It made me feel very proud to know that Joe and his comrades had not been forgotten.

The next day we were free to do as we pleased. It was pouring with rain but I decided that I would walk along the beach. It was a very emotional experience. I could visualize the hordes of soldiers coming up the beach and just being mown down by machine gun fire. On either side of the beach are towering cliffs where guns were placed, and it was quite obvious that few could survive the landing. I was crying most of the way and all the memories of the things my mother had told me flooded back. How she had met Joe in the West End of London, after a visit to a cinema. There was an air raid on and she and her friend were unable to get any transport home. Joe and a friend offered to walk them home. How they used to go dancing, and how they loved Glenn Miller. How my grandfather refused to let them marry, because my mother was only sixteen, but eventually he relented when he finally realised how they both felt.They were married on 6th December 1941, how upset they were about the raid on Pearl Harbour. I took some stones from the beach for my mother as a momento. I stood for a long time and realised that because I had never seen my father I had never properly mourned for him. Growing up in England I was always wondering what he was like. Was I like him? Did I have any of his traits and characteristics? Did I look like him? Wondering if he would have been proud of me becoming a nurse.

On the way back on the ferry I thought how lucky I had been to visit Dieppe, my mother had not been well enough and others of Joe's family had not had the opportunity. I felt very honoured to be able to talk to the veterans and hear their stories.

Although I never knew Joe, he had always played a big part in my life, he was made real for me by my mother and my Canadian relatives. When I was just a few months old, my mother received a visit from a friend and distant cousin of Joe's, Earl(Verdun)Doan. He was in the RCAF and had just been posted to England. He came to see if he could do anything for her. He became part of the family. Unfortunately, the Lancaster bomber in which he was a gunner, was shot down over Germany on 16th June 1943, his birthday. He spent the rest of the war in POW camp. Upon liberation and returning to the UK he went to see my mother, before long they fell in love and married on the 1st June 1945. They remained happily married for 51 years until my mother's death in 1996. To me, he had always been my "Dad", no one could have been a better father to me and my two half brothers and my half sister. He loved, cherised and guided me throughout my childhood and continued to do so until his death in 2004. Dad never talked much about his war time experiences until he got older and then he would talk for hours. He told of his plane being hit, how he helped another crew member to escape before he bailed out. Only three of the crew survived.He told many tales of the camps, he saved a man's sight after a Klim tin blew up in his face, Dad sat with him night and day putting cold tea bags on his eyes. the man was an artist and did a full length painting of Dad. When the German's realised the end was coming, they marched them for 6 weeks, Dad couldn't carry the whole painting, so he cut it in half and carried the top half in his jacket. He kept an amazing log of the march which my brother now has. He was in a very poor condition when he was eventually liberated by the Americans. The German's had just left them to their own devices, Dad found a horse and rode to the nearest allied camp.In his later years he was dogged by nightmares of the burning plane, and there were some things he would just not talk about.

I have been very honoured to have had both my father's from one small town, Wallaceburg, Ontario. My sister lives there and I visit often, I always visit the war memorial and recently a stone has been set up for the other veterans, my step dad's name is on that.

Joe made the ultimate sacrifice and Dad was scarred for the rest of his life by his memories. My and later generations owe them a debt we can never repay.

Caroline Foster-Doan
31/12/2005

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