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This story was submitted by Alison Tebbutt, Derby CSV Action Desk, on behalf of Christine Wightman. The author has given her permission and understands the site's terms and conditions.

At a very early age my parents told me and my brothers about our cousin John, or Jackie as he was known to our family. Mum talked about his leaves and how, for some reason of his own, mum suspected it was a pretty girl who lived across the road; he liked to split his leave with us. In the days after the war I was always aware of John. His picture was always on our wall in Boyer Street. Mum still has it.

My parents would tell me how he used to cuddle me and he always liked to have me on his knee and rock me to sleep. He would call me his little Chris. They said how he would say if anything happened to him he would leave all he had to me as he was so fond of me.

On one particular leave he was sitting nesting in front of our fire when he slumped forward into the fireplace and blacked out. Dad was there and with mum to help they picked him up. They told his mum, my Aunty Tapp, what had happened. They begged him not to do the next jump. He wouldn’t listen.

At the end of his leave he called to say goodbye, and made a fuss of me as usual. He sat talking to mum and dad. Mum told me they will never forget the look on his face. He said ‘Aunty Edith, Uncle Reg, I won’t be coming back after this one’
My dad replied ‘don’t say that Jack, lad. Don’t do the jump, your not up to it, tell them about the blackouts.’
‘I’ve told my mum.’ He replied. ‘I won’t be coming back.’
My parents told me that the jump he couldn’t tell them about was to do with the Normandy Landings on the 6th June 1944. With the Airborne Division, he jumped over Arnhiem Bridge. His best friend, who survived, told Aunty that the wind blew John’s parachute into trees and he got tangled up. The German soldiers were waiting and one shot him many times. Bob saw it, and knew he didn’t have a chance. John was only nineteen years old.

I am so proud of the men who took part in the Normandy Landings, like my very brave cousin John J. Rolland, whose frightening premonition came true-he didn’t come home.

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