大象传媒

My Father's War

by Derek Summers

When I was born
you were away at war,
surprised as snow fell
on Christmas Eve in North Africa
waiting for the tank you would drive
to be disembarked.

You sweated in the dim interior
of the Valentine
as shells roared overhead,
the flame-thrower useless at this distance.

Later, you would edge forward
for the gunner to incinerate
anything immobilised but alive.

Deliveries in the Sainsbury Morris
had equipped you to drive;
you had seen raw carcasses
in your father's shop
but the war held many surprises.

Nightly, as they bombed your desert column, you took comfort
from the tank's iron walls,
emerging one morning to a strange
ragged snow of leaflets
reminding you of your family
BLITZED TO A CINDER
in their North London suburb.

We huddled closely
to our mother's warmth
in a makeshift bed
under the Morrison shelter.

As the war moved on
you motored into Italy.
Most of the bombing and burning
had been done by others.
Only a few snipers remained.

You were welcomed as liberators.
Billeted with Italian families,
accepted as guests, semi-tourists.
you tasted 'pasta', 'vino rosso',
saw the sights you would visit
only once in a lifetime,
were amazed at the many uses
of olive oil. They asked
about your 'famiglia'.

The flimsy kodak print
of the shy girl and boy born in your absence
brought gasps from your hosts
at the rare paleness of hair and faces.
After the desert's harshness
you drank-in unexpected kindness
given by strangers
and longed for your own familiar place.

The war was beginning its end;
our shelter was dismantled.
We moved amongst the small family
of aunties which the war had supplied.
But we clung to the bed for three
where the shelter had stood.

The troops were demobilised
with perplexing slowness, until
you were dropped from a crony's truck
at our door
to be greeted by familiar strangers.

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