- Contributed by听
- derbycsv
- People in story:听
- Nora Walters, Thomas Arthur Matthews, Agnes Annie Matthews (Grandma) and Matthew John Walters
- Location of story:听
- Derby
- Background to story:听
- Civilian
- Article ID:听
- A5176640
- Contributed on:听
- 18 August 2005
My father was awarded the 1939/45 Star, Africa Star, Burma Star, Defence Medal, and the 1939/45 War Medal. All these he kept in a drawer until his 70th birthday, when he gave them to his only Grandson, Matthew
This story has been submitted by Alison Tebbutt, CSV Action Desk, on behalf of Nora Walters. The author has given her permission and she understands the site's terms and conditions.
Part One of this story can be found at bbc.co.uk/dna/ww2/a5165877
A buff foolscap envelope marked O.M.H.S. dropped through our letterbox on the 24th October 24th October 1940. The dreaded day had arrived. My beloved father, Thomas Arthur Matthews, had been called up for military service in the Royal Artillery. I was seven years of age and my whole life was to be changed.
My mother took on a full time job at the local hospital and my paternal Grandmother undertook to be my guardian until the war ended. Look after me she did, with love and affection. I wanted for nothing-just my father to come home safely.
He was posted to the Middle East in 1941 and India in 1942, where he served until the end of the War. He served with the Chindits. I could never understand why Indian soldiers were in Derby, riding around the race course in their uniforms and my father was posted to India.
We received regular airmail letters from India and the occasional parcel containing cotton fabric, which my Grandmother made into lovely dresses for me. As fabric was an item for which you needed clothing coupons, it was a real treasure to receive. Other items I can remember him sending were Indian leather handbags, embroidered tablecloths, cushion covers and packets of tea. These had come by boat and had taken a long time to arrive. We also received photographs of him in uniform. How handsome he looked.
Every week my Grandmother purchased an airmail letter or an Airgraph from the Post Office and we sent him our latest news. Seeing a telegram boy arrive during those dark days usually meant bad news for that family.
My war ended when my beloved father came home on the 17th of February 1946.
Like so many returning soldiers he did not talk about his experiences. How I wish I had asked him about them.
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