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The Forgotten War Widows and their Children

We would be as happy as little larks going to meet our father at the railway station, and taking him his two ounces of twist for his pipe. He would be asleep and I would wake him up and ask for a push on the swing he had made for us. My brother and I would drag his rifle upstairs, point it out of the window and pretend to shoot the enemy in the next street. Its a good job there were no bullets in the gun, we might have killed somebody.

We would feed the hens, get the eggs and watch the young chickens hatching in the incubator. When the German bombers came up from the east coast, following the railway lines in the evening you could see the planes coming and hear the droning of their engines, they would pass the bottom of our garden on the way to Sheffield. Mother would tell us to get under the four legged barley twist table, pillows and red post money boxes were taken with us, and should a bomb drop on the house to rattle them as loud as we could. When the planes had passed overhead we would venture out to the back field looking towards Sheffield, you could see the bright flashes in the sky as the bombs attacked their targets.

My dad鈥檚 compassionate leave had come to an end. We went with father and mother to the station. This is where we said our last farewell, as the train pulled out of the station. Mother took us to have our photos taken in the back garden of a house on Stanley Street, at the bottom of the station approach.

I remember crying all the way home and an old lady, asking what I was crying for. I told her, "It鈥檚 my dad and he won鈥檛 ever be coming back home again." 鈥淒on鈥檛 cry he鈥檒l be coming home again," she said. In the early hours of the morning there was a loud bang on the back door. Terry and I jumped out of bed shouting, 鈥淚t鈥檚 me dad, he鈥檚 come back home!鈥� We looked through the curtains but there was nobody there. Father had always told Mother jokingly that if anything happened to him, he would come back and let her know. On the 4th or 5th day of December 1942, his life ended 20 days before Christmas. Mother got the telegram informing her that he had been killed. I still have the letters from the Padre and the Captain. The photo we had taken just before he left was sent out to him but he would never see it. The photo and his mail was sent back to mother, which I still have. The photos of his grave, with a cross stating his name and army number, were delivered by telegram. I remember mother on a chair with the back cut off, crying her little socks off. I went up to mother and touched her hand with my little hand and said, 鈥淧lease don鈥檛 cry anymore Mummy, please don鈥檛 cry anymore Mummy鈥�. Some people say I should forget about it, but how can you? Probably if we鈥檇 have had some help from the British Legion, it might have helped.

From now on the family would have to pay dearly for that war. Our battle for survival had just begun. The hens would have to go, the incubator, the sheds, the lot. Strange men in long overcoats and trilby hats would remove the lot. No more pleasure of feeding the hens and watching the little yellow chickens hatching from their shells. Mother went to the British Legion for some kind of help and was told to go and find a job. With four kids in four and a half years. At times in winter we would be cold and hungry, and cry, 鈥淢ummy we are cold and hungry.鈥� She would tell us to put a coat on the bed and pray to Jesus and think you had something to eat. Well he never came to visit us.

In November, around Poppy Day, I ask the old war heroes would you tell me what happened to the war widows and their kiddies? Their reply is always the same, that we were well looked after by the British Legion. I then inform them that I am the son of a war widow and we never got any help from the Legion

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