- Contributed byÌý
- Bob Scrivener
- People in story:Ìý
- Edmund F. Scrivener
- Location of story:Ìý
- England
- Background to story:Ìý
- Army
- Article ID:Ìý
- A2869860
- Contributed on:Ìý
- 27 July 2004
Home
Because our camp had once been a parachute camp, it had its own airfield next to it, and we were told that we would be repatriated by air as soon as possible. There was some delay in finding available aircraft, which wasn’t surprising, but after a fortnight suddenly, out of the blue, a whole crowd of very dilapidated looking Dakotas landed, neatly dodging a number of craters. Half were flown straight to England, and my half was taken to Brussels where we were deloused, fed and bedded for the night. I remember going into a large hall that crammed to the ceiling with every kind of food that a human could eat. All free! Cigarettes too. Maddeningly our stomachs had shrunk, and we were able to eat very little. The next morning we were flown on to England near Aylesbury, and driven to a sort of staging camp where we were given battledress, passes, money and identity papers. It is said that it is happier to travel than arrive, and on that train journey to the north I was so happy that I almost didn’t want it to end.
When I arrived at Lynemouth, My wife Elizabeth, had gone to Ashington to queue outside the butchers to get a few sausages. Winston, Elizabeth’s younger brother, set off to fetch her, and when the women waiting heard the story, pushed her to the front of the queue. Geordies are like that. What’s more, I came home a hero. A wounded veteran of Arnhem. (I had to keep reminding myself to limp) Stand back, give the lad a seat, and buy him a drink. What a phoney I was. Six years in the army, two weeks fighting, well skulking in a wood, six months idling in a POW camp, and I come back home a hero. They even let me into the cinema for nothing. My red beret was the Open Sesame! Shamefully I made the most of it. My two brothers had done more fighting in an hour than I had done in six years. Praise God they also came back alive. Truly, the Scriveners are like whiskers… They always come back.
How it was that we escaped with our lives God alone knows. I must ask him when I meet him. As I’m sure I shall in due course.
E. F. Scrivener 1992
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