- Contributed by听
- Philip Edwards
- Article ID:听
- A1145279
- Contributed on:听
- 14 August 2003
I was always fascinated to hear about my dad's wartime exploits. We used to live in the Rhondda Valley, South Wales. Nearly every Sunday as a child, in that limbo time after 'Children's Hour' and 'Sunday Night at the London Palladium', when the religious programmes were on, I'd march with my dad through the desert of North Africa - me, Dad and Monty. Some nights, he'd bring out his leather wallet full of treasures from North Africa, and we'd sit down and mull through them together.
Sadly, he died in 1998. The leather wallet was passed on to me.
I used the contents of the wallet to create some learning materials for my school children. (I teach ten-year-olds.) Deep down in the wallet, I found a newspaper clipping. It told the story of my dad's next door neighbour, William Eric Killey, and how he was lost at sea. I added the clipping to the material because it showed that war isn't a Boy's Own Adventure, but something that is sad and serious.
Last summer, my wife and I took a trip to the Scilly Islands, a wonderful holiday destination. On the last day of the holiday, we walked over to Old Town and looked around the graveyard to find Harold Wilson's grave. It took some searching, but eventually we found his resting place.
Then, on the way out, something really strange happened. I tripped and stumbled. My hand reached out to a gravestone to steady myself. Then I noticed the name on the grave: William Eric Killey, HMS Warwick. Strange coincidence? Or did he want to be found?
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