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This is my story. It is the story of a Belgian woman who is trying to find her English roots for over twenty years now. If the second worldwar did not take place, I would never have to tell this story, I would not even exist.

My grandad, George Wright, was a soldier in the 364 B batallion of the Royal Artillery Regiment, British Army, during World War II.
In 1944, when our village — Tielt-Brabant somewhere in the middle of Flanders — had just been liberated, his battalion was stationed here and the soldiers were billeted all over the village centre. My great-grandparents, Marie and Joseph, had lived in Sheffield in England during World War I and Mary spoke English fluently. During the occupation she was called upon a few times when a British plane was shot down to translate the messages for the pilots. She hereby risked her life more than once but she was a very brave woman, always eager to help the British, in whose country she had been very happy. In those days very few Belgians spoke English and that was probably the reason why the soldiers of the 364 B battalion came over to the house of my family to chat and bring up memories about the home country.
That's how my grandmother, Anna, met George Wright, a slender fellow with black curly hair, eyes like charcoal and a bronzed tan. They fell in love and the romance would last for a few weeks.

George often paid her a visit, sometimes alone and sometimes with his best pal, Colin Hall from Sheffield. When the battalion had to leave for Germany which was still occupied in January 1945, my grandmother stayed sadly behind but they promised to write to each other. My great-grandmother Marie would translate the letters. However, shortly after, Anna discovered that she was pregnant... Her parents were furious, her being unwed and pregnant. Such a thing was shameful in Belgium in those days (I suppose it was in England too). In spite of her misery, abortion was out of the question for Catholics. For months to come she and George wrote letters to each other and he sent some money for the baby that was on its way. On September 29th Anna gave birth to an eight pound baby boy, with black hair and charcoal eyes, who she called Eddie. English names were very popular then and beside, his godfathers name was Edward. George, wherever he might be then - the war had finished by that time - got a letter to say that he had a fine son.

In November 1945 however, suddenly there were no more answers to the letters. Marie informed the British embassy in Brussels and they told her very dryly that George Wright had "probably died".
Anna's heart was broken. But the hard times after the war coupled with her status as an unwed mother obliged her to live with her head held high. Seven years after the war she met Cyril and married him and Eddie, my dad, was adopted and got the family name Peeters. Anna, relieved to have settled her life again, decided to break with the past and destroyed all evidence of George Wright, except his golden seal ring. George Wright was buried figuratively and was not spoken of for the next 35 years. Even my dad was never told who his real father was.
In 1987, I - Anna's favourite granddaughter - got to hear part of the story. I was sitting with grandma in the living room, watching television, and the end titles of a film appeared on the screen. Suddenly grandma saw the name George Wright and she blurted out "over there: your real granddad’s name...." I was stunned and tried to get some more details out of her, but she has a very bad memory and she only remembered his name, what he looked like and the name of his best pal.

The consequence of all this is that I have been looking for him for over twenty years now. English was my favourite language at school, England is my favourite holiday destination and I truly love the British. Hearing the story of George Wright out of grandma's mouth was like finding a lost puzzle fragment of my life. Over the last two decades I have written to embassies, army organisations and archives. I put messages on internet websites, I contacted the War Graves Commission, I even visited war graves in Holland and Germany, and I wrote hundreds of letters to George Wrights and Colin Halls.
I traced the hallmark of the ring George gave to Anna, looking in libraries and on websites and discovered it must have been made around London. A few times I got frustratingly close in my search. I interviewed villagers in Tielt village and so I got hold of the name William "Bill" Tinkler, one of the battalion pals. I traced him rather easily but unfortunately he had died. His daughter Julie however sent me a photograph of her dad’s battalion. The moment my grandmother recognized George right in the middle of the photo, was like a victory to me. According to grandma, I am his spitting image and indeed, I looked like him! After a few years of detective work, which I won’t go into now - I can write a whole book about it - I was able to trace the address of George's best pal, Colin Hall from Sheffield. Bad luck again however. The man died in the eighties and his son Barry knew nothing about his dad’s war years... He sent me some photos which his dad brought back with him from Belgium and on those photos I saw my grandmother and her family. On seeing these images I started to cry. I was so close but once again at a dead end. Then I found the Townsend brothers from Gloucestershire, Dennis and Frederick. Originally they were very enthusiastic, having found someone from Tielt, "their village" in the war, but when they heard I was looking for George Wright, they suddenly answered no more letters. They chose to remain silent about the past and a few more letters of mine could not change their opinion.

After those long years of searching and hoping, I don't know what to do anymore. A few years ago I got in contact with Eric Collingwood, a British veteran from Barnsley, Yorkshire who was looking for a Belgian family he had stayed with in the war. I contacted the papers here in Belgium and an article with a large photograph from the family was published. Already the day after a family member reacted! The veteran has become a friend of mine and he visits us each year!
I wrote to the English national papers, but they are not interested at all. Only two regional ones published my story.

At the moment I do not know what to do anymore, I did almost everything to find my grandad. I played detective for over twenty years and I think this is the end of it.
The army does not want to help, it is all in their archives in Middlesex and Glasgow, but only next of kin is allowed to it...
This is my war story, I regret is had not had a happy end until now.

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