大象传媒

In England the Beatles had burst onto the scene and changed the music set with the Mersey sound. Another American legend, Elvis Presley was affected by the change in the music scene but his most devoted fans stood by him and stayed loyal to his death, which shook America and England at the time. And of course there were countless more famous people around at the time.
By around 1966 Sam and I had started courting our respective partners. Sam to Virginia and myself to Dawn and to this day, thirty years later we are both still happily married to them. We stayed in touch but started to get busy sorting out our priorities and working on our houses. When we did meet our conversation would still be of the Old West and America.
I had been married roughly about a year when, sadly, Charlie passed away. I would have been twenty three years old and going back to Henniker Road to visit my mother without him sitting in his old chair really took some getting used to. If only I could have thanked him for all the things that he did for me. Those two words that we use at different times in our life. IF ONLY. Once I settled into married life, the years flew by, and I mean at an alarming rate. Each decade seemed to slip away, the seventies with flared trousers, big collars, and broad tie's, then the eighties also came and went. As I was now well settled in my house, I began to look to America. For years I had listened to the music of Merle Haggard, he sang songs of the working man. Songs of American history, truck driving, train songs, songs about rural life, the towns and the highways, he also sang the songs, of Lefty Frizzell and the great Jimmie Rodgers. Jimmie Rodgers, the man who wrote many songs about the American hobo and the life of jumping the trains. These songs fired my imagination and I sat and listened to them with great interest. I found some of the lines burnt into me. I felt it was my history. I felt all of these things not knowing that I was linked with it, but it was all there inside.
The year finally arrived when I booked my first trip to the USA. It was to be a year of the bitter and the sweet of life. Just as I was sorting things out, my brother-in-law Rudolph's health began to fail, and after just a few short weeks, we lost him. We walked away from the hospital devasted. I had known him from a very early age adn he had always been there. I would have loved to have come back from America and told him how much I liked it but sadly that was not to be. I often wish that he was here now to see how things have turned out for me. I would haved liked his opinion on things and I know he would have been touched by all the events that have happened to us all. The September of that year came round and I boarded the plane, got over the flight, and finally touched down at Los Angeles Airport California. I felt as if I had fell out of the sky and landed where I was supposed to be. It was one of the strangest feelings I had ever experienced and the trouble was at that time I couldn't explain to myself, or anybody else, why I felt that way. As I visited the towns, looked at the scenery and spoke to the various people, I felt myself blend in easily and when I got back it all I could think of.
Later on Sam went on much the same trip and on his return it was all that filled our conversation and really fired up our emotions. Since that first trip we have both returned to America and visited several different states. Each time the different places had the same effect on us. We started to send off to catalogue companies for belts,shirts and all sorts of American memorabilia. I even imported a pick up truck from Georgia. On the day I collected it I almost felt a sense of fulfilment but I still didn't question anything, I just thought it was one of my interests in life. As the months passed by I would go and visit Sam on Saturday evenings and naturally, as always, America was the main topic.
It was late September 1995 when, one mid-week evening, I got a call from Sam asking me to call round. He said he had something to tell me and didn't want to talk over the phone. So on Saturday evening I drove over to his house, walked in, sat down and asked what it was all about. He told me again of the various time in his life when he had asked his family about his colour and was told the same story abouthe throw back. He had phoned his sister for one last try to clear his mind and she had finally broken the silence and told hiim the truth. She told him that his mother was his true mother but his father was a coloured American G.I. who his mother had had an affair with during the war years. Although he was shaken, he could now see things more clearly and we sat and talked about it all night, reflecting back on our childhood and our visits to America.
With his mother and father now passed away, the name of his true father died with them, which I think is a terrible thing. As I drove home it was all running through my mind and when I got home I rang my sister Rita to tell her all about what Sam had said. She had known Sam from when he was about nine or ten years old and we sat and talked about it for a fair while. Nearly two weeks went by and Dawn and I drove round to Rita's house for a visit and to go shopping for a day. Before we left to go to the shopping centre Rita spoke again about Sam. She asked how he had taken the news and what his reactions were like. She asked my views on it all and how I thought I would react to that sort of news. I said I thought that he should have known sooner and this if it was me I would hve like to have known. You could then have followed your family history back, understood different things about yourself and decided what path you wouldlike to take. I don't see where it is anybody's right to keep that information from you. Right or wrong they were my thoughts on it all and I fully understand that they may not be everyones.
We then left to go shopping for the day and when we arrived back home to settle down to our meal it was about five or six o'clock in the evening. Again the subject of conversation drifted onto Sam and suddenly Rita put down her knife and fork and looked straight at me. She said "Roy, I've got something to tell you" and for a split second I almost knew. She said "You're the same as Sam but your father was a white American G.I. and you are lucky, you have a name. Ken Weaver, his name was Ken Weaver and I'm pretty sure he came from Pennsylvania. I felt no anger at that moment, in fact, if anybody had touched me at that moment, even very lightly, I think I would have fallen over. I couldn't say anything but the days of my life flashed past in my mind. My childhood, teenage years and Sam and me.
After the first few minutes went by, my system reinforced itself and I started to ask questions. I asked who knew and she said that several members of the family had heard it mentioned over the years. Most of my Aunts and Uncles knew and my sister Violet probably knew the most. She would have been about sixteen or seventeen at the time. Lots of people knew, except me, typical of life I thought. Rita said she remembered that he was tall like me and she thought he was ground crew at Parham because he was always at the cottage and never hardly missed a day.
We phoned and told Sam and he couldn't believe it. After all these years it turned out that we were both the same. All the things we did and talked about as children now took on a new meaning. There was now something in it all. I told him I would get round and see him the first chance I got. As I drove home from Rita's house my mind was full of it. My brain was working overtime, what did he look like, and sound like? Was he alive or dead, just what the hell happened to him? What did he do with the rest of his life? I knew at that moment when I was driving home that I couldn't let it rest, I would have to try and find him. The only trouble was where would I start? The next day came round and it was a Sunday. We had all day to talk about it, and we did, we just talked and talked. How could my mother not tell me? Charlie had passed away 30 years ago, surely that was the peak time to tell me. I couldn't wait for Monday morning to come, I wanted to make a start and all I could think of doing was phoning the American Embassy in London to see if they could give me some procedure to follow, or at least somewhere to start. I began to think, all those in America, thousands of miles away and I was going to look for one of them. I sat at my desk in my little back room with a pen and a piece of paper with two words written on it "Ken Weaver". The best part of that piece of paper was blank. I remember I put that piece of paper in a file and looked out of the window and for the first time in my life I felt really isolated. I thought, even if I am chasing the end of a rainbow, I'll keep on going. I got the file back out and looked at it, looked at the name - Ken Weaver. I thought "God I wish I had more than that written down" so I added, Pennsylvania.
On the Monday morning I rang the American Embassy in London. Although they were helpful and showed interest, they told me they had no records of military personnel who passed through England fifty years ago. They would, though send me some literature on who I could contact and some organisations that may be able to help me. A few days went by before I received the papers. They listed a few addresses and I decided to start with the Military Affairs Department in Pennsylvania and I sat down to write my letter, posted it off and then felt as if I had at least made a start. I found my thoughts constantly drifted back to Parham, the cottage and of course the air base. I knew that the old watchtower at the base had been turned into a museum and I thought of going to visit it to see if I could get some sort of a lead. At this time I was working with a bricklayer called Fred Deck. He had visited the museum and told me that they had lots of photos over there and a lot of information about wartime activities, but it was closed until Springtime, I felt anxious to go but resigned myself to the fact that I couldn't do much until the Spring. At least I only lived about one hour away from the Parham museum and could get there easily.
For a while things remained static. I had no reply from the Military Affairs Office and I thought that perhaps I should contact a different organisation that could possibly help me. All I seemed to be doing was waiting for something to turn up, for something to happen and then strangly enough it did. I got a lead from a total stranger. Somebody that I came across one day by chance. I had gone to do some building work at a chicken factory about ten or fifteen miles away from where I live. I got into casual conversation wih the firms mechanic who looked after the vehicles and machinery on the site. As we talked, I told him of my story and my links with Parham and he told me that he spent his childhood in Framlingham, the small town near Parham and he knew of the air base museum and of a man named Leroy Keeping who may be able to help me. Apparantly, Leroy Keeping was among some of the first personnel on the base and was stationed there until the base closed. After getting married to a Framlingham girl they returned to America for a while and then came back to England to settle in Framlingham. Although now, Leroy had sadly lost his wife he still lived in Framlingham. I came home, got Leroy's phone number and rang him up. We set a date for me to go up and see him on the Sunday morning and I could hardly wait for the day to come around. When it did I was out of bed early and anxious to get on my way. The drive to Framlingham seemed to go on forever and when I got there I couldn't find his bungalow but it all came together and I was soon standing on his doorstep. Leroy greeted me and we went inside. After a while of pleasant conversation Leroy produced an air base history book that listed all personnel on the base and we started to look through it. I told him that my sister thought that Ken Weaver had been a member of the ground crew and that's where Leroy and I started to check through. Even though Weaver is a common name in America there wasn't that many in the list of ground crew and suddenly we spotted a Kenneth R Weaver and because of the R in the middle of that name my mind began to tick over. My name at that time was Charles Roy Ellis and most people called me Roy so I began to think that my mother must have given me his middle name. I thought to myself at that moment, I bet that "R" in his names stands for Roy. I then knew that the name we were looking at was the man I was looking for and I said to Leroy "That's the one I'm going to try and find. That must be him. Also listed was his squadron and his job and I also now knew the bomb group's number at Parham. I don't think I'll ever forget it all, as long as I live. 390th Bomb Group H. 570th Squadron, Mechanic Kenneth R Weaver. Also listed was the old 1942 addrss that he was called up from it was in Pennsylvania.

(this story is currently being input by the Action Desk at 大象传媒 Radio Suffolk as is not yet complete)

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