大象传媒

鈥楻别蝉迟颈苍驳鈥�

My father sits back in his chair, his eyes begin to mist over as the memories come flooding back, 鈥淚 tell you what son, it was bloody awful, just bloody awful.鈥�
I look at him over the top of my pint and acknowledge his single, heartfelt statement. My silence giving him the encouragement, if any was needed, to carry on.
鈥淚 remember one day,鈥� he paused as he began to relive the time all over again, 鈥淚 was OP-ack, and me and the Lieutenant were stuck up in this bloody great church tower over looking the German positions.鈥� He paused to take a drink as though trying to wash the memory from his mind. 鈥淵ou see, it was our job to direct the fire for our guns, and of course we 鈥榓d to be somewhere up high to see. The bloody trouble with that was, that if we could see the Germans, then they could see us! And they let us know it too. They were forever taking pot shots at us. Mind you, if it got too bad then we would call up a couple of guns to give them 鈥榯hree rounds ranging鈥�, that bloody well soon shut 鈥榚m up.鈥� He smirked at the thought, confident that he now had a captive audience. 鈥淵ou know son, we could put a round in a dustbin from over a thousand yards with our twenty-five pounders.鈥� he added with obvious pride. I nodded in deference to the man, my father, who had done and seen more than I had ever imagined, to me after all, he was just my dad!
I went to the bar for more beer, all the while I could sense his impatience as I stood at the bar; he had a story to tell and was eager to get on with it.
I set the pint in front of him and he growled his acceptance. He did so not out of ungratefulness, but because he didn鈥檛 want to say anything in case it broke the spell he had woven, for fear the topic would veer away from his reminiscences. I opened my mouth to speak but was abruptly cut short, 鈥淐or, I tell you what son; one day we were billeted in this house, the French had long since left, but they had left a cellar full of wine, so we were alright. Anyway, one day my section was getting ready to move out to the church tower, or what was left of it,鈥� he said thoughtfully. 鈥淭he Jerries had given it a right good stonking the night before, killed our Lieutenant too. Anyway, we always would go out and sit in the back yard of this house when we were 鈥榬esting鈥�. That鈥檚 when the other section was on duty. The weather was warm and it made a nice break from the smell of dirty socks and sweaty blokes 鈥� we never 鈥榓d much chance to wash really.鈥� Dad sipped his pint, his eyes glistening with the thought of the terrible times and the awful sights he had seen. 鈥淥ne day, my mate from the other section was sitting out in the yard when Jerry let us 鈥榓ve it with a machine gun. There were bullets flying everywhere, bits of brick and concrete whizzing about all over the place. I called out to my mate to come into the house where it was relatively safe. 鈥楥ome on in you silly sod鈥� I cried, 鈥榞et yerself in 鈥榚re for Christsake, before they blow another silly hole in yer head.鈥� Dad shook his head as he took another drink, his whole being now back in a town just off the beach on D-Day. 鈥淚鈥檒l never forget him, Nobby, Nobby Clark, he was, came from Nottingham. I called him again but all he did was look up at me scornfully as the machinegun bullets edged ever closer to him. 鈥楽od off, my section鈥檚 resting,鈥� he hissed, 鈥業鈥檓 on me break and I鈥檓 鈥榓ving a brew. Now just leave me alone.鈥� Dad stopped for a minute, living out the moment of fifty years before. I looked at the man in wonder and awe, the man whom I had only known as my father, the village policeman.
鈥淥h 鈥榠m?鈥� my dad responded to my unasked question, 鈥渃opped a bullet as he drank his tea; never knew what 鈥榠t 鈥榠m.鈥� He drained the beer in a single go, 鈥淐ome on son. Time to go home; mother will wonder where we鈥檝e got too.鈥�
I follow silently, still finding it difficult to accept that someone I knew as a kind and loving father had seen, and been through, so much, even as a humble private attached to 45 Commando at the D-Day Landings.

I took Dad back to the very beach he had struggled ashore on all those years ago. He showed me the church tower, since rebuilt, and the house where Nobby never finished his tea. He spoke very little that weekend, and when he did his voice often cracked with emotion, often leaving the sentence unfinished. There was seldom a tear far from his eye, and I remember how his hand shook as he stroked the barrel of the twenty-five-pounder gun that adorned the sea front as a memorial to the great sacrifice so many men made during that summer.
Dad鈥檚 gone now, and with him his memories of six hard years of war. But I still remember the few, reluctant, stories he used to tell. Reluctant, because he didn鈥檛 want to boast and crow that he had come through it and others hadn鈥檛. Reluctant, because he didn鈥檛 want to stir up half forgotten memories, memories of pain and suffering, and of unbelievable comradeship.
As his epitaph, there is one memorable quote of his I would like to leave you with. It was Christmas Eve and his birthday; I had been a soldier myself for over a dozen years and had myself seen more than enough. We sat by his open fire in the comfort of his lounge, with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses. He raised his glass in salute to my toast and said wistfully, 鈥� You know son, if I鈥檇 thought I鈥檇 be sitting here, with a thirty year old son, drinking malt whisky on my birthday, then by Christ I鈥檇 have been a lot bloody braver in the war!鈥�

But could he?

END

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