´óÏó´«Ã½

My Dad, Walter Richardson, came from a family of 14 children who lived in Hunslet, near Leeds. The eldest three boys fought during WW2.

My Dad served with the 24th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery, and most of his active service was spent in North Africa and Italy. Towards the end of the War, he was based in Fallingbostel, near Hannover in Germany.

It was here he received devastating news from home: his eldest brother, Bill, who was serving in 151st Field Regiment (The Ayrshire Yeomanry), had been shot and killed in Belgium, and buried somewhere in Holland, close to the Dutch/Belgian/German border.

Dad knew how important it was that his Mum and Dad knew where Bill’s final resting place was. He had to go and find his brother’s grave.

Dad obtained a three day pass, and without any money, rations, maps or directions, and only a few place names to go on, and cigarettes to barter with, he caught a train from Hannover to Utrecht, in war-torn Holland.

It was cold and getting dusk, when Dad reached Utrecht. He entered a railwayman’s shack seeking further directions. From here, Dad caught trains, hitch-hiked and walked across the unfamiliar Dutch countryside to the border with Belgium, to find his brother’s grave.

Holland was in dire straits at the time, but its people showed Dad only kindness and generosity. They provided him with food and shelter, all along his way. At one point, he asked for directions at a Police Station. The Sergeant there, took him home and gave him food and a bed for the night. The following morning, the Sergeant insisted Dad washed and shaved and made himself look respectable. With his help and that of the War Graves Commission, Dad was able to find out where his brother’s grave was likely to be. Armed with this information, he travelled all day, reaching a town called Weert, as night fell. By now, Dad felt tired, lost, and had nowhere to stay. He found a café and went in - exhausted. Once again, the kindness of the Dutch people came to the fore. The proprietor, took pity on him, and put him up for the night. The following day, he helped Dad by putting him in touch with the Mayor’s Office. They in turn contacted the person who looked after war graves in a small village called Nederweert.

This is where my Dad’s incredible journey ended… Nederweert. He found his brother’s grave, and was able to spend time there and pay his last respects. He then spent the day with the family who tended to his brother’s grave. They welcomed him, and shared what little food they had with him.

Time was ticking by, and Dad knew he had to begin his journey back to Utrecht and onwards to his camp in Germany. Despite his deadline, Dad did not hesitate along the way to help a family who’s house was on fire, and then continue his journey. He did however, began to get fearful of being AWOL. His train stopped at mid-night, and the connecting train for Germany didn’t go through until the following day. Once more Dad needed a bed for the night. He was given accommodation in the attic of a large hotel, and the following morning, was offered a roll and a drink for breakfast.

Once more, he headed for the railway station and waited for the Hannover train. It arrived late in the day, and reached Hannover well into the evening. By this time, Dad began to worry that his pass would run out, so he decided to walk the rest of the way from Hannover to his camp. This was quite a long way, but Dad walked through the dark, lonely German countryside on the final leg of his journey. At one point, he heard a car pull up behind him. He was offered a lift by a German civilian and they travelled together, for the next 5 or 6 miles. They then parted company, and Dad carried on the rest of the way on foot. After falling into a ditch, Dad finally made it back to camp at Fallingbostel.

Life there was going on as normal. No one was any the wiser of Dad’s remarkable journey, nobody missed him, or was aware of what he had done.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.