大象传媒

For thirty seven years I was subject to the vagueries of my father's experiences at Dunkirk. During that time I managed to collect only a few accounts offered occasionally after Sunday lunch if the guard was down. Mostly, my Dad was irritated by my questions. He would usually respond by pulling a face and saying, "Well,I don't know... you only remember the good times", and I think that was the way he wanted it to stay. If silence is the hallmark of a veteran then my Dad was definitely there. As a child I knew that he had joined the Territorials, that he was only 19 at the time and that he eventually got off the beach, but I had never stopped to fully consider the implications. After watching 'Dunkirk' this week I think I now understand why silence was perhaps the better option. But such was the paucity of information coming from my father that I never even knew from where he embarked. I had always assumed that it was at Dunkirk. But five years after his death in 1995, my mother told me that it was at De Panne in Belgium. Apparently, the strafing had been so heavy on the beaches that his sergeant took the decision to march them the distance from Dunkirk to De Panne. They survived! I am now left wondering if the sergeant whose decisive action resulted in my father's survival was the same man who was killed in my father's vehicle later in the war. We will never know!

My dad always extolled the comradeship of Army life but, curiously, names were never forthcoming or if they were they were the names of the dead - such as Ernie Greenaway and Tom Lumsden. After six years of comradeship there were no ex-army friends after demobilisation. There were no reunions; no association with the British Legion. I had often wondered why. Perhaps family was enough for him. Whatever his reasons, I never had cause to think of him as a hero, principally because he had always maintained that the infantry had the hardest life and that "the only heroes are dead ones". But although his rejection of war heroes was understandable, I now believe that he was wrong. I think that being there was enough - and all the more so for never claiming to be heroic. But why is it only now when most of the men have gone and the remainder are fading fast that we choose to acknowledge their courage. Perhaps it is because we miss them or because our generation has never had to pick up arms in the same way and we are not sure if we would be equal to the task. My dad would say it is because "everyone loves you when yer dead", but I believe it is because we have finally woken up to the realisation that we were proud of them all along... but our silence was simply complicit with theirs. Now that he has has gone I sometimes think to myself, "Was my Dad really there?". Even I'm beginning to forget! But he was there and although he wanted to forget I still need to remember.

INSURRECTION
Recounted to his youngest son by Private Sydney Arthur Hewer, born 16/09/1920: Driver in the Royal Artillery.

The order to retreat had been given and it was 'every man for himself'. On this occasion, a large party of men were making their way in the direction of Dunkirk when an officer from the Grenadier Guards drove up and stopped in front of them. The officer alighted and shouted angrily at the men, "Where do you think you are going? I order you to go back and fight". The men explained that they had been told to retreat but the officer just responded furiously, "I am an officer and I am giving you an order to go back and fight". The men continued to stand their ground and told him in no uncertain terms "where to get off". The officer then took out his pistol and threatened to shoot. The response was immediate. My father said that "you had never seen so many rifles and machine guns trained on one individual in all your life". The officer was outgunned. He relented, placed his pistol back into his pouch and drove off. The men marched on to determine their own fate.

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