My Grandfather had been a POW in the First World War. I had no idea. I knew he’d been in the war, we had a boxing trophy he’d won for coming second in a boxing competition while in service in 1915. There were medals but I had no idea what they were for or whether they were even his. I had no interest!
There was a photograph album with old photos of random people, some obviously from North Africa. It was a thick album with a photo on each side of the page, postcard style, black and white. It is about 3 inches thick, stuffed full of photos.
My dad passed 4 and a half years ago and this album had been left with all the family photos in the attic of the bungalow he and my mother had retired to in Broadstairs, Kent. When the bungalow was sold 18 months after his passing – my mother had moved to a retirement apartment nearby – I had to clear the mountain of ‘junk’ from the attic, garage and shed.
I’d invited my siblings to come help and take anything they wanted as the rest would be left out in the drive for skip hoppers, save them hopping into the skip – although they still did, what I considered junk they obviously considered treasure – and the rest went into the skip. I carefully chose what I would like to preserve but had to keep it to a minimum as I was returning to New Zealand imminently.
They didn’t come, they didn’t want anything. I gave a load of the old photos to my aunt – my dad’s sister. I took what I wanted, retrieved what my mum wanted, and, with a heavy heart, dumped the rest. A lifetime of collecting relegated to the skip! All the memories and stories attached to these items were gone as was the memory that held all the information, that of my dear departed father.
I knew that my Grandad had been a member of the Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment, Welsh Horse and that there was a photo of him on his horse with an arrow pointing him out drawn onto the photograph. It’s not a very clear photo and he is at the far end of the line of soldiers.
I packed the album away into my things to go to New Zealand and thought no more about it. It travelled with me to NZ and back when my dear mother became very sick and asked me to come ’home’.
Unpacking my belongings, a year later, in Somerset, I came across the album. I’d already asked my school friend in America if she could find out some information on a deceased family member for me and she suggested I join Ancestry. I declined. I’d get sucked in and I had no interest in the dead. My mother had passed less than 2 months after I’d returned to the UK and my last link to the past had gone with her.
She set up the page and filled in a lot of detail about my darling maternal Granny’s family and sent me the link. Of course, I was hooked within minutes and found out, amongst many other things, the details of my paternal Grandfather, limited as they were. (It turns out that my Great Grandfather was born less than 20 minutes from where I am now living.) His brother, my Great Uncle, George Seward was killed in action on 9th April 1918 in Flanders.
This then lead me to dig out the old photos I’d kept, regret the ones I’d tossed into the skip and even the opportunity to go through the ones I’d given my aunt. I found a lovely pair of photos one with my Grandmother, Ivy, in and one of my Grandfather – a Cagney style photo – outside the house in Harrow.
I then pulled out the ‘war album’ and took a closer look at that, searching for photos of him. I found a head shot painting of a French woman with a beret on a postcard with the words (Prés de toi par la p
ensée) – ‘Not absent in thought’ he’d sent to my Grandmother, his girlfriend at the time – The card reads: Just a PC, it expresses my thoughts, I will write to-morrow. I am in a hurry for parade. Love From Charlie – dated 18/9/17;
and a short letter from the Camp of Prisoners of War Manheim: I have just had a letter from home, the first since I was taken and it has made me happy, they told me that they had send my letter on to you, but I hope you received my letter first. Well Dear I am keeping fit and well but this is dull life. A letter next time. Remember me to all. Fondest Love, Ever Yours Charlie – dated 8/7/18 – post stamped 13/8/18
I remember my father had told me stories of the Grandfather’s state of mind, it being due to the effects of the war. PTSD? I’m sure it was but it wasn’t recognised in those days. Shell shock I think they called it. He had strange behaviours, somewhat explained by this revelation. When they got their rations, after the war ended, he would store the butter in a box and it would end up rancid – he was storing the food because he’d been starving in the POW camp.
I didn’t know the man, it’s a shame but even if I had met him, he was dead by the time I was 5 years old.
The bigger shame is that I didn’t pay greater attention to my dad with regard to his dad and his own upbringing. I knew he’d lived through the blitz and then been sent to Wales to his paternal grandmother toward the end of the Second World War. That he was one of the cheeky London boys hanging out at the fence surrounding the American base asking the soldiers ‘got any gum chum?’ That he had malnutrition marks on his teeth from going hungry when he lived with his dad – his mum had died when he was only 3 years old, following the birth of his younger sister. How he used to bunk the train to get from ‘up the Valley’ into Cardiff to visit his dad when he was in hospital with no money – only a young boy, possibly even pre-teen. I do know he loved his dad tho.
I can’t really remember so it’s hard to forget what I don’t really know. But what I do know, I will remember. Through this journey, I’ve met the man who was my Grandpa, my father’s father.
I never got to meet my Grandpa Charlie. I don’t know why. I’d assumed he died shortly after my birth, I knew my older brother had met him and my cousin (4 months younger) had. I know very little about him and this makes me sad, now as I attempt to remember.
My uncle on my mother’s side died over 10 years ago and with him went the family history of that side of the family – John was the family oracle.
In order to remember, we first have to know, we have to pay attention, listen and absorb. Then we can remember. Then we can honour the saying ‘Lest we Forget’. It isn’t just to do with my family or your family or random people. It’s the whole event. The misery and futility of war. The Great War that was to end wars. And not just the service people who died, but also those who came back changed, those who had to stay behind and struggle on supporting the war effort. Everyone was affected. Homage is paid to those who made the ultimate sacrifice but there were others, like my grandfather, who continued to pay the price for many years after – until he left this earth.
I don’t agree with war. I am a conscious objector. If war were the answer there would be no war.
We need to remember that War is not the Answer. Remember and offer gratitude to the fallen souls who gave their lives in pursuit of what they perceived to be a noble cause. We need to remember the futility and misery of war. We need to keep it personal or we will be dumbed down and desensitised to the pain and suffering of war – as if it were an online game where you can get up and start again or switch it off!
We need to know, to be able to remember, Lest We Forget!
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them
