And a voice from the back said...
Discussion
One of the few stories my grandfather told about the First War was when his platoon was marching to Albert in Northern France. As they approached the town, they stopped and the Lieutenant asked a local how far it was.
"Excusez-moi, quelle est la distance jusqu'à Albert?"
"Vingt kilometres."
"Merci."
And they marched on. After a while they stopped again to ask.
Excusez-moi, quelle est la distance jusqu'à Albert?"
"Vingt kilometres."
"Merci."
And they marched on. After a while they stopped again to ask.
Excusez-moi, quelle est la distance jusqu'à Albert?"
"Vingt kilometres."
"Merci."
And a voice from the back said, "Well, at least it's not getting further away."
"Excusez-moi, quelle est la distance jusqu'à Albert?"
"Vingt kilometres."
"Merci."
And they marched on. After a while they stopped again to ask.
Excusez-moi, quelle est la distance jusqu'à Albert?"
"Vingt kilometres."
"Merci."
And they marched on. After a while they stopped again to ask.
Excusez-moi, quelle est la distance jusqu'à Albert?"
"Vingt kilometres."
"Merci."
And a voice from the back said, "Well, at least it's not getting further away."
DickyC said:
One of the few stories my grandfather told about the First War .....
It's one of life's sadnesses that the stories from our elderly relatives are of little interest when we're young and then when we are interested, they're no longer around.It's also the case that many of the old soldiers don't talk about it either.
My elderly cousin (now gone) was a pathfinder in Bomber Command - a risky job, to say the least. He never spoke about it.
NDA said:
It's one of life's sadnesses that the stories from our elderly relatives are of little interest when we're young and then when we are interested, they're no longer around.
My Grandad fought at Monte Cassino, and never said much about it at all. The only advice he gave me when I joined the military was 'don't volunteer for anything'. He passed away before I was able to share my experiences with him and before he opened up about it, to me.
My great uncle fought in the Wermacht on the Eastern Front.
He was caught by the Russians in 1945, and not released until 1947.
The only thing he ever said about capture was that it was painful shaving off his beard with a knife.
He lived until his 90s.
Meanwhile my Irish grandfather was in the British Army but whenever he got leave he'd make his way back home to Cork and due to there not being Ryanair back then, was always late back.
So he spent most of the war in the glasshouse
I would love to talk to them both but sadly no longer around.
My old mum was a youngster in Java, born there (Dutch East Indies) when the Japanese came.
Friends and family were all thrown into concentration camps apart from my mum and her Dutch mother, because her dad was Hungarian.
Hungary being an ally of Germany back then.
She talks of sitting on the back of my grandmother's bicycle when they would cycle to the camp to throw food over the fence to relatives.
One time a local Indonesian guy grabbed my grandmother's arm to chop it off with a machete to steal her watch.
He was shot dead in the act by a Japanese soldier.
My mum is still around to tell my grown up kids stories from the war and her long trip back to Holland after her family had lost everything in Java, and starting all over again in a cold Northern European country.
He was caught by the Russians in 1945, and not released until 1947.
The only thing he ever said about capture was that it was painful shaving off his beard with a knife.
He lived until his 90s.
Meanwhile my Irish grandfather was in the British Army but whenever he got leave he'd make his way back home to Cork and due to there not being Ryanair back then, was always late back.
So he spent most of the war in the glasshouse
I would love to talk to them both but sadly no longer around.
My old mum was a youngster in Java, born there (Dutch East Indies) when the Japanese came.
Friends and family were all thrown into concentration camps apart from my mum and her Dutch mother, because her dad was Hungarian.
Hungary being an ally of Germany back then.
She talks of sitting on the back of my grandmother's bicycle when they would cycle to the camp to throw food over the fence to relatives.
One time a local Indonesian guy grabbed my grandmother's arm to chop it off with a machete to steal her watch.
He was shot dead in the act by a Japanese soldier.
My mum is still around to tell my grown up kids stories from the war and her long trip back to Holland after her family had lost everything in Java, and starting all over again in a cold Northern European country.
NDA said:
DickyC said:
One of the few stories my grandfather told about the First War .....
It's one of life's sadnesses that the stories from our elderly relatives are of little interest when we're young and then when we are interested, they're no longer around.It's also the case that many of the old soldiers don't talk about it either.
My elderly cousin (now gone) was a pathfinder in Bomber Command - a risky job, to say the least. He never spoke about it.
Grandad was at Ypres and other fronts - as one of very few who could drive at that time (having been a chauffer for a local estate) he was tasked with driving the ammunition truck back and forth to the front. It always sends a shiver that were it not for that quirk of fate I would probably not be here to write this. I still have his medals and dog tag in their original boxes - medals never worn, strips of ribbon never threaded onto them.
....he disliked the French and maintained that he had had witnessed them removing water pump handles from the village pumps when the British troops were approaching.
....he disliked the French and maintained that he had had witnessed them removing water pump handles from the village pumps when the British troops were approaching.
Years ago my wife and I went to see Tony Bennett at the Festival Hall in London. It was a lovely evening marred by one thing. Part way through, Tony Bennett spoke warmly about the Festival Hall where he had sung before and told us of the hall's near perfect acoustics. He said he would ask the sound man to turn off the power to the stage and he and the band would perform a song with no amplification. The audience was spellbound, and then a voice from the back called out, "Turn the mic on, we can't hear you."
When I was young everyone middle aged had been in 'the' war and everyone really old had been in WW1, so it didn't really occur to us to think 'this is a war veteran, that's quite something, I must take the opportunity to find out more'. Any more than we would ask people in their 30s what it had been like to do national service.
Landlubber said:
Same here, Dad was in Lancasters, very rarely spoke about it, no great wartime stories and I just wish I'd been just a bit less callow and self centred and actually taken the time to talk about it. Too late now of course.
James Holland's book Dambusters gives you an idea of what flying bombers was like. Grim statistcs.Austin Prefect said:
When I was young everyone middle aged had been in 'the' war and everyone really old had been in WW1, so it didn't really occur to us to think 'this is a war veteran, that's quite something, I must take the opportunity to find out more'. Any more than we would ask people in their 30s what it had been like to do national service.
Yes, I've often thought about this in later life as so many of my teachers were 'major' or other military titles - it never occurred to us that all of them had served in the war. my late mother made some notes about her memories growing up. she was born in 1932 so was a kid during the war along with her two brothers.
I remember years ago telling me about the "doodlebugs" as she grew up in south London and that you could hear the pulse of the engine and that the time to really be worried was when it stopped. of course you might be in your garden Morrison shelter by then because of the air raid sirens. however, one day, for whatever reason her mother instructed them to get in the cupboard under the stairs immediately, which all four of them crammed into.
what followed was an almighty explosion and shaking after a doodlebug hit the next street.
when my mother and family emerged, all their front windows were shattered and the front door was on the floor.
close..
I remember years ago telling me about the "doodlebugs" as she grew up in south London and that you could hear the pulse of the engine and that the time to really be worried was when it stopped. of course you might be in your garden Morrison shelter by then because of the air raid sirens. however, one day, for whatever reason her mother instructed them to get in the cupboard under the stairs immediately, which all four of them crammed into.
what followed was an almighty explosion and shaking after a doodlebug hit the next street.
when my mother and family emerged, all their front windows were shattered and the front door was on the floor.
close..
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