D-Day and my Grandpa

Ernest Henry, known to all as Harry, but always Sonny to his mum, my grandpa, was one of the best examples of a man, an alpha male as so many of my writer friends would put it,  that I ever knew.  He was the man who showed me what a proper relationship should be like, what a man should be.  And this time 70 years ago, he was in a tent in a field somewhere in southern England, about to experience his first taste of action in World War 2.

Born in 1924, he was too young to sign up at the start of the war, so instead volunteered as a messenger for the ARP.  In fact he met my grandmother that way.  The tale was always rolled out about how he’d volunteered to walk her home one night, and broke her mother’s best jug on the way.  (Great Gran still liked him though, they had a great relationship and she lived with them for many years). 

He signed up as soon he was old enough and began his service guarding prisoners of war in this country.  We don’t know much about this period of time, but do know that he was mobilised for D-Day.  He once spoke of the sight that met him when he and his unit were taken down to the south coast, of driving past field upon field of assembled men, supplies and equipment.  He wasn’t in those famous first waves, but, being in the Signals, came in as support, landing at the Mulberry harbours on D-Day+3. 

Once in Europe, he was then stationed on, and in advance of, the front lines for much of the war, laying and maintaining communication lines throughout France and Africa (that I know of).  Whilst in France, he was initially billeted with a local family for a while, and he and Grandma maintained contact with them throughout their lives.

Like so many others though, he never spoke of what truly happened during the war, not to Grandma, the rest of his family, or anyone else.  Then a few years before he passed on, he suddenly turned around one day and told some of the stories, of getting shot at by snipers while fixing lines at the top of a telegraph pole, and of watching his friend, who was also up the pole with him, being killed inches from his face.  He said he’d never gone down a pole so fast, and it's almost impossible to imagine the fear and shock that would have been coursing through him at that time.  That was the only time he opened up, he never spoke of it again.

We do know that on one occasion whilst in Egypt, he shared a plane with Monty.  How that came about I don’t know, it must just have been one of those limited transportation things.

He was in Egypt towards the end of the war, and told the tale of how he thought he was just coming home on a short leave.  He had the choice of filling his kitbag with tinned food for his family who were living under rationing, or bringing home clothes and other items that he’d gathered, a lot from the Americans, whose kit was better quality than the Brits.  He chose the food, of course, and buried the rest in a tin chest before leaving.  He never went back though, being demobbed while he was on leave, so unless someone has dug it up since, somewhere in Egypt is a tin chest full of his belongings.

As so ended his war.  At least in the physical sense.  But, as with the majority of our soldiers, sailors and airmen, during that conflict and all others, the memories stayed with him his entire life.  

It’s strange to think that this may be the last of the major anniversaries where survivors of that war are able to attend.  I grew up with these people, I’m among the last generation to have done so fully.  But I’ll do my damndest to make sure I’m not the last generation to know their stories … even the small, seemingly historically unimportant, ones.