Dad's birthday

 

It would be my dad's 97th birthday today

Here he is, the young man in glasses centre right. This was probably taken when he was around 20 years old. He was one of the first to be called up in 1939. After basic training, he was shipped off to France with the British Expeditionary Force, and spent his 21st birthday spewing his guts out inside a landing-craft waiting to go ashore. This first British invasion of France ended disastrously in the retreat to the French coast and the horrors of Dunkirk. Dad and his company were  part of this retreat, but at Dieppe, another town on the coast. Here is his account of the bombing of two British hospital ships, "Maid of Kent" and "Isle of Thanet" by German bombers at Dieppe.

It was another bright morning when we emerged from the school where we had spent the night. Stiff and aching, aware of great blisters on our heels but afraid of removing boots that might not be persuaded to go back on. A drink of water and a mouthful of chocolate comprised breakfast. The swing bridge still barred our way into the town, so we straggled round the inner harbour stumbling over debris and bomb craters as we went, careful to stay in single file to the edge of the road. We were all learning, painfully. Past a small coaster lying gutted against the quay, to the station at the end of the harbour, looking at the two hospital ships opposite. As we rounded the end of the quay we struck out across an open space taking us diagonally away from the harbour. A woman overtook us,
shouting cheerfully "We're not downhearted, are we boys?" and we acknowledged cheerfully that we were'nt, which I thought a damned lie.
     A distant drone swelled into a roar, into a scream, and there I was, impelled again by that wonderful reflex, hugging the ground. My world now consisted of a narrow strip seen under the rim of my tin hat, including a small puddle left by last night's rain. The explosion of the first bombs dulled my hearing, and the consequent action was a confusing mixture of "noises off". Small pieces of debris pattered into my little puddle and pinged off my hat. Machinegun fire crackled and I distinguished one different from the majority. Someone was using a Bren. I raised my head as the Stuka's roar diminished. They were lining up for another go. A pall of smoke hung over the ships, with a great column climbing into the still blue. On the roof of the hospital tram alongside the ships the Bren gunner fitted a fresh magazine and waited for the next round. A screaming dive and the Stukas were on us again. When they roared off finally, seawards, they took with them any starry-eyed ideas we may have had on the lines of Geneva conventions.
     Both hospital ships were utterly wrecked; one was a mass of flames. The tram was burning fiercely and the gallant Bren gunner had gone. A small coaster on the berth ahead had been blown to pieces and the pieces spread over the town. Shocked and dazed we took stock of our little band.
     We were three short. One bomb, well short of its target, had landed against a heap of timber about twenty feet away. The unlucky three were on the other side of the stack from me. So was the bomb. The Bank on the opposite corner was minus its front and on fire, as were two cars outside. We could do little to assist, no fire-fighters were forthcoming and the fires were left to burn out. Later I was to learn that many lives were lost, nursing sisters among them, but one thing saved many lives. It appeared that the train driver had some premonition and split his train in two only minutes before the raid, pulling well away with the fore end of the train.
     So with the two ships, "Isle of Thanet" and "Maid of Kent" in their death throes behind us we resumed our search for some unit that would take us under its wing. We needed now that authority that we had despised, someone to be responsible for us. Since we had been in possession of the Grand Hotel when we came to Dieppe we made our way there, only to find it firmly closed. However, as we left it we were hailed by a sergeant who we recognised from No. 5 General Hospital at Treport. He and several others were living it up in style at an hotel near the Casino at the other end of the Esplanade.

Dad wrote this account as practice for his right hand when he had his first stroke which paralysed his left hand side (he was left-handed). He died when I was fourteen, so I was denied the privilege of knowing him as an adult, and was not able to ask him questions about his war experiences, adult to adult. I just have some pictures and some writing.

Later in the war, he was stationed in India, defending the Jewel in the Crown from the Japanese. This was  much more cheerful posting, and I'll share some more photos another day.