Another, a Russian, was some kind of electronics genius. He was also an
accomplished musician who spent his off-duty hours playing classical music on the family piano, to the delight of my parents and his army colleagues alike. Until, that is, he made a dramatic exit.
One hot summer’s afternoon, two military policemen hammered on the front door, looking for the Russian. Seconds later, he leapt out of the open front-room window and fled down the street, the
Redcaps in pursuit. My parents never saw him again and never learned of his fate, although my mother soon discovered that, as he made his escape, the mysterious Russian had grabbed a row of pearls
given to her by her cousin Fred who, before the war, had been a rubber planter in Malaya. He was now languishing in the notorious Changi prison after being captured by the Japanese while serving in
the territorial Johore Volunteer Engineers.
‘Oh well,’ she said later, ‘I suppose the poor man was desperate.’ She hadn’t a clue as to what the Russian had done to attract the attention of the authorities,
and she didn’t really care. She always had a soft spot for a rebel and the Russian’s role in bringing a little colour into an otherwise drab and difficult world was more than sufficient
compensation. For years after the war we had his business card, printed in the Cyrillic alphabet. Sadly, through several house moves, I lost it long before becoming interested enough in his story
to research it further. I still do have, however, a pre-war Russian banknote that he left behind. Perhaps it was some kind of payment for the pearls after all.
From all accounts, the soldiers were welcome guests but, a few weeks after I was born, Nelson and his fellow signallers took leave of our house. Nelson kept in touch, returning to visit a few
times after the war. I have the faintest recollection of this giant in khaki, so I assume he must have remained in the services. Before he left us, however, Nelson had one more duty to perform. A
couple of weeks into January 1945, I was baptized at St Werburgh’s Church in Derby, a few yards from where the German POWs had been recaptured three weeks earlier. Nelson was there, acting as
a proxy godfather for Uncle Jack, my father’s brother and a Desert Rat who had fought in the Royal Artillery with the Eighth Army at El Alamein. Uncle Jack was by now serving in Palestine;
for some reason, the army wouldn’t let him come back just to be my godfather. The best he managed was a Christmas card from Bethlehem, which was nice.
Even animals served, and in 1943, the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals created the Allied Forces Mascot Club in order to recognize animals and birds that were serving the Allies during
the war. A cat called Andrew became the club’s mascot. Andrew did not himself go to war, but as he was stationed in London he had to endure air raids on the capital, although it was reported
that he kept calm and carried on sleeping through most of them. But he also seemed to know when a V1 rocket attack was due and when Andrew took cover, everyone else knew that it was time to do so.
Weighing more than six kilos, he was a fawn-and-brown tabby with a spotless white front, tummy and ‘socks’. But, best of all, he boasted an inverted ‘V for victory’ on his
nose. Winston Churchill no doubt approved.
I was a photographer in the forces and my assistant and I had been working in an army vehicle depot. The officer in charge was telling us how a vehicle that would not start had
them all baffled until somebody noticed that a small bit of dried mud had sealed the reserve fuel tank, covering the small hole in the fuel cap, thereby stopping the air from entering and allowing
the fuel to be drawn through to the engine. Well, the following day we were assigned to an army scheme that was in progress on Bodmin Moor and, making our way across the moor in a very remote area,
we came across an American army ambulance that was
accomplished musician who spent his off-duty hours playing classical music on the family piano, to the delight of my parents and his army colleagues alike. Until, that is, he made a dramatic exit.
One hot summer’s afternoon, two military policemen hammered on the front door, looking for the Russian. Seconds later, he leapt out of the open front-room window and fled down the street, the
Redcaps in pursuit. My parents never saw him again and never learned of his fate, although my mother soon discovered that, as he made his escape, the mysterious Russian had grabbed a row of pearls
given to her by her cousin Fred who, before the war, had been a rubber planter in Malaya. He was now languishing in the notorious Changi prison after being captured by the Japanese while serving in
the territorial Johore Volunteer Engineers.
‘Oh well,’ she said later, ‘I suppose the poor man was desperate.’ She hadn’t a clue as to what the Russian had done to attract the attention of the authorities,
and she didn’t really care. She always had a soft spot for a rebel and the Russian’s role in bringing a little colour into an otherwise drab and difficult world was more than sufficient
compensation. For years after the war we had his business card, printed in the Cyrillic alphabet. Sadly, through several house moves, I lost it long before becoming interested enough in his story
to research it further. I still do have, however, a pre-war Russian banknote that he left behind. Perhaps it was some kind of payment for the pearls after all.
From all accounts, the soldiers were welcome guests but, a few weeks after I was born, Nelson and his fellow signallers took leave of our house. Nelson kept in touch, returning to visit a few
times after the war. I have the faintest recollection of this giant in khaki, so I assume he must have remained in the services. Before he left us, however, Nelson had one more duty to perform. A
couple of weeks into January 1945, I was baptized at St Werburgh’s Church in Derby, a few yards from where the German POWs had been recaptured three weeks earlier. Nelson was there, acting as
a proxy godfather for Uncle Jack, my father’s brother and a Desert Rat who had fought in the Royal Artillery with the Eighth Army at El Alamein. Uncle Jack was by now serving in Palestine;
for some reason, the army wouldn’t let him come back just to be my godfather. The best he managed was a Christmas card from Bethlehem, which was nice.
Even animals served, and in 1943, the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals created the Allied Forces Mascot Club in order to recognize animals and birds that were serving the Allies during
the war. A cat called Andrew became the club’s mascot. Andrew did not himself go to war, but as he was stationed in London he had to endure air raids on the capital, although it was reported
that he kept calm and carried on sleeping through most of them. But he also seemed to know when a V1 rocket attack was due and when Andrew took cover, everyone else knew that it was time to do so.
Weighing more than six kilos, he was a fawn-and-brown tabby with a spotless white front, tummy and ‘socks’. But, best of all, he boasted an inverted ‘V for victory’ on his
nose. Winston Churchill no doubt approved.
I was a photographer in the forces and my assistant and I had been working in an army vehicle depot. The officer in charge was telling us how a vehicle that would not start had
them all baffled until somebody noticed that a small bit of dried mud had sealed the reserve fuel tank, covering the small hole in the fuel cap, thereby stopping the air from entering and allowing
the fuel to be drawn through to the engine. Well, the following day we were assigned to an army scheme that was in progress on Bodmin Moor and, making our way across the moor in a very remote area,
we came across an American army ambulance that was
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