Share your parents' story

I take my inspiration from another thread, where a TZUK stalwart shared his father's most interesting WWII and subsequent story.

I bet some on here have tales to tell, as related by their parents. Here is mine.

My father entered WWII with the Royal Engineers. As a stonemason his talents were recognised and deployed in making cemetery gates, though he did have spells of "real" action, mainly in the Sicily landings.
Postwar, he was employed on the maintenance staff (or so he claimed) of Netherne hospital, a huge mental health establishment in Surrey. He also had a second career as a music hall act, a Harry Lauder tribute act in fact (the family is of Aberdonian stock, Huntly to be precise). He ended his life as a self-employed builder in Liskeard, Cornwall, at the age of 52. Smoking was his downfall; he should have been buried in Old Holborn.

My mother was barking mad; she had a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia. It made her life interesting to say the least.
In WWII she was a WRNS naval nurse at Devonport. The nurses' hostel at Stonehouse Barracks had a direct hit and all nurses were killed save those on duty at the hospital. How anyone remained sane after such experiences I will never know.
Postwar she worked as an immigration nurse at Croydon Airport when it was the main airport for London; just pre-Heathrow.
Then, being medically-trained and a gifted artist, she was employed as an anatomical artist, painting muscles and ligaments onto polymer resin skeletons cast for the medical education sector. The Art Dept. consisted of my mother and Dr. Tauber, brother of the tenor Richard Tauber; the siblings had fled Austria to avoid the Jewish persecution.
One side effect of this was me being supplied with a reject child's skeleton saved from the skip; the purpose was to avoid having to buy me a teddy bear or similar; I sometimes wonder how I managed to remain so normal.
We lived in a grace-and-favour flat above the skeleton factory in Brighton Road, Hooley, Surrey. When trade demanded an expansion, the company (ESP - Educational and Scientific Plastics) built a new factory in Reigate (or was it Redhill?), but they selfishly omitted to design a flat above the factory so my parents decided to make the Big Move to Cornwall. Skeletons were delivered via British Railways to Liskeard station for my mother to outwork, a fact that caused much gossip in the local community given that the contents of the crate had to be displayed on a label.
She died in 2000 following a stroke caused initially by a fall from the window of her 1st floor sheltered flat; she told me before she died that she had to jump out of the window because the complex manager was cutting the faces off the occupants and storing them on a shelf in her office. She had seen them.

Anyone else care to share?

My dad was born in Singapore to a German father and Malaysian mother as the Japanese invaded Singapore his father and brothers were taken as prisoners of war, dad managed to evacuate to India where he joined the RAF, at the end of the war he was de-mobbed in Liverpool, with his suit and cash in his pocket he got a train to London were he got his first job serving ice cream at London zoo. He later met my mum at a joint friends house party, they bought a home in Essex and after the death of two children at very young ages along came my two older sisters and eventually me.

Dad passed 6 years ago and the one regret I have is I didn’t take better notes when ever he talked in detail about his life.

My father joined the TA (Royal Gloucestershire Hussars) before the war and after also being attached to several regiments (3rd County of London Yeomanry and Derbyshire Yeomanry) he joined the 5th Royal Tank Regiment (the Filthy Fifth) in North Africa in 1941. 5RTR were part of the Eighth Army and the 7th armoured brigade - the Desert Rats - and he was a tank commander and fought almost continuously throughout the war (Churchill favoured using his battle-hardened troops, so 5RTR had precious little respite). From North Africa he fought in Italy and then crossed to France on D-Day+1. Although he had been hospitalised several times in Africa, his luck ran out not long afterwards when he was hit by shrapnel during a battle on the outskirts of Caen and was repatriated 'dangerously ill' in July 1944.

In the meantime, my mother, who grew up in a tiny village in Natal and had left South Africa to train as a nurse in London, was working as a theatre sister in Shrewsbury, my father's home town. My father was operated on in my mother's hospital and that is how they met. They were married by the end of the war.

My father hated the war but remained in the TA for several years afterwards because he missed the camaraderie of his fellow soldiers. Like so many of that generation, he never spoke of what he went through and despite being involved in so much fighting, he was a mild-mannered man who never raised his voice or showed any aggression in civilian life. He died in 1966, when I was 10. My mother had to step in and take over the running of the family business - a sports and toy shop. Although she had responsibility for all aspects of the firm, one of her favourite activities was carefully dusting and arranging the rows and rows of Britains military figures and farm animals that we had on display. She too was a quiet, calm and selfless person, who put everyone else before herself. She did not remarry and died in 2002.

I'm very proud of my parents - ordinary people who led kind and dignified lives.

As a footnote, finding details of my father's wartime service has not been easy - I have had to piece it together by searching through the various war diaries of the regiments I know that he was attached to. I am currently awaiting his official service record, at which point I may be able to add further information.

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Originally Posted by JonRA

Although she had responsibility for all aspects of the firm, one of her favourite activities was carefully dusting and arranging the rows and rows of Britains military figures and farm animals that we had on display.

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That's a coincidence; when we were living above the skeleton factory, my mother sought extra income by painting the Britain's soldiers, farm animals et al. We travelled northwards by bus to Thornton Heath where, in premises above some shops on the Brighton Road, she collected the bare lead castings and took them home to paint. Maybe your mother arranged figures painted by my mother!

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Originally Posted by unclealec

That's a coincidence; when we were living above the skeleton factory, my mother sought extra income by painting the Britain's soldiers, farm animals et al. We travelled northwards by bus to Thornton Heath where, in premises above some shops on the Brighton Road, she collected the bare lead castings and took them home to paint. Maybe your mother arranged figures painted by my mother!

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Well that's a distinct possibility :) The more recent figures were plastic but I do remember the metal ones in the shop - mainly military figures IIRC. A small world!

What a fascinating thread. Thank you all for sharing, I really enjoyed reading it.

As a somewhat different angle on it here is my story. It's fairly grim overall, but I am at peace with it. It's as abbreviated as I could make it and the details are as I saw and understood them in my youth.

My paternal grandfather was a war hero in the Yugoslav army. He was wounded in battle and highly decorated, and became a prison warden after the war, in Sarajevo. He was a Stalinist, so when Tito had the famous falling out with Stalin, my grandfather was sent to a Yugoslav version of a gulag on a remote island in the Adriatic. My father (who would have been about 8 or 9 at this time) and his two siblings must have had a very difficult time during those years as children of an enemy of the state. The two brothers became petty criminals. My grandfather contracted TB on the island and was released to die at home. He wasn't allowed proper medical care, but found a surgeon willing to remove one of his lungs with local anaesthetic and lots of alcohol. He lived for another 40 years. He was a hard and proud man, later on reinstated and given a pension and an apartment. However, this all happened during my father's formative years and he and his older brother got more and more involved with crime, eventually leading to an armed robbery of a jewellers in which my father was a getaway driver. Everyone else ran off on foot, so he was the only one caught and arrested. His brother fled to Germany, while he went to prison. He was there for 3 years, and the story gets murky, but he attempted suicide and was released sometime around the mid 70's. He moved back in with his parents and sister. He was a huge disappointment to my grandfather, who was a war hero, a chess champion, and saw himself as a philosopher, all the things my father wasn't. My father got certified as a welder, but to my knowledge never practiced it. Instead he turned to alcohol.

My mom didn't have a remarkable early life. Also born in Sarajevo. Her father left before she was born, so she was raised by a strict mother and at 18 took the first opportunity to escape. She was academically gifted, but she met my father and made the worst mistake of her life: got married and moved in with him and his family, and had me at 19.

Sometime in the late 80's my grandparents moved full time to their holiday property in the countryside, leaving us the apartment. Most of my memories of my father are of him drunk making a spectacle. He was the neighbourhood drunk and a joke to most people who knew him. We were always poor because he drunk and gambled away any money we had.

The Bosnian war started in 1992. Sarajevo was under siege, so alcohol ran out. He went completely insane, while my mother was collecting grass from the side of the road to cook for us. We burned the wooden floors from the apartment, and anything else that would burn, to keep warm, etc. while he acted like a complete lunatic from alcohol withdrawals. It's a long story of madness, but involves him being responsible for a drinking buddy getting killed, attacking my mother, and eventually a physical fight between me and him, with him ending up with a concussion.

Sometime after all that he was drafted into the Bosnian army in order to defend the city. That seemed to really snap him out of the madness, but sometime later on, while he was out of uniform carrying water canisters, he was shot by an anti-aircraft gun three times. The injuries weren't life threatening, but put an end to his military career. He went back to his old ways.

My mother, sister and I, joined a UN convoy for refugees to take us out of the besieged city as my father's brother promised us shelter in Germany. We arrived in Croatia and he abandoned us there. Sometime later, my father used the smuggler's tunnel to get out of the city himself and also came to Croatia, then would illegally go to Germany, back and forth doing who knows what. At this point I had refused to speak to him for years, so the details aren't very clear to me. Eventually we applied to the refugee programme to the US and went through a lengthy process. My mother decided to include my father in it, but during the interview with the US officials he sabotaged our efforts and we were rejected. Through some murky means we were allowed to apply again but were explicitly told if my father was involved we would never be accepted. I was instrumental in leaving him behind and I have no regrets whatsoever over it, but the rest of my family are less clear and it's something which they've had a harder time than me to come to terms with.

After we arrived to the US I heard that he had gone back to Sarajevo. He was found hung in our old apartment, with his war bonds and money missing. There are multiple weird stories regarding it, but no one was willing to investigate, and I don't blame them.

My mother and sister eventually moved to Chicago where they made a life, and my mom is now retired in Florida with her husband. We haven't spoken in a while, generally due to disagreements about how we view the family responsibilities, but realistically more due to PTSD we all have.

Wow adigra, that is some story!

Thank you for sharing it, a dark but fascinating read, what a life you’ve suffered, only really less grim for me knowing where you are and what you do now.

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Originally Posted by Tooks

Wow adigra, that is some story!

Thank you for sharing it, a dark but fascinating read, what a life you’ve suffered, only really less grim for me knowing where you are and what you do now.

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Thank you so much. I fear I have kind of killed the thread, but I really hope it isn't so. It wasn't meant to be a depressing tale, it's just more recent I suppose, and I am very objective about it. Balkans have always been turbulent, so most people from there will have a turbulent history.

They are not my stories to tell, but my British wife's grandfather was a major general and her father was an officer himself and later on a diplomat in charge of peace keeping operations in the Balkans, including Bosnia. It's not even remotely why she and I met, but it's quite a coincidence.

some remarkable stories here, thanks for taking the time

My father joined the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers in the late 1960's and served in the UK ( Kirton - in - Lindsay ) from where he was posted to Hong Kong and ump teen tours of duties in Northern Ireland. Later in his career and whilst serving in NI he saw an advert asking for members of the British Army to join the newly forming Ulster Defence Regiment to which he was successful in doing and was qiuckly promoted to Ssgt and given the appointment of the Assistant OP's Officer with the 10th ( City of Belfast ) UDR.

After numerous attempts on his life by the IRA, dad decided enough was enough and then joined the RUC and saw service in Co. Antrim but due to the length of time that he served across the water, over the years he resigned from the force, for reason's that I would rather not go into.

With his military and security background he then became the personal protection officer/ driver for Estee Launder and other UHNW individuals . He eventually became a US Citizen

On his retirement dad eventually settled down in Tucson, Arizona but died by himself in 2015.

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Originally Posted by adigra

Thank you so much. I fear I have kind of killed the thread, but I really hope it isn't so.

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Hold my beer!!

Ok, so not quite as bad, but my “Dad” passed away 3 weeks ago. I’m 45 he was 81. We never had any sort of relationship despite never falling out and despite living together until I was 30 and moved out. He just never bothered about me or my brother from the moment we were born.

I never actually had a conversation with him, as crazy as that sounds. Not once. Ever.

Mum wasn’t much better.

I have no happy memories of either of them. Glad to see the back of him to be honest, in his latter years he expected way more attention than he deserved. He got the bare minimum.

Anyone who has a good relationship with their parents, I envy you so much. I just never had it. The upside is, they were the perfect role models as to what not to do. My kids are 5 & 6 and we have a great bond already.

Mum and dad were married at 16, my sister was born 6 months later, both disowned by families and lived in a converted garage

He bounced about Belfast until he joined the prison service at the height of the troubles.

My dad was a prop forward and particularly good at violence, being a bouncer in Belfast in the 70s helped but the prison service certainly honed his skills to it's advantage.either leading the riot squad, or being the officer to enter the cells and lock the door behind him when prisoners mentioned what they were going to do to my sister when released.

This led to us moving into safe houses in the 80s, moving I think 4 times in 18 months.

We eventually ended up in Newtownards and things where quiet for a while.

Then one day, my dad was picking up my sister from school he noticed they were being followed by an ex-prisioner, thinking that his time had come, he dropped my sister at a flower shop and led his follower away, got to a police station, his follower had disappeared. But later as he arrived home he spotted the same individual watching which house he entered. We were moved to england 12 hours later

He left the service then and bounced about jobs, he was never truly happy but had given up his career for his family.

When I started playing rugby at 18 he played alongside me despite being much better than anyone else in our 3rd team.

Everything I am, I owe to him, from my work ethic, to my refusal to ever give up, you have to keep fighting, first to go to uni etc

Following the good Friday agreement they offered him a medal, he refused, just doing his job

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My Dad was born in Merthyr Tydfil in 1925. Family moved to Birmingham in 1935 for I guess economic reasons and he did well at school. Volunteered for the RAF at 17 in 1943 but was rumbled and sent to Edinburgh for more training until he turned 18. Assigned to Coastal Command in Koggala Lake - Ceylon in 43/44 and seems to have served the war out there as a tail gunner in Sunderland flying boats. Much better theater of war to be in those aircraft as the Atlantic theater was a lot grimmer weather and survival stats. Boxed and played rugby and football by all accounts. Returned from the war and demobbed then got a job at Land Rover in Solihull in 1948 (whilst living in Nuneaton where I was born) when it opened, along with seemingly most of my family. Met my mum who was 9 years his junior (from Darwen Lancashire migrating south after cotton mill work affected her health) on the Land Rover works bus and all was good. Became the chairman of the Land Rover social club in the early 70’s and loved the sports, people, and a beer however in 1975 he passed away aged 49 from stomach ulcers. They had three kids and all went to Uni first generation, my brother became a university Professor, sister a master degree then country park ranger and I worked my way up in the Oilfield. Happy, loving, (albeit Land Rover centric) but not wealthy childhood so we made the most of the opportunities that came our way.

I don’t have a lot of his war records bar a few letters and photos of the squadron under the wings of the Sunderland, and of his flight crew. I didn’t ask enough about before he passed however he seemed to have left the experience with a broader world view - not to mention a love for Asian food and the Sri Lankan people. I have been to Koggala lake several times for half term vacations with the kids, but also a bit of a pilgrimage, to see where he served. The RAF base was hastily carved out the jungle but is still there, now run by the Sri Lankan Air Force but pretty much looks like a WW2 airbase .


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