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Peter Richards on the right of this picture with army pals |
Camden features |Peter Richardson | St Pancras Crypt
The Normandy invasion of June 1944 marked the end of Peter Richards’ war but a recent reunion with old comrades caused him to reflect on army days
When this lousy war is over, oh how happy I shall be,
When I get my civvy clothes on, no more soldiering for me.
THESE are the opening lines of a song widely sung by service men during the First and Second World Wars.
But peace time has made it clear that changing a uniform for civilian attire does not always break a mental attachment to army life; memories continue to exert an influence.
This became obvious when I recently attended a lunchtime reunion organised by the association of my old unit, the Middlesex Regiment.
During the Second World War the regiment was heavily involved on numerous fronts, and guns were going off all over the place. My marginal contribution to these activities was to serve as a private soldier from November 1942 until May 1945.
When my battalion landed in Normandy in June 1944, I cannot claim that Field Marshall Rommel was unduly worried. But he did seem to give me a lot of unwelcome attention, especially when one of his mortar crews targeted my right leg and ended my military career.
It was with this background that I limped along once more to meet comrades of yesteryear, catch up with their progress, and relive the bitter war years which we shared. I was aware that during the occasion I would hear some xenophobic sentiments that would run counter to my beliefs. However, was I to deny my links with the past because of some gung-ho views? I thought not.
When I arrived at the venue, the patriotic Union Jack Club, the differences in the attire of members were striking. Some wore regimental ties and blazers festooned with medals that indicated a strong attachment to the past, whereas others gave no indication of their service achievements.
Not all were war veterans. Some had served post-1945, so there were variations in age. Among the more mature members, aids and walking sticks supported many, bald heads and grey hair were much in evidence, and bulging tummies were not uncommon. Others had lean and hungry looks.
But, collectively, had the order been given to fall-in outside for a short route march, the result would have been catastrophic.
This is not to disparage the stamina and determination of members, for among those present were men who some 60-odd years previously had shown remarkable agility and courage as they ducked and dived among the slit trenches as they fought a vicious enemy.
As I listened to conversations, emphasis was on the good times, few dwelt on the bad. Indeed, I concluded that when the war ended and heralded the end of military service, it was a sad day for many.
It’s part of human nature to put on the back burner such matters as the boredom of guard duty, the misery of mid-winter manoeuvres, and the gut-wrenching fear that came with active service. But looking at the past through glasses with a tint of rose colouring can easily lead to false assessments of an epoch that changed so many lives.
At one stage during the reunion, honours were paid to members who had devoted a great deal of their time and energy to the affairs of the association, such as organising visits to battlefields, running local memorial services, and doing sterling welfare work. It occurred to me that if these selfless members had put on their civvy clothes after the conflict, their army uniforms remained well brushed and safe in their wardrobes.
A highlight for me at the gathering was to meet up again with my old comrade Bob Simpson with whom I had joined the army way back in 1942. On the July 10 1944, the day before I got knocked about, Bob sustained a wound to one of his arms. Seated on the back of my motorbike we weaved our way to the nearest of field-aid post where I wished him good luck. When we said our farewells neither of us had the slightest idea that it would be 64 years before we were to see each other again.
Our reunion was quite an emotional experience. We realised that so much had happened since those grim days in Normandy, and how we had a lot of catching up to do, but had time to discuss only a limited amount of our news. Obviously we had to plan to meet again long before another 64 years should elapse.
As I made my way home to Parliament Hill Fields I mused on the day’s deliberations. There was no gainsaying the fact that I had never liked the army – my military talents were never appreciated (perhaps understandably), and I could not abide the bullshitting elements of army life. Military service had taken a chunk out of my right leg as well as my life, and the need to use a walking stick prevented me from reviewing my war years in the cloud cuckoo land of the “good old days”.
But on one thing I was, and remain, clear: I am both proud and glad that my unit played its part in the costly and bloody international effort to defeat the tyranny of Nazi Germany.
n Peter Richards is the author of Bombs, Bullshit, and Bullets... in roughly that order. Athena Press £6.99.
Order online at www.thecnj.co.uk
n The work of 16 artists is on display at St Pancras Crypt, Dukes Road, Euston, until Saturday in the Responses to Conflict and Loss exhibition. Sculptor Snoo Wilson’s Soil Archive is an on-going project in which soil samples are taken from places where human atrocities have been committed. The earth is put into individual containers with some grass seed. Locations for the gathering of soil for the exhibition were chosen to coincide with the D-Day landings of June 1944. |
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