Two heroes

The tale that follows is neither surprising nor exceptional, but it is awful.

In August 1914, at a time of national emergency my paternal Great Uncle John joined the British Army – the First Battalion of the Bedfordshire Regiment. He didn’t need to – there was no conscription at the time, and, in any event, he was too young when he enlisted - he was just 17 years old. On 21^st April 1915 he was killed at Hill 60. He was still a few weeks short of his 18^th birthday.

Two years later his younger brother – my Grandfather – was also in the British Army. Despite being wounded twice he survived, and lived long enough to meet all his grandchildren, and even a great-grandchild.

I don’t know anything about my Great Uncle, so am left wondering what sort of boy he was, that he risked, and lost, his life for his country aged just 17.

Three decades later my maternal Uncle Freddie, at a time of another national emergency, joined the Royal Air Force. My Aunt told me he was a “silly boy” because his age meant he could have opted to be ground crew. But he became a mid-upper gunner on a Lancaster. On 15^th December 1944, returning from a raid on I.G. Farben, the plane crashed into the ground near Holbeach Drove and exploded on impact. All seven crew lost their lives. Four of them, including my uncle, were aged just 19.

I know a little more about Uncle Freddie – he was a bit of a torment and teased his sisters. They idolised him. His motivation, I was told, was “to give it to them, before they give it to us”.  My mother’s family was destroyed by this commonplace tragedy. Both her parents died within the next three years. My mother and her older sister were haunted by the death of their brother for the rest of their lives. As far as I can tell they never spoke to each other about it

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I’m proud of those two boys. I know that whatever quality it was that they had – courage, or foolhardiness, or patriotism – I have never possessed. I would not have done what they did. But then all I actually have to do, at yet another time of national emergency, is stay at home. That’s inconvenient, and unpleasant – but I can do it. And feel smug about it – because in a tiny way I’m honouring their memory.

I wonder what John and Freddie, and the millions like them, would have made of people who, when asked just to stay at home to save lives, said “Yeah, but…” and looked for ways to circumvent the rules.