A Long Way Down
It’s Father’s Day. Shed loads of Substackers are posting thoughts about their fathers. In a way, I did that back in March (see They Fuck You Up Part Two: Fathers) but…Father’s Day right? Plus, early this week I held in my hand the proof copy of my collection of poems about my father (thank you @janiceannedempsey and @donalldempsey) so it seems appropriate to write something about fathers in general and mine in particular.
The first thing to say is that I have got to know my dad better since he’s been dead. He died aged 64 in 1984, a couple of months after I got married and just three weeks after he had been back to Arnhem in the Netherlands for the 40th anniversary commemorations. He was in the Parachute Regiment by then but didn’t parachute in, he was in a glider with a captain, a lance corporal and a big piece of artillery. The captain was killed even before they managed to set up the gun. He never talked much about his war experiences but I do know that when he and my Mutti were at those Arnhem commemorations an old comrade brought his wife to meet them, telling her to shake Dad’s hand because he was the one who had saved his life on that day of fierce fighting. Forty years it took for that little snippet to emerge.
I have his certificate of army service. It lists all the places in which he served and describes his conduct as exemplary. He is described by his discharging commander as wise, loyal, dependable and competent. The army was his life. His parenting was learned in the army. His own father, born in 1901 (!) was definitely not a role model and turned out to have another family only discovered after my grandmother died. Dad cut him out of his life and the army became his father - tough love. That’s how we were raised by an army father. No cuddles, no indulgences, no encouragements just lots of discipline and instructions to do as we were told. Not how my own children were raised.
Dad was at Dunkirk as well as at Arnhem. He spent his 20th birthday in Dunkirk. He was on the beach until 28th May, wading out into the water to board a ship rather than the more romantic small boats rescue. I remember thinking about this fact when my sons were at university and I worried about them, thinking they were still children at the age my father was when he had already been active in a war, had already faced the prospect of his own death. This tiny fact in my father’s history helped me to understand him as brave, resilient and patient.
Looking at his war records and trawling through old photographs have helped me to build a better, more sympathetic picture of my father. That’s him at the end of parachute. That’s the cover of my book. It’s worth a read. Out soon. Here’s a poem from it to whet your appetite.
I Find A Postcard
This postcard was his last,
sent from an Arnhem Campaign reunion.
It shows the church where
they had hidden in the aftermath
of fighting; a respite, all too brief,
from the guns and shells.
The message on the back is brief:
“good to be here; many memories
and some old friends. Dad.”
There are faded biro kisses
added at the end.
It makes me weep to read
this message from the past,
understanding now
how the infirmity of his hand
had whispered then
a truth I could not bear to hear.
