Mr K
I grew up listening to my grandfathers war stories. He had plenty of them. He served in the British Army in World War 2. He was an excellent storyteller, as far as I can remember. Which was just as well, because the closest he came to action on a front line was about two weeks too late. He was a driver, shuttling people and things around bases in the UK as required.

At some point during the latter part of the war, he was caught milking a cow with some buddies, court martialed and subsequently found himself shuttling people and things around France and Germany as required. Even so, it’s still – possibly – fair to say that my grandmother saw more action. She was wounded by shrapnel in the streets of London. She died a decade ago with the shrapnel still in her back. 

The photos are not of my grandfather, however. They are of my dad, who we’ll call Mr K. Technically stepdad, but he stepped in very early. So, dad was always the word. Mr K did not see action in World War 2, but came close. He’d just got his wings as a pilot when the war ended. That didn’t get him out of National Service though, and he was sent off to join 2nd Parachute Battalion.

There was still an Empire to administer, and some parts of it were getting a bit sticky. As far as I’m aware, Mr K served entirely in the Middle East. Mostly in Palestine but with spots in Aden too. At one point he was bodyguard to the Governor of Nazareth. Mr K never really talked about his time in the army much. There were odd comments about ‘getting shot at by bloody everyone’. And a story about how a superior officer explained why one should never look down the barrel of a mortar, but was nonetheless killed one day when he looked down the barrel of a mortar.

I suspect Mr K saw a fair amount of trouble in Palestine. We’ll never know the details now. But we do have some old photos.