My dad joined the RAF in late 1944 or early 1945, earning his wings just as World War 2 ended. He never had the chance to dogfight Jerry over the skies of Europe. Pilots ceased to be in demand, but a plentiful supply of boots on the ground remained an integral part of maintaining a sprawling empire. He was sent elsewhere to complete his eighteen months of national service and ended up in the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment.
He rarely spoke about his time in the army. We had to go to my grandfather for war stories. I’ve always assumed they had very different military experiences. Grandad was a driver and didn’t actually see any action, and had nothing of real consequence to report. My dad pointedly refused to talk about his service. He completed tours in Aden and Palestine. I strongly suspect that anyone in 2 Para in Palestine in the mid 1940s were likely involved in combat.
I can only remember him talking about two things. The first was a moral tale. The man who taught him how to use a mortar stressed just how important it was to never look down the barrel of the device to investigate why a round had not fired off. Not long after, he watched the same man do just that, and have his head blown to pieces in front of everyone. “And that is why you should always read the bloody instructions and obey the bloody rules.”
Perhaps the second was also a moral tale of sorts. I asked him who he supported, in the way a child would. The Palestinians or the Israelis? He was unequivocal. The Israelis. ‘They (the arabs) kept telling us, when you’re (British army) gone we’ll push them all into the sea. Every one of them. As soon as you’ve gone, they’ll be gone. Day after day, week after week, month after month they just milled around talking about it. Laughing about it.”
And what were the Israelis doing? They were practising their skills in preparation for the coming war. Practising on the British army. They weren’t waiting around for my dad and his buddies to leave. And they weren’t planning on being swept into the Med once they had. Dad worked long hours and six or seven day weeks his whole life, running his own business. I think he had a lot of respect for folk who are ‘doers’. Less respect for folk who just talk about it.
I believe he may also have had a Jewish grandparent. And the general inclination for folk of his age would, I think, likely lean towards Israel. Folk his age were familiar with the evils of Nazism and the reality of the Holocaust. Unlike some younger folk today, who wonder aloud if Hitler wasn’t just misunderstood.
This post is constructed from memories of conversations that occured more than two decades ago. So I may have remembered less significant details incorrectly, I guess. But nothing major. My dad is the fellow second from the right.
The Mexile 
Not surprised by your dad’s reluctance to talk about his war experiences. Never been to war, but I know some who went to Vietnam or even Iraq, and they also don’t want to reminisce about their service. Such PTSD is what leaves so many soldiers, American, British or whatever, drug-addicted, homeless or otherwise disfunctional. As for the Arabs’ waiting for the Brits to leave so they could shove the Jews into the sea, such feelings still prevail, no matter how unrealistic—or suicidal.
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Tens of thousands of folk marched through London last weekend singing anti-semitic songs promoting genocide. “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free” means one thing.
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My Dad never discussed his war time experiences either nor my Mother’s uncle who had fought in the first, second and Spanish civil wars. Now my father in law was training to be a glider pilot but the war ended before he was set to be dropped into France. He was a real goer, the reality is though that if he had lost his life in that conflict his seven children would not have been born!
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When you think of all the bullets, boulders and bugs our family line had to dodge, it’s close to a miracle that anyone is here at all. And yet….eight billion of us miracles are strolling around.
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And any amount of us strolling through traffic scrolling on our phones oblivious to the havoc around us or impending doom!
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My father was also a paratrooper and was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. He didn’t talk much about the war either
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Mine too (Combat Engineer). As it was, when my father sat down to write about his life at the age of 80+, he elided over his whole time in the army after working on the Alaska Highway and was sent to Europe (he was in the Army from 1939 to August 1945, and in reserves until 1949). We have a letter, thanking his brother for a care package he received at Christmas 1944, mostly about being shelled, and never getting to enjoy the cookies and newspapers from home. Otherwise… he would never talk about it, we were sternly warned not to ask, and he would have nothing to do with any of the veterans associations. My mother, also a WWII soldier (trained as a pilot, although being a licenced nutritionist, she mostly managed kitchens in POW camps, before learning Japanese, expecting to be sent on occupation duty.. in a way, I owe my existence to the atomic bomb, my parents being married in August 1945) was of the same mind… wars are nothing but tragedy. We weren’t even allowed to bring toy guns into the house.
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There is a way and challenge at the same time! Minimum standard for a nation is to have a home, a country. Palestinians don’t.
One click vote, for the establishment of the Palestinian Country
Just a humane action
Spread the word
Care
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