| My Grandad was the sub-postmaster at Barton-le-Clay in Bedfordshire for many years. All us kids used to call him "Old Stamper" because of the way he used to frank all the letters. He was a gentle old man, and a little henpecked by the time I got to know him. He died when I was 15, but it's only a few years ago that I got to know a different side of him.
He joined up as soon as he was old enough (and may have even lied about his age) to fight in the First World War. He was a 'runner' who's job was literally run with messages and orders down the trenches and through the lines to various officers - other forms of communication were in their infancy and unreliable. It was a dangerous job, enemy snipers knew the importance of breaking the means of communication and the runners were a constant target. But he survived all of that danger until the second battle of Ypres in April 1915 when the Germans used poison gas for the first time (Chlorine, which quickly destroys the repiratory system when inhaled). My grandad got on the edge of one of these attacks and was gassed. He didn't die, but he copped enough of it to be invalided out of the army.
He could've just sat out the war, but once he'd recovered sufficiently he managed to bluff his way through a medical and re-enlisted - just in time to go back to the Somme.
Like many people he was traumatised by the things he saw and experienced the first time he was out there, I can't begin to imagine the sort of bravery it takes to go re-enlist and volunteer to go back to that sort of hell - especially when you've already fought an honourable war and you don't have to go back.
So, I didn't go to a memorial service. I went and rode my bike with my mates instead because people like my Grandad made those sort of sacrifices and many of them gave their lives so that I would have the freedom to do that - Thanks Old Stamper.
[Edited on 14-11-2005 by Jools]  |