JohnT
Warstock Boy
I wonder if anyone can help me achieve a special goal? I want to find the family of two German prisoners of war and thank them for saving the life of my late father. If I am ever to do this, I need to start by finding basic information that I do not have - my father's army number, regiment, hopefully his medical record from WW2 and some kind of incident report that will lead me to the surviving family of these Germans.
My father was one of those men who preferred not to talk about his time serving in the War, and when he was still alive, I was too young and distracted by my own path in life to take a deeper interest in what he had been through. Would that he was here now for me to tell him my regret about that, but also to laugh at the foolishness of both of us! We loved one another and both knew it - I guess we both settled for that.
Anyway, all I have to go on is my father's date of birth and the knowledge that he was in the army, and his service during WW2 took him through Italy and to Egypt. To those of you who might be interested, here is the story:
MY FATHER'S DETAILS:
My father was HARRY TAYLOR (no middle name, but nicknamed "Acker"
or "H"). He was born 11th July 1916; he died in 1973 aged 57 years.
Harry's family address was 111 Arlington Road, Birmingham 14.
However, he married Ann (ne Rathbone) in August 1939 so he may have
given the Army her parents house (where she lived while he was away in the war), as his home address. This was 84 Arlington Road, Birmingham 14.
Harry was the eldest of 11 children and effectively the 'man' of the family when his father's health broke down from years labouring in a foundry. In fact, Thomas Taylor, the father, died while Harry was away in the war, followed by Violet (ne Rainey), his mother, about 4 months later. The Army would not allow Harry compassionate leave as they now regarded his wife Ann as the next of kin.
THE STORY I HAVE OF THE GERMAN POWs SAVING MY FATHER'S LIFE:
Harry Taylor was a corporal (possibly sergeant) cook responsible for feeding a battalion of 1800 men. He was in Cairo in 1942 and/or 1943 and at the bottom end of a long, L-shaped food storage hut, checking stocks against a tick-list. According to what my mother, Ann Taylor (ne Rathbone) once told me, he came to the part of the hut where large drums of cooking oil where stacked up and - amazingly - a spark created between the concrete floor and the metal studded sole of his army boot ignited some oil that had seeped from the drums onto the floor. The whole lot blew up, covering him in flaming oil, which of course stuck to him.
The two German POWs heard him screaming, ran into the hut and pulled him out of the fire, already very badly burned. They carried him outside. One of them rolled him in the dirt or sand to douse the flames, wrapped some kind of fabric material around him and tried to deal with his shock symptoms, while the other ran for medical help. The helpers and doctors that came said Harry would have perished in the fire if not for the extraordinary and rapid actions of these two men.
It seems the two Germans already had a high regard for my father. As non-Nazi POWs they had been put under his supervision to carry out menial catering work. On one rare occasion when my father did speak of all this he said he regarded and treated these POWs as "ordinary family blokes", just caught up in the war like him. Apparently he used to occasionally disguise them with spare overcoats and hats and sneak them past the camp's Military Police Guards during dark evenings, taking them out of bounds for a drink and bit of 'entertainment' in downtown Cairo. Little did he know how this kindness would be repaid to him in such a dramatic way.
It seems my father received some kind of emergency treatment first in Cairo, then was flown back (I think possibly stretchered in a bomber aircraft) to a hospital somewhere in south-east England [which I am trying to identify through research], where he spent about 10 months and had to have 18 skin graft operations, some major. I don't think anyone from his or my mother's families in Birmingham were able to visit him there. He saw none of them until he was finally transported home to Birmingham.
My mother told me that when he got back to Birmingham, he was still on crutches and had to walk some distance from wherever he was dropped off. He came slowly along Arlington Road (to my mother's parents' house, where she was living, and I was later to be born), with many neighbours along the road coming out, house after house, to greet him as a returning 'hero'. When he reached number 84, my mother was standing at the front gate, speechless with emotion, and with shyness. Although they had married shortly before the war, they hadn't seen one another for three years.
What happened next I learned about in confidence from my mother, years later. What she told me had a profound impact on me. It has stayed with me my whole life.
My father refused to enter our house at 84, and instead insisted that my mother escort him to the graveyard (some distance from Arlington Road) where his mother and father were buried. They had both died within a few months of one another while my father was serving abroad. My father was the eldest of 11 children and for some time before the war had become the surrogate patriarch of the family, his father's health and spirit having been broken by illness contracted from years of gruelling foundry work. The family wanted my father to be at his parents' funerals and to come home to support them in their shock of double-bereavement. He was desperate to come too. The army refused him compassionate leave on the
grounds that my mother was now his primary next of kin.
When my mother and father reached the cemetery containing his parents' grave, my father asked my mother to stay outside while he went in alone. She complied at first but then crept around the back of the church to watch what he did. He never knew about this and my mother only ever told me that she did this and what she saw. My father reached his parents' grave and stood for some moments transfixed. He then dropped both his crutches to the ground and struggled to stand to attention. Proudly, but clearly bursting with emotion, he then made a long soldier's salute. When he came out of the churchyard my mother was of course back at the entrance. He said nothing of what had happened and neither did she. Ever, apart from the one time my mother told me about it.
The image of this simple but poignant moment, and what it says to me about my father, is scorched in my mind, heart and soul. He was a working-class young man, a cook, a man who could serve in but also see through war, and yet a dutiful soldier. I am so fiercely proud to be the son of such a man.
I believe the two German prisoners who saved him recognised his qualities too, and they surely demonstrated their own when they did what they did. I would not be here were it not for their action. I would be grateful if anyone could help me along the trail to my father's records and beyond this to find these Germans, or more likely now, their sons and daughters, to say so.
Thanks
My father was one of those men who preferred not to talk about his time serving in the War, and when he was still alive, I was too young and distracted by my own path in life to take a deeper interest in what he had been through. Would that he was here now for me to tell him my regret about that, but also to laugh at the foolishness of both of us! We loved one another and both knew it - I guess we both settled for that.
Anyway, all I have to go on is my father's date of birth and the knowledge that he was in the army, and his service during WW2 took him through Italy and to Egypt. To those of you who might be interested, here is the story:
MY FATHER'S DETAILS:
My father was HARRY TAYLOR (no middle name, but nicknamed "Acker"
or "H"). He was born 11th July 1916; he died in 1973 aged 57 years.
Harry's family address was 111 Arlington Road, Birmingham 14.
However, he married Ann (ne Rathbone) in August 1939 so he may have
given the Army her parents house (where she lived while he was away in the war), as his home address. This was 84 Arlington Road, Birmingham 14.
Harry was the eldest of 11 children and effectively the 'man' of the family when his father's health broke down from years labouring in a foundry. In fact, Thomas Taylor, the father, died while Harry was away in the war, followed by Violet (ne Rainey), his mother, about 4 months later. The Army would not allow Harry compassionate leave as they now regarded his wife Ann as the next of kin.
THE STORY I HAVE OF THE GERMAN POWs SAVING MY FATHER'S LIFE:
Harry Taylor was a corporal (possibly sergeant) cook responsible for feeding a battalion of 1800 men. He was in Cairo in 1942 and/or 1943 and at the bottom end of a long, L-shaped food storage hut, checking stocks against a tick-list. According to what my mother, Ann Taylor (ne Rathbone) once told me, he came to the part of the hut where large drums of cooking oil where stacked up and - amazingly - a spark created between the concrete floor and the metal studded sole of his army boot ignited some oil that had seeped from the drums onto the floor. The whole lot blew up, covering him in flaming oil, which of course stuck to him.
The two German POWs heard him screaming, ran into the hut and pulled him out of the fire, already very badly burned. They carried him outside. One of them rolled him in the dirt or sand to douse the flames, wrapped some kind of fabric material around him and tried to deal with his shock symptoms, while the other ran for medical help. The helpers and doctors that came said Harry would have perished in the fire if not for the extraordinary and rapid actions of these two men.
It seems the two Germans already had a high regard for my father. As non-Nazi POWs they had been put under his supervision to carry out menial catering work. On one rare occasion when my father did speak of all this he said he regarded and treated these POWs as "ordinary family blokes", just caught up in the war like him. Apparently he used to occasionally disguise them with spare overcoats and hats and sneak them past the camp's Military Police Guards during dark evenings, taking them out of bounds for a drink and bit of 'entertainment' in downtown Cairo. Little did he know how this kindness would be repaid to him in such a dramatic way.
It seems my father received some kind of emergency treatment first in Cairo, then was flown back (I think possibly stretchered in a bomber aircraft) to a hospital somewhere in south-east England [which I am trying to identify through research], where he spent about 10 months and had to have 18 skin graft operations, some major. I don't think anyone from his or my mother's families in Birmingham were able to visit him there. He saw none of them until he was finally transported home to Birmingham.
My mother told me that when he got back to Birmingham, he was still on crutches and had to walk some distance from wherever he was dropped off. He came slowly along Arlington Road (to my mother's parents' house, where she was living, and I was later to be born), with many neighbours along the road coming out, house after house, to greet him as a returning 'hero'. When he reached number 84, my mother was standing at the front gate, speechless with emotion, and with shyness. Although they had married shortly before the war, they hadn't seen one another for three years.
What happened next I learned about in confidence from my mother, years later. What she told me had a profound impact on me. It has stayed with me my whole life.
My father refused to enter our house at 84, and instead insisted that my mother escort him to the graveyard (some distance from Arlington Road) where his mother and father were buried. They had both died within a few months of one another while my father was serving abroad. My father was the eldest of 11 children and for some time before the war had become the surrogate patriarch of the family, his father's health and spirit having been broken by illness contracted from years of gruelling foundry work. The family wanted my father to be at his parents' funerals and to come home to support them in their shock of double-bereavement. He was desperate to come too. The army refused him compassionate leave on the
grounds that my mother was now his primary next of kin.
When my mother and father reached the cemetery containing his parents' grave, my father asked my mother to stay outside while he went in alone. She complied at first but then crept around the back of the church to watch what he did. He never knew about this and my mother only ever told me that she did this and what she saw. My father reached his parents' grave and stood for some moments transfixed. He then dropped both his crutches to the ground and struggled to stand to attention. Proudly, but clearly bursting with emotion, he then made a long soldier's salute. When he came out of the churchyard my mother was of course back at the entrance. He said nothing of what had happened and neither did she. Ever, apart from the one time my mother told me about it.
The image of this simple but poignant moment, and what it says to me about my father, is scorched in my mind, heart and soul. He was a working-class young man, a cook, a man who could serve in but also see through war, and yet a dutiful soldier. I am so fiercely proud to be the son of such a man.
I believe the two German prisoners who saved him recognised his qualities too, and they surely demonstrated their own when they did what they did. I would not be here were it not for their action. I would be grateful if anyone could help me along the trail to my father's records and beyond this to find these Germans, or more likely now, their sons and daughters, to say so.
Thanks