LEST WE FORGET

The 75th anniversary of D-Day is a time of great remembrance of the horrors of the Second World War and the sacrifices of many.

I was 11 years old when World War ll broke out. Four little girls were motherless. My father decided that his best option was to place the four of us in a convent so he could go off to fight. 

My two youngest sisters were under age, and special permission was granted to allow them residence at the convent under the supervision of a governess.

The arrangement suited me as we would be together, and I could continue to spend time with them.
What we missed most was the bedtime stories with my father when he was home.
 
At first it was strange, but soon we accustomed ourselves to his absence, for we were very proud that our father was in the air force defending against the Nazi invasion of North Africa. The radio broadcasts reported that Rommel the German general was causing havoc, and capturing many of the Allied soldiers, and imprisoning them in internment camps somewhere in North Africa.
 
The staff and students at the convent were kept busy knitting scarves and socks for the troops. And, we were instructed in first aid classes, conducted by the Red Cross, in case we were required to help, as many nurses were sent to the front.
 
Blackout curtains were installed as a precaution in the event of an air raid. This seemed unnecessary as we believed it most unlikely that the war would reach South Africa.
 
Letters from my father arrived rather infrequently and post marked somewhere in North Africa. After a while they stopped. 

Tobruk fell and my father was severely wounded, resulting in a head trauma. I was taken to visit him and to my dismay discovered that he was at Baragwanath Army hospital in Johannesburg. He had been there for two years. He did not acknowledge my presence and I knew it was not his fault. The doctor assured me that father was recovering and was well on the way to a complete recovery. ​
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The day peace was declared my brother Barney was discharged from the army. There was much celebrating, and my sister Beryl and I were permitted  to accompany him to join the festivities. Soldiers in a sports car stopped and asked Barney to join them. He refused at first, but we encouraged him to join in the fun. After all, he needed some fun after the ordeal of war. He climbed on to the hood of the folded-down convertible car and my thought at the time was that it was rather precarious. I gave no thought to it. Hadn't he just survived the war?  
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Later  that night, after all the hoopla and noise had settled and he did not return home, I became somewhat anxious. Just then a knock at the door, it was a policeman needing to speak to my father. Gran took charge and we were informed that Barney had been killed in a motor accident!
 
I will never forget.