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Post by Lady Margaret on Oct 12, 2017 12:20:29 GMT -5
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Post by simnettpratt on Oct 12, 2017 12:34:26 GMT -5
My uncle, John Tegwyn Griffiths, was a navigator/bomb-aimer over Italy during the war. They were based in North Africa, and moved around as the war went on. He was in a Wellington, not nearly as good a bomber as a B-24J though; far less defensive armament.
He said sometimes they'd be in weather (British bombers flew at night, because they weren't as good as the American bombers), and the pilot would ask him, John, where the hell are we? And he'd answer sir, I have no bloody idea; let's just drop the buggers and go home.
They'd bomb some Italian cows and turn south.
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Post by Lady Margaret on Oct 12, 2017 12:48:18 GMT -5
poor cows. c'est le guerre. |
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Post by trailboss on Oct 12, 2017 14:28:49 GMT -5
A bittersweet homecoming to be sure.
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Post by oldcajun123 on Oct 12, 2017 16:11:21 GMT -5
 It was 1948, I was 5, living with my Grandparents in the Country. One day, not a Sunday, Grandmaw made me take a bath, dressed me in Church clothes, Grandpaw put on his go to town Kakhis, Grandmaw her nice dress. Grandmas powdered me with powder, chokeing like in a dust storm, had to chew a clove for my breath. We got in the 1940 Ford pickup and went down the gravel road to the only little hill in our flat land, a big Pecan tree proud there. We drove up and debarked, 20 or so other Families there, later as I was older I found it was our neighbors boy found and sent home from Europe. Grandpawhad 2 sons who came back, Dad in the Navy, and my Uncle in the army who fought from Africa to Germany where he was wounded and was sent to England. We heard the gravel crunch, down the road a hearse, army truck behind. They moved out the truck, helmets shinning, took the body out the hearse, assembled, gave the Mother the flag, my Grandpaw took my hand, bugle blowing, shots, I jumped, scared, not knowing, looked up and Granpaw was crying, had never seen that. I often remember the volley, thought about it in S Asia wondering if that would be my road. I came back home, but I"ll never forget the little country cemetery on the hill.
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Post by Lady Margaret on Oct 12, 2017 17:53:00 GMT -5
yes, indeed.
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Post by trailboss on Oct 13, 2017 4:04:07 GMT -5
Thanks for sharing, Brad...collectively, so many sad memories like that came as a result of wars throughout our history.
One of my ancestors fought in the Indian Blackhawk wars, and only got out alive because he climbed his wounded body into a hollowed out log... had he not made it, I wouldn’t be here.... fate with a good dose of Providence is the reason I exist.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 13, 2017 9:55:27 GMT -5
Brad, I thank you for that reminiscence. I love reading your posts. A poignant and sad recollection, but people, times and sacrifices not forgotten. Thanks for your service, sir.
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It was 1948, I was 5, living with my Grandparents in the Country. One day, not a Sunday, Grandmaw made me take a bath, dressed me in Church clothes, Grandpaw put on his go to town Kakhis, Grandmaw her nice dress. Grandmas powdered me with powder, chokeing like in a dust storm, had to chew a clove for my breath. We got in the 1940 Ford pickup and went down the gravel road to the only little hill in our flat land, a big Pecan tree proud there. We drove up and debarked, 20 or so other Families there, later as I was older I found it was our neighbors boy found and sent home from Europe. Grandpawhad 2 sons who came back, Dad in the Navy, and my Uncle in the army who fought from Africa to Germany where he was wounded and was sent to England. We heard the gravel crunch, down the road a hearse, army truck behind. They moved out the truck, helmets shinning, took the body out the hearse, assembled, gave the Mother the flag, my Grandpaw took my hand, bugle blowing, shots, I jumped, scared, not knowing, looked up and Granpaw was crying, had never seen that. I often remember the volley, thought about it in S Asia wondering if that would be my road. I came back home, but I"ll never forget the little country cemetery on the hill.