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My Father was conscripted into the army two weeks prior to his 40th birthday, at which time he would have been exempt. 

He was trained at Aldershot ( Artillery) barracks, in the south of England, but within a very short time span he was posted overseas to serve in the remote, desolate, harsh, and rugged terrain of the Khyber Pass in Afghanistan.

With non of the facilities that the armed forces abroad have at their disposal today, including the means to communicate with their families almost instantaneously, we lost contact with him.
 

At a later time my Mother received a letter from the military saying that he had fallen ill.
The adverse conditions in Afghanistan had contributed to an illness he contracted and that he had been 　transported to Southeast Asia Command Headquarters in Colombo,Ceylon.
After convalescence in Kandy, at a military rehabilitation center, he was transferred into the Military Police.

 

It was during this time that I saw the first picture of my father since he had been posted abroad. A British national newspaper, The Daily Express, had, emblazoned across its front page a full width picture portraying him in Military Police uniform. He was escorting a group of army nurses who had been prisoners of war and liberated before being brought to Ceylon for repatriation.

Around this time I had joined the war myself and was serving at sea on troopships sailing to the Far East.

During wartime the destinations of convoy’s leaving the UK were kept secret and not revealed until we were out in the Atlantic Ocean. On this particular voyage to India, I learned that we would be dropping anchor in Colombo for an overnight stay.

 

As each day passed and the closer we got to Ceylon my excitement increased only to be dashed by the news that there would be no shore leave granted. I had made enquiries on board, but knew that my chances of getting ashore were slim. I was not aware however, that forces were at work, both on board and ashore, to try and change things.

 

It was part of my father’s duty to monitor the arrival of shipping, so he was aware that my ship would be arriving, consequently he was trying to get permission  for us to meet.

 

My ship had dropped anchor during the night and I spent all of the following morning looking over the ship’s rail, in the remote possibility that my dad might be on one of the many launches traveling backwards and forwards to the ships.

It was now mid-day and wrenching myself away from what was  appearing to be a fruitless exercise I hurried down to the dining-room to eat a quick lunch, before returning to my vigil. I had been back for only a few minutes when my attention was drawn to a commotion on deck.

 

"There he is!" someone shouted "Quick get yourself ready Will you’ve got permission to go ashore. There’s a launch coming for you."

It had been like a whirlwind, and I found himself standing at the top of the gangway just as a very prestigious looking, military police launch, pulled up alongside. Trying not to slip on the swaying rope and wooden slatted stairway, and make a fool of myself under the gaze of the troops and crew members, I descended to the deck of the launch. Turning and looking up, I waved to the roar of loud cheering and clapping as the launch opened up its throttles and sped away, violently churning up the water as it left the ship.

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"We’ll only be a few minutes, your father is waiting at the harbour front." I could feel the excitement welling up inside, and as the launch approached I could see him standing alone on the quay.

I was finding it hard to believe, actually meeting my Dad halfway around the world. What a story I would have to tell the family when I got back home on leave!

  

I hurried forward to greet him, then making our way out of the harbour front Dad hailed a rickshaw. "We’ll go to the "Fountain Cafe" it’s quiet there and we can talk."

This was one of the many places we visited during that memorable evening. There was a lot of talk about home, and I was able to give him all the recent news. Time went by so quickly that I soon found myself back at the quay saying goodbye.

 

With a lump in my throat, I got back into the launch, which immediately sped away. Waving, I watched my father’s lone figure receding from sight. An image that I still see clearly to this day. Within minutes I was back on board. It was all over.

 

My ship would be sailing early next morning, and this would be the last time I would see my father until after the war ended.

 

Like thousands of other servicemen returning after the war, he was a totally different person from the dad I had known all of my life. Wrenched from his stable surroundings in the village where we lived and into the hostile environment of the war, he found it impossible to reclaim the stability he once had.

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