Dad of Dad's Army

My dad, Henry Charles Bowering, Harry for short, was a Sergeant in the Home Guard during the Second World War. I don’t remember those war years too well, being born during an air raid in Romford, Essex, in December 1943. However, I know that Dad was very proud of his war service, and the fact that he was elected sergeant by the other men. I know that he would rather have been in the regular army, but he was turned down for this as he was in, as it was called in those days “a reserved occupation”. He was the bookbinder and manuscript renovator at the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street in the City of London, where he worked until his retirement in 1980. One of dad’s war-time duties involved fire watching from the roof of the College. It was there one night that he was wounded by flying debris, receiving a piece of shrapnel in the right side of his face, shattering part of his jawbone. Unfortunately, in those days plastic surgery was really in its infancy. Luckily Dad was taken down to the Royal Victoria Hospital in East Grinstead, where a piece of bone, taken from his hip, was grafted into his jaw. I remember being taken to the hospital and seeing dad with his face all wired up. He was drinking his meals through a straw and making soft toys out of felt. He seemed incredibly cheerful! I must have been very young, but the memory lingers on, as they say. I had one of his wonderful hand-made felt Pinocchio dolls for years! As I mentioned, this kind of surgery was very experimental and Dad suffered many painful corrective surgeries over the next few years, until he suddenly decided he had had enough, and refused any further surgery. At that time most reconstructive surgery was being done under the direction of Dr. Archibald McIndoe who referred to his patients as his guinea pigs, which in fact they were. Most of Dr. McIndoe’s patients were RAF pilots terribly wounded or burnt during combat. However, for some reason my Dad received his treatment there too, even though he was only in “Dad’s Army” as it was fondly referred to in later years! One side of dad’s face remained very badly scarred forever after, making him look much older than his years. He was only two years older than my mum, but I remember someone asking in reference to my mother, “Who is that very old man that Lily is married to?” I piped up angrily saying, “That’s my dad and he’s not old!” much to the embarrassment of the questioner.

In spite of his disfigurement my dad lived to a ripe old age, passing away just a few days after his 93rd birthday in 1996, which he had celebrated with his usual half pint of Guinness. He was a wonderful man!

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