Memoirs of a Gunner - Epilogue - Harry Wood

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Harry Wood, and has been added to the site with the author's permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

MEMOIRS OF A GUNNER
BY
HARRY WOOD

Epilogue

In 1947 we took a holiday in Civvy Street. Dot’s mother offered to look after Tony while we had a day in Manchester in the hopes of seeing a Test Match. We were met by a normal Lancashire downpour, which suspended play for the day. Standing in Piccadilly, I noticed a group of down and outs nearby, when a shout of, “Heh, Harry!” rang out and a small figure detached himself from the group and rushed forward with his hand out. Beneath the unshaven face of red whiskers, I recognised my old comrade Jock Reynolds, the wee tough Scot from Glasgow. I knew he wouldn’t settle in Civvy Street. After a fracas with some coppers in Glasgow, he had jumped bail, been to Canada, was deported, and even as we spoke he kept glancing over his shoulder; a man on the run.

No man could have wished for a better bloke to have by his side in action. Full of humour, he never shirked any task and would share his last drink of water with you. In my book he was a great man if you counted the real qualities of a person. I gave him what few bob I had spare, so that he could get a bed for the night, and as he left me with a handshake he said with a grin, “What we want Harry, is another war, I would be all right then”.

A few months later a notice appeared in ‘The Star’ asking for any old 74th Regiment soldiers to get in touch with an address in South Shields. I wrote off to find that a reunion was being held in the Drill Hall there, and accommodation would be found if I could make the journey.

Well I went on a Saturday after work and was met by our ex-cook, Brigadier Powell, who took me to his home in New Marsden. The dinner was a great success, meeting our old mates, some in wheelchairs, but one local face was missing, my old Sergeant Robson. Conversation dried up when I mentioned his name, but Brigadier Powell told me that everyone felt he had let his mates down badly when the chips were down, and how the hell I had put up with him as his bombardier they would never know. As I expressed a wish to see him, Dick Powell said, “I will take you to his house but don’t expect me to come in, as far as the lads are concerned, he doesn’t exist”.

Sunday morning, and Mick was as good as his word. He showed me the house and left. I knocked on the door and his wife answered. She called out to Robbo who came to the door in his dressing gown. We shook hands and I entered the lounge. There was an uncomfortable silence, then Robbo in a trembling voice said to his wife, “This lad saved my life.” The tears came in a flood as he collapsed into a chair. When he recovered we had a cup of tea and spoke in a stilted way to each other. It wasn’t easy and I realised that life for Robbo was very difficult, and would get tougher as the years ahead would testify. The 74th was a local unit in which hundreds served, miners, fishermen, they are a hard and unforgiving lot.

Well I was glad I went but I haven’t heard or seen him since.

Pr-BR

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