Archive: 03/03/2011

The House My Father Built

My father was a hero.  The word, of course, has military associations.  The ancient Latins made no distinction between a hero and a man, taking the view that both had one function: to fight.  As a child of the War I was happy to buy into the package.  My foetal brain heard little music, but it heard much of war and my childhood was steeped in its memories: "the Crisis", Scapa Flo, the sinking of the Royal Oak,the Rawalpindi and the Hood and the countless friends who, in the moving Gaelic euphemism had "got in the way in the War" and never returned.  I still have some of those obituaries from the early 40's, kept by my mother in the same black box as protected their insurance policies and other valuables.

Read more about 'The House My Father Built'...

Categories