Remembrance Sunday 2020: remembering family

 

On Remembrance Sunday, when we remember all the brave men and women who have served in wars, I am remembering… 

 

My maternal grandfather, Harold (Johnnie) Walker (pictured below), who fought in WW2. A member of the Royal Signals and 1st Airborne Divisional Signals. He served from 17 Oct 1941 to 20 July 1946. I believe he fought at Arnheim with the 1st Airborne Divisional Signals. He also served in North Africa and Palestine. He signed up at The Drill Hall, Forest Lodge, Whipps Cross, Leyton. A lovely, amazing man. He died when I was 12, and I still miss him loads.

 

My great-grandfather, James Arthur Billings, who died a few months before I was born, who was in the Royal Navy in WW1. He served two years and 282 days. 

 

My great-grandfather Henry James Walker, who served in France and India in WW1. He joined up at Scotland Yard in April 1915. He served in France from July 1915-Jan 1916 and then in India from June 1916-Feb 2019. He returned home in April 1919, and died in 1940. 

 

Great uncle Leonard English, who died of his wounds in WW1 and is buried in France. He served from 6 Jan - 3 Dec 2017. He was only 24.
 

Great uncle Edward Bundock, of the 7th Rifle Brigade, who was killed on September 15, 1916, aged only 19. He is also buried in France. 

 

And all my other family members who served in the wars, who I haven’t managed to research yet. I am not sure how long they served or where, but there are so many group photos of the male family members in uniform. They all lived in Forest Gate/Ilford/Wanstead. I discovered recently that Wanstead Flats housed prisoners of war during WW2. 

 

 

Here is a poem I wrote on October 10. Since September I have been researching my family, and I wrote this for Leonard and Edward, after discovering they both died in France in WW1. 

 

 

Poppy seeds

 

We rise as soldiers,
taken from our beds as youths,
stripped from the warmth of family
to lands we’ve never seen,
places never heard of before,
from conversation and cosy silences

to the roar of guns, planes, bombs,
scuff of dirt, splintered wood, blind pain,
a burn of unending endurance.
We suffer it for the greater cause,
memories of loved ones we’ve left,
hiding in the bowels of the underground
and hideaways not built for this.
We charge into the face of danger
not knowing if it sees us,
not knowing if it will turn its cheek
and let us return back home. 

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 10, 2020