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Group: Members
Posts: 1058
Member No.: 328
Joined: August 20, 2004
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| QUOTE | I'm a bit after both, but my dad...
This is as much as I can remember of his stories, good and bad.
He joined a Polish Cavalry Regiment underage. Survived his unit being destroyed because he was a messenger. After Poland surrendered to Germany He went home to find the Russians had invaded that part of Poland, and joined the resistance. The raid he told me about involved a train and no guns; at this time, Russia was still supplying Germany with fuel. The solution was to board the train just after the engine, open the valves and work back to the wagon just before the guards van, where you got off. The train was considerably lighter when the Nazis received it.
The next incident chronologically, the Russians were hunting them. My father’s hideout was an alcove family crypt in the local graveyard. One night, he heard a noise in the crypt, and saw his stepfather come in drunk for a piss. The drunk lit up, and my dad popped his head out of the alcove and asked for a ciggy. He never got one. Stepdad exit stage left evacuating bowels.
He went to visit my grandmother and the Russians were waiting. He suspected that the stepfather informed; he was a good communist. Sent to Siberia, where he got extra rations to stay alive by selling "jewellery" made out of horse-hair to the guards, and volunteering for any works detail that came up. He was tortured at this time, something he never told me much about, and resigned to the fact that he was going to be shot. The date was set.
Germany invaded Russia. The Poles were given a stay of execution, and put to work in factories “Until a Polish Army could be reformed.” They were payed in matches; and the Russian people they dealt with had to honour that “currency.” One day, a Russian Lieutenant from the frontlines visited the town, and asked the Poles what they were still doing there, while their army was being reformed. The Poles waited 24 hours, using that time to turn matches into flour, bake bread, and stow aboard a train heading for Tashkent. When they didn’t ride goods trains, they walked. They got to Tashkent to find the army starving, and uncertain of Communist intentions. Sent out to forage, and they found nothing, until they came across a dog being kept by the company commander. They never told the man until they got to Italy, a couple of years later. Rumours began that the Commies were going to slaughter them, so plans were drawn out For a defensive action. The assets were Sticks, two rifles and ten rounds of ammunition. Fortunately, the plan was never put into effect.
When the Poles reached Iraq, They were in no better shape than any of the victims of the German concentration camps. It took months to get them back into shape, but my father’s regiment reformed , and switched to tanks, first training on captured Italian vehicles, then British Vickers Mk. 6 light tanks, and finally, Valentines. My father thought the Valentine was the finest piece of kit he ever used during the war.
The time came when the Valentines were to be handed to the Communists. The papers were signed by the NKVD late afternoon for a complete tank regiment. That night the Poles stripped the tanks of anything useable and flogged it. They were moved to Palestine the following day. Saw a girl with increadable long blond hair, who he followed for a long time, just to see her face; she turned out to be fantastically ugly.
Nice hair though.
Moving on to Egypt and Cairo, promoted to corporal went on a mission to get on of his people laid; The poor lad’s problem being one of extreme length, most of the whores wouldn’t touch him. One was found, and in fact the man later married her.
Back in the war, and the Poles were issued Shermans. This machine, my father never had a good word for. The tank took a hit, and the crew bailed out. Dad stayed long enough to grab a Thompson. By the time he’d got out of the tank (Radio Operator/Loader, and furthest away from the hatch) the rest of the crew disappeared. Rule of thumb; walk away from the direction the tank is pointing. Sometime later, and hopelessly lost, he comes across two Germans in a shell crater. By waving the SMG around, he gets them moving, and they take him home to the allied lines. Got a medal for getting lost.
The rest o the war was Italy. Monte Cassino. For the battle, each tank had extra boxes of shells on the floor. The Regiment was tasked to artillery support. The barriage began. 30 minutes later, all the shells were gone, my father couldn’t move his arms, and couldn’t taste the cigarette for the stench of cordite.
Later, he was badly wounded by German artillery. The hospital also looked after Yugoslavian Communists, and for reasons best known to themselves, the powers that be put my father in with them. All things considered, not a marriage made in heaven. He checked out early, technically desertion, and went to find his regiment. His tank saved the life of an Italian farmer. One thing led to another, and for a while there was a possibility that my mother would be Italian.
The war ended, and the Poles were brought to Britain. Britain had gone to war six years ago to honour a treaty with Poland, but now they wouldn’t go to war with the Russians occupying the country. Instead, Churchill offered The Poles Citizenship. Fearing what would happen if the Russians got hold of him again, My father stayed in England.
Wearing his uniform one day on a trip to York, he was slapped in the face by an old woman and told to F*ck off home, you Fascist”
He never called England home, though I’ve never known any other. |
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