I have just had a sobering evening. My dad showed me some old letters and photographs he had acquired from his... girlfriend's (I suppose) father. They are of
his father, and the letters notifying of his death in Germany in the most recent war we had there. The real kick is that it happened on the 19th of April, 1945, two weeks before the end. There were official documents, photos of him and his friends, a handwritten letter from his commanding officer, and from 1950 and 1950 information about and photographs of his final resting place in
Becklingen War Cemetery.
"Sobering" is the word. These were the actual, original documents detailing the death of a man who otherwise survived a whole war, and the first confirmation of it. I can only imagine what it was like. At the same time there is the weird feeling of a palpable, personal connection of history. I'm not enough of a poet to describe it.
But it got me thinking about my paternal great-grandfather, my only relative I know of who fought in that war. When I learn more details I'll share some of them. What I do know is that he survived it and lived until '72, and served in what was Burma with a unit of Gurkhas. My grandfather still has his
kukri, which I suppose I (or a cousin) might one day inherit, and this weapon has killed Japanese soldiers. Apparently his Gurkha friends were horrified at the unskilled and brutal manner in which he wielded it. I can understand why: he himself wasn't a Gurkha or trained like one, and in close combat your instincts do rather kick in.
Anyway, it's been on my mind, and I think it's interesting.
