History is Closer Than You Think

 Just for interest, I wrote this on Bob Cordery’s blog post on the 1914 battle of the Falklands. I’ve strained the memory a bit, as we are talking over 40 years ago, but the key point has stayed with me all these years

Just down the road from us in Cabrera Avenue, Virginia Water (now you know how I could buy books from Bryan Forbes) lived Mr Amlott, a lovely, elderly gentleman with poor eyesight. This didn’t phase him, however, as he was very independent and my folks would often chat to him as he took his daily constitutional to the local shops.

One day, I was returning home from college (it would be 1983 or 84) and met Mr A outside the community centre (where most likely he was entertaining the old dears). It was a lovely sunny day, but he told me it was a bit too bright for his eyes, so I walked home with him just in case he tripped. I cannot remember how the conversation took this turn (he may of asked me how old I was, so 16 or 17) but he told me he had fought in the Falklands. I thought he was pulling my leg, until he said it was 1914 and he was a boy bugler in the Royal Marines. He said it was all rather exciting and was glad he wasn’t older as he would have been petrified.

At that age, and being slightly to the softer side of Walter the Softy, I could not fathom how anybody could join up, let alone be under fire. My own grandfather saw action for the first time the following year, at Loos with the Royal Field Artillery. The only ‘action’ story he told me was that when the guns opened up for the first time he messed himself. Chatting to one of my RM colleagues about a new TV series on RM training, I remarked that I would be in the corner crying after 15 minutes. Most bootnecks are somewhat blasé about their trade, and he told me it’s amazing what people can achieve under the most difficult circumstances. I agreed. “20 minutes, then” I said.

I wish I had the brains to ask more questions of my grandad and Mr Amlott, but we very much understood it was best not to ask and let them drop little hints and stories when they were ready. For many years my grandad was friends with a lively and very funny man we always called ‘Uncle Billy’. They had been colleagues on the buses since the 1920s, had served in the Home Guard together and ended their days together in the Busman’s home in Wembley. Billy’s daughter, Jean, is my Godmother. We got them together after my nan died (1981 or thereabouts) and I listened as they bantered away on the sofa. Suddenly, this came out:

Billy: I was on the Somme.

Sid: So was I.

Billy: I was in the West Kents. What about you?

Sid: Field Artillery.

Billy: I wondered who was shooting at us.

Sid: Lucky we missed.

They then moved on to arguing who had the biggest half of the Double Decker bar my grandad had snapped in half.

Incredibly, they had known each other for over 50 years and never mentioned it.