STREETLY,
STAFFORDSHIRE MEMORIES
(1936
- 1961)
MY YANK, BOB
(late 1944)
by Chris Myers
|
My Yank, Bob
I was eight when I met my first American. He was
a gentle, softly-spoken lad called Bob, of perhaps
nineteen or twenty. He was a soldier, an
infantryman, based at
Pheasey.
My
seventeen-year-old sister had befriended Bob at some
local dance or even at the ice-rink in Birmingham.
(What freedoms even well brought-up young girls were
permitted in those days, despite the area being
thronged with licentious soldiery). He had been
wounded in Normandy and I am not sure whether he was
destined to return to active combat. He hailed from
somewhere in the mid-West, in the bible belt.
On Bob's first
visit to our house, I was overjoyed and thrilled. As
I say, he was the first American I had ever met. And
not quite what I was expecting. No wise-cracking, nor
chewed cigar, nor cowboy's white hat; no anxious,
perspiring face
looking out from under a strangely shaped helmet
with its dangling, unfastened strap as the Japs
approached through the jungle. All of these I had
seen on our regular trips to the Avion at Aldridge. So I
knew exactly what an American was going to be like.
It was just a question of which version. It was all
so exciting. And finally Bob appeared through the
front door, politely greeted everyone and I had now
met my first Yank.
Very early on in
that first visit, I proudly boasted that I had some
American money. Bob expressed polite interest and I
bounded upstairs to my bedroom to retrieve it. I had
been the proud owner for as long as I could remember
of a number of these coins: they were particularly
interesting because they were not metal, like our
money, but plastic and in two or three different
colours, red, green and blue, with 1c. or 2c. or 5c.
on them. How very American and modern, I thought, to
have money like this. A bit flimsy, compared with
ours, I had to concede, but so colourful and
different. I grabbed the little beaker I kept the
coins in, bore it downstairs and triumphally emptied it
out onto a coffee table. Polite interest changed
immediately into uproarious laughter, from both Bob
and Dad. Now, this was a bit of a blow. Pride was
shattered. But you are limited as an eight-year-old
as to what sort of reaction you can show in
desperate circumstances like that. A flood of tears
is of course no longer appropriate and would have
evoked no sympathy whatsoever. A manly tear, quickly
wiped away, would have been reasonable. But in the
event, a quick acceptance of the mistake,
illustrated by a rueful grin, was the preferred and
correct response. Dad had the decency to explain the
reason for the hilarity. These tiddelywink-like
objects were merely tokens of some sort, to go into
a vending machine or similar. He had picked them up
during a business trip to the USA six years ago, in
1938; or even during the return voyage on the
brand-new Queen Mary. I learned a couple of lessons
that day: how to cope with feeling daft and what
American money doesn't look like.
Bob's gentle
nature, together with his old-fashioned courtesy and
good manners, quickly endeared him to all the
family. Dad, a survivor of the Western Front only 25
years previously, did once have a quiet chuckle
about Bob's un-warlike demeanour and personality; he
said he felt it difficult to visualise the gentle
Bob running at the enemy with raised weapon and the
glint of murderous intent in his eyes. But Bob had
seen action and no doubt, just like Dad, had the
scars to prove it. I never knew what sort of injury
had brought him back to England from Normandy and
out of danger. He always looked fit and well to me.
But Dad knew. Bob wasn't permitted to mention the
extent of his wounds in letters home and so my
father undertook to write to his parents on his
behalf. Many weeks later, a grateful reply appeared
in which was enclosed a leaflet in beautiful
Technicolor describing his home town - how I wish I
had registered which it was - and marked up to show
where Bob had gone to school, the church at which he
and the family worshipped and other landmarks.
Bob visited us quite a few times, often bringing
a precious can of peaches and perhaps a packet of
chewing gum or sweets for me. So welcome to all of
us. He must have walked - we lived in Chester Road,
Streetly, two or three miles away from Pheasey; and
probably on the odd occasion my father used some of
his essential user's petrol allowance to run him
back at night. He didn't have a bike as, of course,
the four of us did - all leaning against each other
in the garage together with a fifth, my brother's,
now unused for the last two years and right at the
back, thick with dust. Bob was there for our 1944 Christmas
dinner to share our cockerel, a real treat. I can
see him now, sitting on the other side of our dining
table in his smart private's uniform with its
smooth, good quality brown cloth - so different from
my father's rough, Home Guard battledress, put away
for good only a couple of weeks earlier. He ate in a
manner which always intrigued me but which I was
forbidden to imitate: knife in only occasional use
and for most of the time lodged on the far side of
the plate whilst the main work was done by the fork
held in the right hand. I was assured by my parents
privately that this was not the sign of an
inadequate upbringing - it was how Americans did it.
At some stage Bob
disappeared from the scene. He was probably posted
away, perhaps back to France, perhaps elsewhere in
this country. I was not conscious of his departure
although I may have been present on the day of his
last visit. On reflection, possibly playing
gooseberry. I remember him offering my sister one of
his insignia to remember him by - a wide, slim,
metal, pin-on badge depicting an army rifle.
In fact he
offered her two versions of this: one a dull,
well-worn thing, perhaps his everyday one, the other
pristine, gleaming, the colours bright. He asked her
which one she would like. I knew that the polite
thing would be to choose the scruffy one. I was
shocked therefore to see my sister point to the new,
gleaming version. Forever after I recalled it as the
first example I had seen of the single-mindedness of
the female of the species.
I don't know whether Bob returned to action
or where he went after leaving Pheasey. I knew
eventually, though, that he survived the war and he
corresponded with my parents for several years
afterwards. In what was probably his last letter, he
told Mum and Dad that he was about to get married.
As he put it in his gently humorous way: "I knew I
couldn't marry Sheila and so I thought I had better
find someone else......."
It's only as I
write this, 77 years later, that it occurs to me
that what Bob was offering my sister in January 1945
as an alternative, the scruffy one, was perhaps something really
precious to him - the insignia which had accompanied
him through thick and thin. Through training,
Atlantic crossing, a strange country, more training,
landing in France, goodness knows what experiences
there, injury, hospital, convalescence. A trinket
which, many years into the future and in happier
times, he would be able to show to his (probably
yawning) grandchildren as he told them tales of his
time in Europe.
I'm glad, now,
that my sister grabbed the new one, still in its
cellophane wrapper.
This family
and local history
page is hosted by
www.staffshomeguard.co.uk
(The Home Guard of Great Britain, 1940-1944)
Please see INDEX page for acknowledgements.
All text and images are,
unless otherwise stated, © The Myers Family 2022
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Home Guard of
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Streetly and Family Memories 1936-61
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L8G
April 2022