I didn’t need November 11th to remember those who have died in wars, but it did focus my mind on it: in those two minutes silence time stood still and I reviewed in my mind the members of my family who were involved but lived to fight another day, and those who didn’t make it.
I watched on television British people standing to attention at the Cenotaph in London, and heard the commentator reminding us that it is not only world wars which are remembered, but the conflicts that have happened since - Suez, Korea, Viet Nam, Northern Ireland, Afghanistan, the Gulf... and the Falklands. Just to hear the mention of the latter gives me pain, and I still don’t know whether to refer to it as The Falklands Conflict or La Guerra de las Malvinas.
Imagine your parents have split up, and there are such strong feelings between the two families over the issue that they come to blows. Imagine you’re standing on the sidelines, powerless to help as you watch your maternal uncle beat the living daylights out of your paternal grandfather, and your cousins from both families rushing in to retaliate. You watch them fall, first one side, then the other. You’re weeping with grief for both, your hands outstretched to beg them to stop – to no avail. That’s what it feels like when you’re brought up to love, respect and understand two different cultures and two languages, and it is intolerable when they come into conflict.
In my own family there were volunteers from Argentina in the two world wars – in World War II my mother’s eldest brother joined the British Army and spent time in Italy, bringing back a German helmet as a souvenir (?); she lost several close friends with whom she had spent happy teenage years – one in particular who had joined the RAF and was stationed in Ceylon (Sri Lanka today) and was involved in a fly past to entertain a visiting RAF bigwig, demonstrating how they dropped depth charges. Something went wrong, the plane was too low, and it got caught in the explosion. It plunged into the sea, and when her friend’s body was found, he was perfect and intact, but without his lifejacket - he hadn't worn it.
While looking through my father’s papers a few years ago I found this picture of a very handsome young man...
David Bridger
...and learned that his name was David Bridger (my family name), and that he had died in 1915 aged 23 having volunteered for World War I from Argentina. He was the youngest of 9 children...
My great-granparents and some of their children.
My grandfather stands behind his father, who holds David,
the youngest. I love this image - unusually for these old
family group pictures, they look relaxed and happy.
... and sailed to England in 1915 to join up. As a Trooper in the King Edwards Horse Regiment he had no time to see action or even settle into his new life - meningitis claimed him in April that same year. He must have already been ill when he was on the ship. What a waste.
My father was one of five, four of which were boys. In 1940 the third brother volunteered from Argentina and started an intense period of training in the RAF on arrival. He learned to fly Spitfires, which became his passion, and he was impatient to become a fighter pilot. Alas he was not to see action either. On a training session in the Orkney Islands in August 1942 while doing a diving manoeuvre his plane crashed and he was killed – there are theories about how this happened, as he was by now a skilled pilot highly rated by his superiors. A colleague who knew him well in those days told us that he had had a blackout previously while going into a dive, so it’s possible that it happened again. He was buried in the Orkneys, on a lonely and windy hill, and many Bridgers have been there on pilgrimage to see it. What a waste.
And his name... was also David Bridger.
And his name... was also David Bridger.
(The youngest wasn't born yet). On the left is David,
with my father next to him.
with my father next to him.
Uncle David wrote copious numbers of letters to his family, in a compellingly eloquent style. This was a handsome young man heading for a great – if risky – career, overflowing with charm, humour and enthusiasm, by all accounts. I recently visited his sister, my aunt who is now 92 and lives on the south coast, and she has lent me the file with a lot of his letters. A cousin in New Zealand has investigated his brief RAF career, so once I have transcribed the letters and matched them with what was happening to him at the time, I shall enjoy telling his story on my blog.
David Bridger
To give you the complete picture, I would also tell you that on my mother’s side, her father and his ancestors were German – there are fifth cousins living in Entringen, Germany, with whom my mother kept in touch in the last decade of her life, and I remember her telling me that as a twenty year old during World War II she longed to volunteer, but was told it would be too difficult because her surname was Schiele.
Gaby, my German friend who loves England so much that she has bought a home here, has nevertheless felt upset and alienated by the anti-German war nostalgia attitudes she frequently encounters here prompted by television repeats. She feels it’s time to move on, and time for people to understand how present day Germans feel.
All this was going through my mind this morning, and along with gratitude to all these people who gave their lives, I also felt overwhelmingly that in the final analysis we are all part of a world community. If only we could confine ourselves to declaring war on want, on polluting the planet, and most of all, on intolerance.
-oOo-
Photo Finish:
From Lonicera's non-digital archive
Flowers
-oOo-
