There was one last incident connected with the war which is worth the telling. Middlesbrough Town Council, which was my employer in 1939, decided not to pay anything to their employees who were called-up. They were one of very few Authorities to do this as the Government had set an example by ‘making up’ the pay of civil servants so that their families would not suffer. At the end of the war Middlesbrough had changed its earlier policy and decided to ‘make up’ the pay of married men. This was no use to me as I was not only a prisoner for some years but single. However, it was then decided to make a special gift to me, and the Council voted me £30 per year for each year of service. I went to the Town Hall to collect my £180, but it was almost as if the war was having one last kick at me. The £180 was subject both to tax and to superannuation deductions, and the eventual cheque was for less than £100.’
So what did the war mean to me? On the credit side, I had survived, seen the defeat of a great tyranny, and made a few friends. On the debit side I had had to give six of the best years of my life, start my career all over again, and remember those I had known who died. It is said that, “Their name liveth for evermore’. I remember Ernie Hunt, Norman Casson, Micky Cother and many others, but who else does?
The war made me into a pacifist, and I remain to this day an opponent of those who seek to resolve mankind’s problems by force.
There are many things I have missed out. I find myself unable to describe the long march across Europe. I can’t remember much about it except for the cold and desperate conditions, and the daily renewal of the promise to oneself to survive. I said earlier that there were few acts of kindness in my experiences, but I will always remember one incident on the long march. It was essential to keep warm, and the loss of a pullover or jersey was a disaster. There was one man who was suffering greatly with the cold, and to my and to others’ surprise a small insignificant soldier suddenly stripped off his pullover and gave it to this man. He put his own life in jeopardy by doing this. I don’t know whether he survived, but he certainly deserved to.
I am now quite old (72 in a few months), and my memory may not be as accurate as I would have liked, but if I have captured something of the spirit and atmosphere of what it was like to be an ordinary soldier caught up in a world catastrophe then I will have succeeded in my aim.
For you, my grandchildren, I have only one wish – that you never have to take part in a war. Bless you.
December 1989. Gordon Jones.
Dad died on the 30th December 2005 aged 87