My Grandfather died when I was 10 years old and unfortunately my memories of him are few and far between. The memories I do have of him are of a quiet and distant man. I am sure that he loved his grandchildren and was gentle with them, but again, unfortunately, those memories are cloudy and hidden by the haze of a childhood long passed. This saddens me because my Grandfather was a true hero.
Like so many of his era my Grandfather put his life on the line to safeguard the freedom of his family, both those that already existed and also those that were yet to come. He spent much of the war fighting in Italy and was decorated a number of times. Had his heroics occurred during a 'quiet' period he may have even been awarded the Victoria Cross. Exact details of his actions are sketchy unfortunately. His heroism, however, is not.
At this time of the year its almost impossible not to catch a show that commemorates the sacrifices our forebears made during the various conflicts that have scarred humanity. As a documentary junkie I have caught more than my fair share. I love seeing the old grainy black and white footage. The thing that grabs my attention the most, however, are the interviews with those that fought. Men and women from both sides; all sharing the common memory of broken bodies, broken minds and broken lives. Some 60 years later these dark memories are still vivid in their minds. Comrades blown apart next to them; comrades left to flounder and die in a fiery oil slick; innocent women and children blanketed by carpet bombing. These were good people who were asked to do horrific things....in the name of duty, in the name of honour, in the name of survival and in the name of hope. Many still weep as they recall their experiences; many others keep a silent watch in an effort to maintain sanity. What is clear in all cases is that war is ugly and that war claims many more victims than those that lie in honour on the battlefield.
During a trip back home (to the UK) last month I visited my Grandfather's grave for the first time in a very long time. He died in 1976 and I can probably count on one hand, to my shame, the number of times I have visited his grave since then. I was lucky to have both of my sons with me this visit and I was able to share with them a part of their family history. They were not the ones who received the biggest education, however. That honour was mine. I left that cemetery with a renewed admiration for this man and the sacrifices he had made for me. As an adult I have a better understanding of the horrors that he would have experienced during his service for King and Country and it has made me realize that maybe some of the distance he showed in later years was actually his way of coping with the atrocities he had faced.
So although most of my memories of my Grandfather are hazy, there is one that pierces the haze like a lightening bolt. That memory is of a man who placed his own life on the line for me. A man who fought for my rights and my freedoms. A man, who like so many sacrificed so much.
Raymond Thomas du Kamp - a true hero.
I salute you Grandpa. The phrase 'thank you' will never be enough.
Like so many of his era my Grandfather put his life on the line to safeguard the freedom of his family, both those that already existed and also those that were yet to come. He spent much of the war fighting in Italy and was decorated a number of times. Had his heroics occurred during a 'quiet' period he may have even been awarded the Victoria Cross. Exact details of his actions are sketchy unfortunately. His heroism, however, is not.
At this time of the year its almost impossible not to catch a show that commemorates the sacrifices our forebears made during the various conflicts that have scarred humanity. As a documentary junkie I have caught more than my fair share. I love seeing the old grainy black and white footage. The thing that grabs my attention the most, however, are the interviews with those that fought. Men and women from both sides; all sharing the common memory of broken bodies, broken minds and broken lives. Some 60 years later these dark memories are still vivid in their minds. Comrades blown apart next to them; comrades left to flounder and die in a fiery oil slick; innocent women and children blanketed by carpet bombing. These were good people who were asked to do horrific things....in the name of duty, in the name of honour, in the name of survival and in the name of hope. Many still weep as they recall their experiences; many others keep a silent watch in an effort to maintain sanity. What is clear in all cases is that war is ugly and that war claims many more victims than those that lie in honour on the battlefield.
During a trip back home (to the UK) last month I visited my Grandfather's grave for the first time in a very long time. He died in 1976 and I can probably count on one hand, to my shame, the number of times I have visited his grave since then. I was lucky to have both of my sons with me this visit and I was able to share with them a part of their family history. They were not the ones who received the biggest education, however. That honour was mine. I left that cemetery with a renewed admiration for this man and the sacrifices he had made for me. As an adult I have a better understanding of the horrors that he would have experienced during his service for King and Country and it has made me realize that maybe some of the distance he showed in later years was actually his way of coping with the atrocities he had faced.
So although most of my memories of my Grandfather are hazy, there is one that pierces the haze like a lightening bolt. That memory is of a man who placed his own life on the line for me. A man who fought for my rights and my freedoms. A man, who like so many sacrificed so much.
Raymond Thomas du Kamp - a true hero.
I salute you Grandpa. The phrase 'thank you' will never be enough.
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