In the good old days, when Hackney still had a proper swimming pool, I used to do lengths every morning with an old boy called Bob.
And, because I recognised him as a man of a particular generation, I used to prod him in the changing room afterwards to tell me his war stories.
But Bob only ever told me one and it was rather depressing. He’d served in Palestine and one day his convoy had been ambushed by Irgun or Stern gang terrorists. Among those terrorists he and his fellow soldiers had shot while defending themselves was a young pregnant woman. ‘They called us the Baby Killers, after that.’
(to read more, click here)
- How The West Was Lost (ctd): the Burkini
- Welcome to ManBearPighaven: the lovely new home that your carbon taxes bought
- I’m learning to fight my demons: One man’s struggle with depression
- In the swim
2 thoughts on “Grandfather’s footsteps”
Comments are closed.