My father was George Sydney Wright ('Sydney' to my mother and 'Lefty' to his friends in his regiment). He served with 154 Regiment R.A. from Jan. 1941 to Oct. 1945.
I was born in Brampton, Cumberland in 1940 and consequently never knew my father until I was five years old. During the war I lived with my mother,
my grandparents and my aunt, whose husband was killed-in-action in Burma, May 1945.
When my father returned from the war he could not find a job, so he crossed the Irish Sea to Northern Ireland where he found work in the Civil Service in 1947. Of course my Mother and I accompanied him and this is where problems began. At such a tender age I found it extremely difficult to bond with the 'stranger' who had taken me away from the people I regarded as my family and ever since I have suffered from insecurity and a good deal of guilt.
I am very proud of his war record and think of him as a wonderful man, but I never could feel the son-to-father bond. I'm afraid I was much more bonded to my Grandfather. World War II still tortures its victims!
My father died playing bowls in June 1995 aged seventy-five. He collapsed on the green with a heart attack. Never once did he speak of his war exploits even though he was involved in the Battle of El Alamein
and was in action at Ortona in Italy.
I am a retired schoolteacher and songwriter. In my spare time I have composed the following song about our relationship. I also have some photographs. Thanks for reading this and a great big thank-you to the Royal Corps of Signals, 154 Field Regiment R.A.
(Leics. Yeomanry)
The lyrics to my song are as follows...
VICTIMS WITH NO COMMON GROUND
In came the soldier, fresh from El Alemein’s war,
Home from the deserts of death where boys became men.
No scars on his body, he kept them where nobody saw,
And I was too young to let Daddy be more than a friend.
Too young to swap families, starting new life with the hurt,
Too young for the change that would season a five year old heart;
He crossed the threshold with medals that hung from his shirt,
And I crossed the Rubicon ever to hold us apart.
Victims of war, we were victims of uncaring war,
Innocence suffers long after the last rifle round;
Father and son, linked by our blood and no more,
No ties that were real, just victims with no common ground.
And I watched him grow old and cope with the life that we led,
We cut two roads through time, two roads that rarely were wed;
With no one to blame, if you don’t count El Alemein’s hell,
It don’t matter now, but I wish I’d been there when he fell.
Victims of war, we were victims of uncaring war,
Innocence suffers long after the last rifle round;
Father and son, linked by our blood and no more,
No ties that were real, just victims with no common ground.
(Words & Music by Raymond Wright)
