My frandfather, John Frederick Matthews, signed up for the Royal Marines in Portsmouth sometime during the early outbreak of WW2. Some time before, he also applied to Canterbury University to pursue an academic ambition. The story goes however that, at the time he discovered that he was accepted into Canterbury, he couldn't actually accept as he had, in the meantime, put his name down to become and Royal Marine Commando. He henceforth joined the Marines as a commando and served time in Germany and south-east Asia. Post war he became an secondary teacher, amateur boxer and rugby player.
Fortunately for me John was a sensitive, caring and devoted grandparent as ever one could expect to be blessed with, but maintained a reserve when it came to the subject of his wartime experiences and was, generally speaking, a quiet man. In retrospect, it's been understood by my family that he likely suffered from PTSD going by his unwillingness to talk about the war. Consequently 'Maintain peace at any cost' has been a mantra handed down via my mother Clare - we have often discussed that perhaps he was the source of this doctrine. I, being the first male in his family (having daughters Clare and Julia), seemed to invoke within him a confidante upon which I became an instrument to pass on his evidently traumatic experiences. Being an impressionable child of 7-8 (I think) my own recollections of this are somewhat scant in detail and prone to be embellished with (perhaps) fantastical remembrances. Nevertheless, one story in particular has remained etched in my mind and fresh as the day it was shared. What's more it's the only story I remember without embellishment and is therefore worth sharing.
He was positioned in Germany, apparently street fighting in a town/city with a partner who was a good friend of his and presumably near the end of the war. They were tasked with progressing upward, territorialy speaking, up a street for what end result was never made known to me. Each would take it in turn to cover the other as the other would weasel their way forward and clamber to other side of the street. This they did successfully, initially it appears, until John's partner tripped over half-way across the road. Simultaneously, my grandfather recalled, that he was witness to an horrific sight. It seems that that precise moment his friend was somehow killed by an explosive (stalk hand grenade?) device. He was scattered by it and my grandfather, understandably, became traumatised by the incident.
Following that, he sailed away to somewhere in South-East Asia where he saw no action and returned to England.
If anyone could help me with any of the factual or spuriously asserted facts I would be most grateful. I'm trying to find out more about who he was with and the circumstances surrounding his services and experiences.
Does anyone reading this know John? He was married to Ruth McCucheon (sp) and had two daughters Clare (my mother) and Julia. They lived in Shoreham, West Sussex. His ancestry is Welsh but he himself was born in England c.1924. His dream was to move to New Zealand but never made it here. I'm in New Zealand as a result of Clare inheriting his wishes.
