My granddad was 40 when my dad was born so im closely linked to the WWII generation. He was part of the 1st battalion of The Gordon Highlanders. Fought in Africa and Italy including El Alamein, before being placed back at headquarters after D-Day.

Got some old photos.

My granddads the one in the middle. Left is my great uncle Angus.



Headquarters in Greece. In the middle at the back.




Passed away peaceful at the age 85 in 2005, 2 months shy of his 86th birthday 

Powerful stuff!

I, as you Funky, was fortunate to have known my Grandfather. He was born in Eastbourne, and served in North Africa during WWII.

I remember his stories well, and this day is a perfect day to remember them.

Thanks for sharing that beautiful poem.

My dad was Airborne during the occupational forces (Okinawa & Japan) right after WWII. He had a miserable home life, so even though he was 16, he lied about his age and enlisted in the Army. When he parachuted out of airplanes, he carried a camera (rather than a rifle) and shot many photographs of jumps. As I recall, he made more than 225 jumps overall, between training, missions and continued training. By the time I can recall anything about him (do any of us have large memories of our lives before we were 4 years old?), he was a cabinet maker with United Air Lines, working in their shops in San Bruno, building and installing (and repairing) the cabinets in the galleys of DC-3s, DC-6s and DC-7s. The United shops would go to half staffing every February, and every employees would need to take vacations during that month only. When I was 6, my family chose to visit his dad and stepmom and other family members in Minneapolis and nearby Minnesota communities. We were to fly from San Francisco to O'Hare in Chicago (with a quick stop in Denver) and take a train from Chicago to Minneapolis. They were concerned that I would be afraid of flying, so one evening I got to go to the San Bruno shops, where we entered a dark hangar with a DC-6. They were looking for a ramp so I could enter the plane normally, but it was taking a while. Meanwhile they passed me through a window into the cockpit where I got to sit in the right-hand seat and fiddle with the controls and see the instruments. Pretty cool! They found a ramp and set it up, but the lights were still not working in the plane. I was scared walking through the very dark passenger cabin to exit the plane. A week later, my dad was delighted that not only were we flying a DC-6 to Chicago, but it had the same tail number (in other words, it was the same plane) as the plane in the hangar. It was a cold February morning when we flew out of SFO. The old Denver airport was near the Rocky Mountains. Depending on wind direction, you either took off by rising quickly, or landed by diving to the end of the runway and levelling off fast. We were diving. The snow and wind were nasty. The plane was dancing in the air. It seemed like the tail was trying to touch the nose of the plane on both sides. It was noisy, bouncy, and like a roller coaster. My dad sat across the aisle from us: ashen faced, white knuckled, and sweating cold beads... My mom asked him, "Are you okay, Sid?" He answered, "Does it always make this much fuss when landing?" 225+ parachute jumps... but he had never landed in a plane before. I've never jumped... never wanted to. Why jump out of a plane capable of landing?