The heartache of a soldier’s return

THE weather on December 22, 1945, was rainy, cold and damp. The wind was blowing along Thornaby station platform as the train from Liverpool drew in — but I was coming home! I had been away for almost four years, which seemed like a lifetime. For many nights, on a hammock aboard the troopship Leopoldville to the jungles of Burma, I would lay awake thinking of home, shedding a silent tear for those I’d left behind. I would think of the night I’d arrive, and in my mind’s eye the platform of Thornaby station was paved with gold. I travelled home from Bombay aboard the troopship Queen Of Bermuda along with another Thornaby lad, Joe Dobson, and we each had heavy kitbags. Joe’s dad was there to meet him and he helped me carry my kitbag to the bus stop at the bridge end. I learned later that my own dad had spent most of the day at the train station waiting to meet me, but having been given false information on train arrivals, had gone home. I got off the No. 8 bus at the end of Beechwood Road and struggled with my kit to the front door of No. 8. Home, sweet home, at last! The door opened and my sister, Joan, stood there. She was taken aback and all my good intentions of what I would say were forgotten. With a great lump in my throat, I said: ‘Does Mr Pollock live here?’ The tears welled up in my eyes. ‘It’s our John,’ she called into the room, but I’m sure those she was calling knew in their hearts who had knocked at the door. As I dropped my kit, my dad was there with outstretched hand and I knew from the trembling of his body as I hugged him that he was so relieved to see me. Nell, Marie, Joan, Matty — Nell’s new husband — and the baby were there, and we were soon hugging and kissing each other. ‘Where’s Mam?’ I asked. ‘She’s just round the corner at Sally Payne’s.’ ‘What about Bill [my brother]?’ A brave look from my dad and a gulp from his throat — a moment I shall never forget — which hid a broken heart. ‘He’s gone, John.’ I often wonder how many times my dad must have rehearsed those words and how he would say them. My worst fears had been realised. I cried and they all cried with me. I had left my station, Kajamalai, at the end of November, and at that time my mam and dad’s most recent news of Bill was that he was a PoW of the Japanese. I had told my mam and dad not to worry any more as I was coming home. PoWs had been arriving in India on their way home from Japan and Java since the end of September 1945, and I knew they had priority on aircraft flying home. I had hoped that when I got home, Bill would be there. Alas, it was not to be. I couldn’t wait to see my mam. Sally Payne’s house was only five minutes’ walk away and when I got there, my mam was in the front room, where she had been helping at a party. I stood in the darkness in the kitchen and when my mam came in, we threw our arms around each other. Crying and sobbing, she said: ‘Only one, only one’ — words I will never forget.