Remembering and celebrating: the power of the human spirit

As Remembrance Sunday approaches, I always find myself looking back and looking forward – taking stock of my life and wondering what lies in store for the year ahead. It’s a time of the year that has always resonated with me, particularly as I watch my dad reflecting on his own past and future.

His name is Bernard but he’s been known as ‘Bunny’ since childhood. As a young boy, he was given what he was told were two male rabbits but they turned out to be a male and female. He ended up with more than 20 rabbits and a nickname that never left him.

He’s 93 now and I know he will be doing a lot of reflecting, as he always does, as The Last Post is sounded on Sunday.

It’s only in recent years that he has really opened up about his experiences serving in the Second World War and I would like to take the liberty of sharing some of his story – not to make him out as hero (which he is to me, of course) but to show that there are still some things worth celebrating in Britain at this time of negativity and turmoil.

My dad was a rear gunner in the RAF, having enlisted in 1941. He was only 15 at the time but lied about his age. His determination to serve had not been dampened by the fact that one of his three brothers had already been killed in action by the time he joined up. He was to lose a second brother later in the War.

In 1945, still aged only 19, he came close to losing his own life when his aircraft was shot down while flying a sortie over the Bay of Biscay. Although his collar bone and both his ankles were broken, he managed to eject and parachute into the sea.

There, he managed to link up with his more seriously injured skipper, who had also parachuted into the water, and the pair were able to inflate a small dinghy.

My dad was in the water for 24 hours before he was rescued but his skipper didn’t make it, dying in my dad’s arms.

When help finally did arrive, there was a remarkable twist. My dad’s mayday had been picked up by someone on a nearby Royal Navy vessel who, it turned out, had attended the same school as my dad. They remained close and I later came to know him as ‘Uncle Cecil’.

My dad’s experiences have made him a great champion of ex-servicemen. He was chairman of the Air Gunners Association in London, a member of the Union Jack Club and a member of the Goldfish Club – for people who have escaped an aircraft by parachuting into water.

He’s extremely empathetic towards others who have experienced active service, but my mind just boggles at what he had to go through personally.

In his day, there were none of the support mechanisms available now to help ex-servicemen through mental trauma. They had to deal with it themselves, and my dad had to deal with being shot down, clinging to life in a dinghy and his skipper dying in his arms.

So, I’ll be thinking about that image on Sunday, and about the power of the human spirit.

It will be even more poignant this year because my dad is one of a dwindling band of people who served in the Second World War. There used to be so many them marching in the Remembrance Sunday parades. Now, so few of them are still alive.

But those few survivors remain an anchor during these times of intense turbulence and uncertainty – a reminder there are still good things to celebrate in Britain.

There’s a lot to be proud of. And I’m very proud of my dad.