My Dad, A Hero

Ordinary Hero story submitted by Ruth Ryan

My Dad was a hero. He must have been – he went to war to fight for king and country!

As kids we heard nothing about the war from Dad who arrived back when we were 5 and 3.
 
Mum shared her few stories but Dad never mentioned his time in the RNZAF as a navigator.

We knew he had trained in Canada, took leave in New York, then transferred to England and flew across Holland to drop food parcels. His plane was hit once so Dad was needed to help fly it home. I wonder what that entailed.
 

Dad’s letters

After Dad died Mum gave me a box of letters, written to her twice a week for all those years. They were not censored in any way and made heart-wrenching reading.

Dad hated every minute of his duty to the country. He wondered what made him volunteer to serve away from his young family in a situation that was either very boring for him when training, or very upsetting when on a sortie.

Flying across the English Channel to the target, as scheduled, was so awful for him that he spent the time sitting on the chemical toilet calling out figures to the pilot.

Later he confessed that he enjoyed going over to collect the Prisoners Of War and once took British dignitaries to view the damage, although he could not bear to look at it.
 

Anzac Day

I grew to hate Anzac Day. Dad would be very quiet for the days leading up to it, but would jump at any loud noise and became most agitated on the day.

He would load us into the car and sit away from the service at the memorial, but within earshot, until the Last Post was played and the gun salute finished.

He wouldn’t say a word throughout. We would go home for lunch and sometimes Dad would explode over some minor thing that wasn’t right, storm off in the car, returning later as though nothing had happened.
 
I suspect Dad’s story is familiar to others.

My dad was a hero. He fought for king and country.