The Story of DOUGLAS HEWITT (my husband) — Part 1

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Julie Turner of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Hilda Hewitt and has been added to the site with the author’s permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

The Story of DOUGLAS HEWITT (my husband) — Part 1

Douglas Hewitt was a gunner in the Royal Artillery.

Doug joined the army before the war began, I think there were two or three more pals who joined up at the same time.

When the war was declared in 1939, Doug had to be posted abroad. Doug was stationed in South Africa, North Africa, Middle East and France.

Tubrook in North Africa was where he and his Regiment were taken prisoners. They were first taken to an Italian prison camp but later moved to Leipzig in Germany.

Doug did not talk very much about the fighting but talked about the comradeship between the men and the lighter moments.

He told me about some of the men who were prisoners with him who made their own so called alcoholic drink, which was deadly. He said it use to lay them out for about two days.

They all looked forward to getting their food parcels and letters from home.

Doug’s Mum got the telegram to say he was missing as, at that time, she was the next of kin (we were not married then). I was the first to get a letter from the prison camp to say he was safe.

I myself was working away from home in Bedford, in a factory that made ship’s engines. There were a few girls from Sheffield there. I worked on what they called a milling machine; we used to do day and night shifts. I was there for 2 years until 1945. There was an American Air Base quite near and in Summer, in the early mornings, when we had finished our shift we use to see the American aeroplanes going over in droves to bomb Germany, this was at the latter part of the War. The American Bomber didn’t fly at night, it was the RAF who did a lot of night raids over Germany.

Whilst I was at Bedford, the Germans use to drop their doodle bombs. This was very frightening, they use to sound like a motor bike engine. When the noise had stopped we knew then it had landed somewhere.

I came home from Bedford in March, 1945, 2 months before the end of the War. Doug came home in May and we got married in June 1945.

Doug was still on the Army pay roll when he came out of the Army, so when War broke out two years later in Korea, he was called up again to go to Korea but he did not pass his medical and was discharged out of the Army on medical grounds.

SOLDIERS POEMS :

These poems were found in a book kept by Doug Hewitt, who was Captured at Knightsbridge, Western Desert, 6th June, 1942.

QUIET CORNER.

The last pale roses droop and die
Beneath the Autumn rain
I wonder will you be with me
Before they bloom again
The birds have left the cottage eaves
For skies of brighter blue
But they’ll come back remembering
O’will you come back too
The air is thick with flying leaves
The year is growing old
I pray you’ll be with me
To see the new green buds unfold.
The apple boughs now red with fruit
Will soon be white with rime
God grant that you be home again
Before its Blossom time.

BRITISH RED CROSS.

Red Cross we thank you for all you do
Every day you are helping us through.
Delicious hot tea we can frequently brew.

Coffee and cocoa we thought, we’d not get.
Remember the joy of that first cigarette.
Oh for some chocolate was once the cry.
Seems that the Red Cross heard our great sigh.
Sincerely we thank you, for all you do.

Sometimes we’re browned off, or feeling blue.
Or even be feeling quite sad.
Come what mood may, there’s one thing that true.
In Red Cross we’ll always be glad.
Every parcel we have the luck to receive
Tom, Dick or Harry it’s bound to relieve.
You’ll join in with me and say that it’s true

Red Cross We Thank You.
For all that you do. Anon — P.O.W.

YE BANKS O’DOONE

Ye flowery banks O’Bonnie Doone.
How can ye blume sae fair.
How can ye chant ye little birds
And I sae fua care
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough.
Thou minds me “O” the happy days
When my faus luve was true
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate.
For sae I sat and sae I sang
And wist nao my fate.
Oft have I roved by bonnie doon
To see the Woodbine Twine
And ilka birds sang it’s tune
And sae did I’o nune
Wi lightsome heart I pud a rose
Frae off its thorny tree.
And my faust luver taw the rose
And left the thorn wi me.

THE CENOTAPH (TUBRUK)

A stark and mute grey monument
Point they finger to the skie
In sign of death, life’s sole emulment.
They finger waits to welcome, we ho die.
Those sacred rows of crosses stand
In memory of those passed on
Those ayawning pits, in the desert sands
Await those who are yet to come
A wooden cross, with a number plain
A heap of sand piled high
They loss became they countries gain.
But was it worth, ye who died.
Those wooden crosses, beseeching spread.
A symbol of one man’s love
A stained with hatreds blood instead
What thinks he, who sits above.
Surely as he gazes down
In anguish, sharp as pain
He wonders, as he sees each mound
Was my sacrifice in vain.
Did I die that those my love
|Mankind whose earthly span
Is steeped in blood, can I forgive
This cruelty of man to man. Anon — P.O.W.
CROSSES.

Each life has its crosses
And a soldier gets his share.
From a star across the ocean,
To the envied Croix De Guerre.

Thee are crosses, by the censor
Far too many, so it seems.
There are crosses, on his letters
From the girl of his dreams.

There’s a cross that’s worn by heroes
Who have faced a storm of lead,
There’s a cross, when he is wounded
And a cross when he is dead.

Then there’s that cross of mercy
That very few may own.
To a soldier it is second
To that of God alone.

It’s a cross that’s worn by a women,
When we see it, we believe
We recognise an angel
By the Red Cross on her sleeve. Anon - P.O.W.

WE WHO HAVE FAITH.

That day in June we all remember
Dim, though like smouldering ember.
The day, when roaring through the sky
Came thrilling sound of battle nigh.

Not as in the days of old
When knights in armour, so we’re told
Did pit their strength, wits and skill
And when they failed, they paid the bill.

We listened to that Battle cry
Of modern machines up in the sky
Of tanks and cars and screaming shells.
Truly we lived in Dante’s Hell.

The page of glory by some was paid
And those we could to rest, we laid
And when night fell, to our dismay
We found that we had lost the day.

The days that followed as we know
Has done their best to damp the glow.
Of a spirit, that’s stronger, by the test
Though hunger and cold have done their best.

We know that as the months go by
Freedoms cross is growing nigh
For in a land not far away
Our might is growing day by day.

That silver lining not so far
Brings memories of ones so dear.
So here I end first one word,
Smile on, keep faith and trust in God. - Sgt. P. Parry.

An optimist is the person who sees a light that is not there.

A pessimist is the person who tries to put out the light.

TO MY MOTHER.

There’s a lady that is waiting in a land o’er the sea
With a genuine welcome for you and for me.
With a smile and a kiss and a loving embrace.
Happiness glowing on her sweet smiling face.
It’s a love that is different, the love of a mother.
A love that can ne’er be shared by another
A love that is true, that is deep and sincere
Growing in depth with each passing year.
She has worked and prayed for each of her brood
Taught them to be honest, straightforward and true.
Has moulded the clay in her own special way
To weather the storms of each passing day.

She tended our needs and guarded our health
Given advice, the choice of her wealth.
Of experience gleaned in the years of her youth
Taught us with care and with patience and truth
It’s a true mother’s love, as you can see
That’s extended to us from o’er the sea
So let us remember the things she has wrought
And repay her with kindness of every sort.
There’s a lady that’s waiting in a land o’er the sea
With a homecoming welcome, when you are free.
She’ll hold you and kiss you and hold you so tight,
That’s all she prays for all days and each night. - Sgt. P. Parry.

THE CAMERON LADDIE.

I thought of mother, so old and so frail
As last night to battle we tramped
To the wail of the pipes and swirl of the kilts
As shoulder to shoulder we tramped.

I thought of my sweethearts, so young and so fair
As on through the desert we marched
To the clink of our steel and the crunch of our feet
And a thought of our duty out there.

Then in we charged, where the fighting was thickest
For twas there where out fathers had gone
With the wail of our pipes and the clash of our steel
And the cry of the clan in the air.
We fought like sons of the devil
The laddies from Hell, we were there.

And now as we lay in the desert
In rest from that bloody affair
We know there will always be Scotland
And Scotland will always be there.

SOMEWHERE UP THE BLUE.

There’s a rough wood cross, somewhere up the blue
Mid the camel scrub and the stones and sand
And the conways pass, with a fleeting view,
Of this lonely grave in a foreign land.

And to some who go, mayhaps take no heed
To others a cross, a few stones that’s all.
And even the few who stop to read
Can scarce decipher the pencilled scrawl.

There’s a number, a rank and a date
Forgotten so soon as we wonder on
Yet to someone at home who vowed to wait
It means all that’s dear in life has gone.

So if you should pass where those lone graves are
Pause to read, spare a thought or two
For the hopes that be wrecked by the Gods of War
Neath a rough wood cross, somewhere up the Blue. - A. Webster.

SOMEONE.

In bygone days when up the blue
Mid sound, flies and scorpions too.
We stuck it then because we knew
Someone is waiting at home.

An Tobruk no longer free,
Hungry and thirsty we used to be,
It is with us still, you and me
Someone is waiting at home.

Now life is better, though still barbed wire
The same thoughts still do ones heart inspire
That back in Blighty, our hearts desire.
Someone is waiting at home.

In time to some , with an end to war,
We look ahead and see hope not far,
To the day when we are back, to where our loved ones are.
Someone is waiting at home. - A. Webster.

THE DRUMMER BOY.

We laid him down to rest that night.
Beneath a starry sky.
He’s done his duty, that was best.
Was ne’er afraid to die.

Before he closed his eyes that lad
He asked me beat his drum
I beat a soft retreat for him
Ad cried for he’s my son.

He died that night my drummer boy
Yet still he wore a smile
He know I’d never forget him
For he’s all I had worthwhile.

We buried him a hero
Before a rising sun.
We bowed our head in silence
As a bound boy beat his drum. Anon - P.O.W.

HACKLES OF BLUE.

Let the world drink a toast to the bold Cameron men
Their war cries no boast, as they prove once again,
For back in the streets of a little French town
They stood in the doorways and mowed the Huns down.

And doomed though they were, no man was afraid
While Jerry fell back in his team and dismayed,
Cos had not their fathers some strange stores to tell,
Of the men who wore kilts, called the “Ladies from Hell”.

Now out in the harbour lay ships of the Fleet,
Aye bearing Britains young sons in their fine retreat,
While back on the shores, they still held the field,
For as long as he’s living no Cameron can yield.

The streets were a shambles, the gutters ran red,
The flowers of the Camerons, their life’s blood had shed,
But still they held back that mad German horde.
Till the last British Tommy was safely aboard.

TO BOBBY.

He was only a stumped tail poodle
He had no pedigree
He was born in a Libyan dust storm,
Near an Itye R.A.P.
He would do his share of line guard
And share of piquets as well,
And never a crime had Bobby
And never an A.W.L.
He saw his share of fighting
And fought like a soldier too,
For we though him to conceal and cover,
In the barracks at Merza Matruh,
He barked at the plains of Olympus,
And fought in the thick of the War,
The boys of “C” company loved him
And called young Bobby a man.
For Bobby was born a battler,
Though with none of a battlers luck,
For he who dodged live bombing,
Had to die, neath an Arab truck,
So we gave him a soldiers funeral,
It was all that we could do,
For Bobby of Tobruck was a cobber of ours,
And helped us to see it through. Anon — P.O.W.

SAND MIST.

Across the sandy wastes I gaze,
And my thoughts go back to happier days.
Spent neath trees of leafy green,
When ones eyes, were rested on a peaceful scene.

Where your reverse last for hours,
Among the sunshine and the flowers.
No winged monsters, snarling drone to spoil,
As you relax on Gods bumphous soil.

Those days are gone, they were so dear,
They’ll come again we have no fear.
Ours sights are growing dim, tears cannot hide
As the desert change to Sarnia’s country side
And when that day is over and done.
No more will I want to be a rover.
For the ship that takes me homeward bound
Forever in my heart, will be renowned.

When on deck I’ll proudly stand,
Fast nearing good Old Guernsey’s shore
I’ll say then twas not in vain,
For look boys, what we had to gain. - Anon - P.O.W.

A DYING SOLDIER’S PRAYER.

A night descends on a lonely place,
Strange shadows play on a ghostly face,
In a dusty heap in the open there
Lay a soldier who had fallen in the fray.
Blood from the battle stains his hair
As he softly murmurs an unheard prayer,
Sands from the desert, where he had fought
Where death had drawn pain.
As he lay there, a thousand thoughts find
Their passage through a tortured mind
He thinks of home and all things right,
A peaceful land on a summers night
He thinks of a girl who is waiting there
Waiting in vain to an unheard prayer.
Of rich fields, of swaying grain
A running stream a shady lane.
He turns his head, chokes back a cry.
Then wipes a tear from a tired eye.
His strength is ebbing, he’s sinking fast.
Fighting and struggling to the very last.
As the sky is filled with the light of dawn
He lies there pallied, with features drawn
He does not care, nor stir nor heed.
Another victim of another green. Anon - P.O.W.

AFTER THE WAR IS OVER.

Aft the war is over,
After the strife is done
We will go back to our homes in clover,
Back to our towns and fun.

We will sail the mighty ocean,
Back to the land, we adore,
Back to our homes and loved ones
To stay there for evermore.

We are leaving the empty spaces
Leaving our comrades who fell
Always remember their faces
As their lies, they did bravely sell.

Freedom will reign for evermore
Men will be saved from hell
Bells will be ringing and singing
The world their joys to tell.

Pr-BR

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.