If you have been reading my blogs over the past 52 weeks, you will know by now that I was adopted and have quite recently found both my birth mother and father's families. In this the final week, I had planned to write about my grandfather, Bill Anderson, who, because of how and where he died, was responsible for reuniting me with six half siblings despite the fact I had already discovered my birth father had died. My grandfather's story will be told shortly, but just so I can achieve the goal of writing about 52 different ancestors over a 52 week period, I want to share a couple of letters he sent home to his wife, Annie, and the poem it inspired his daughter to write in 1990 which I find very moving.
Written prior to his capture in June 1942 My Father was a Baker
I never knew my father
He didn’t know me.
But today I received a letter
Written when I was three.
A little scrap of paper
Barely four by five
But how the words on that scant page
Made him come alive !
Concern for his family
Hopes for better times.
Thoughts of Spring in Scotland
Written in simple lines.
Nothing in the way of news,
The censor had his way,
But just to say he was alive
Was sufficient for the day.
What were his thoughts I wonder ?
What visions did he see ?
A bakers shop, prosperity,
Back in liberty ?
He knew not then his fate was sealed,
And he’d come home no more
Only in his wistful dreams
Would he see our island’s shore.
I never knew my father
He didn’t know me.
But today I received a letter
Written when I was three.
A little scrap of paper
Barely four by five
But how the words on that scant page
Made him come alive !
Concern for his family
Hopes for better times.
Thoughts of Spring in Scotland
Written in simple lines.
Nothing in the way of news,
The censor had his way,
But just to say he was alive
Was sufficient for the day.
What were his thoughts I wonder ?
What visions did he see ?
A bakers shop, prosperity,
Back in liberty ?
He knew not then his fate was sealed,
And he’d come home no more
Only in his wistful dreams
Would he see our island’s shore.
Sent from POW Camp 54 In 21st Field Bakery
Royal Army Service Corps.
Their daily job to feed the troops
Who soon would fight no more.
Then later dad was captured
In enemy camp enclosed
Detained by Hitler’s henchmen
Their will on him imposed.
I wonder if he baked their bread ?
Did they commandeer his skill ?
Did he have cause to wish them dead,
Or did he bear no ill ?
So many questions in my mind
So much I’ll never know
Strange it should take fifty years
For this interest to grow.
Royal Army Service Corps.
Their daily job to feed the troops
Who soon would fight no more.
Then later dad was captured
In enemy camp enclosed
Detained by Hitler’s henchmen
Their will on him imposed.
I wonder if he baked their bread ?
Did they commandeer his skill ?
Did he have cause to wish them dead,
Or did he bear no ill ?
So many questions in my mind
So much I’ll never know
Strange it should take fifty years
For this interest to grow.
As a child I remember
The kids with dads would brag,
Vying with each other
On the attributes they had.
And when they asked what mine did,
I told them with a nod,
My father was a baker
And now he bakes for God.
The kids with dads would brag,
Vying with each other
On the attributes they had.
And when they asked what mine did,
I told them with a nod,
My father was a baker
And now he bakes for God.
Written by Joan Comrie - July 1990 - about her father, Bill Anderson, who died on a train going over a bridge in Italy with hundreds of other POW’s on 28th January 1944
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