War Heroes

I never knew my grandfather. But the Italians at Tabrouk did. Rommel did. Franco’s brother did. Khrushchev did. The Prince of Russia did. My father was proud of all that. One May evening he took out all the pictures of his father; black-and-white, with their hates and their perfectly ironed suits, always smoking, always drinking as they sat on some white couches. These were the 50s. The 50s didn’t belong to my grandfather. But the 40s did. The War did.

            The War hung on my father’s wall. When I was a child, he’d point at them and tell me that one day they’d all be mine. I looked up at the rifles. There were six of them. The shot-pistols were in the cupboard. I learnt how to shoot with them. Just aim and fire, my father told me, closing one eye and pointing at the soup-cans lined against the wall. Back then, the gun felt heavy against my shoulder. The gun on the wall all had their story; one was from the Italy of nineteenth century that my grandfather had won in some hunting competition, there was the gun the men had trailed and liberating all of Europe with, there was a Nazi machine gun.  My father had picked all of these up at sporadic stores, saying that they’d just lain there unwanted. He admired the craftsmanship of the machine gun and when I asked him if it had killed some one he answered that it had been the war.  He said the same thing when I found the name of some German solider inked at the back of a heavy helmet.  There were four of them; two Germans, an Italian and a British. The man who wore the Italian helmet had had a small head. My sister asked if the men who wore these were still alive.  My father gave the same answer as before; it was the war. My mother despised them. For me, they gave me an unarguable A during show-and-tell.

            I grew up with the war just like my father grew up with it and his father before him. It was said my grandfather barely talked about it.  Over time, he’d just mention fragments between dinner or golfing or one of those long car rides between Madrid and Alicante back when Franco was alive.  One time, when my they were shopping for lamp shades he said he’d seen one made out of human skin back in the concentration camps. Nothing more was said about it. Like nothing more was said about his friends who died in Tabrouk, face-down in the sand or how the horses had been nailed to the ground during the crossing. What was said was that there were too many flies in Tabrouk and that the Italians were cowards and the Poles used too much ammunition and kept asking for more. 

            My grandfather never went back to Germany.  My grandmother told me this after I’d realised the striking similarities between my grandfather and my father.  When I asked why she told me that he wanted nothing more to do with them.  My grandfather belonged to a generation of men that no longer exist. They were the gentleman of the Empire, the generation which would lose their homes with the war. These were the nomads that had formed the heart of the British glory. My grandfather saw his generation disappear over night and in that instant they’d become homeless. People now only talk about these people in history books. But like a gentleman, he’d ridden a horse to war. Like a gentleman, he never visited Germany again.

            People say I get my sweet tooth from him, along with my eyes. My father’s favourite chocolates were Maltersers in the little tin red box. My grandfather loved them and it was my father’s duty to give them to him every Christmas. It is said he ate it in a matter of minutes.

            In my family tree, the date of his birth is wrong. No one can agree on the year on his birth. Just like I’m unable to find a right name for him.  I never met him yet he knew what to call me.  Grandpapa sounds foreign to my tongue. But he was a foreigner. Grandpapa grew up in a place, which no longer exists. A place full of tigers, a jungle full of birds, white hats, white canopies, endless summers, moustaches, brandy, Rudyard Kipling. Grandpapa grew up in a place just as foreign as he is. This place no longer exists, as it became the War.

All I can say is that, The War lives with my family and I will live in the War.