When security was as simple as a padlock…

Or how one thing can lead to another…
I was recently at Normandy Barracks in Leconfield, East Yorkshire. The reason for my visit was to see the chapel where there was a plaque commemorating the 6 servicemen killed at 8:45am on 13th October 1956. They were:
- Sergeant B Jones
- Corporal J Bryant
- Corporal W E Lewis
- Corporal A E J Smith
- Lance Corporal V C Bowers
- Sapper J E Coates



Uncle Jimmy (after whom I get my middle name) was the corporal named above. He was only in his early twenties, and of course we never knew each other. After Pa died last year I realised that I needed to do more investigation into the circumstances surrounding his death (it was not something Pa spoke of very much).
The accident occurred on a single track railway when an unauthorised train was allowed onto the track and a head on collision occurred. The 6 men were in a wooden box van on the train which was reduced to matchwood. Although there was an enquiry and there were questions in the House of Commons afterwards about safety, I got the impression that the failure to use a token to control access to the line was a normal occurrence, but the fog that day led to the crash and deaths.
I had tracked the crash to Longmoor railway line, and by the benefit of the Internet tracked down the editor or the Royal Engineer veterans magazine where many years ago a photo of the crash had been published. He, amazingly, put me in touch with a friend of Uncle Jimmy's who was on the train at the time, and had run back to the signal box to summon assistance.
As a result of these investigations I discovered that a memorial to the 6 was in the chapel at Longmoor but would have been moved in the 70's when the Transport Corp moved. There were family recollections of it being near Kingston Upon Hull so I contact the RE Association there, and discovered that the chapel contents had been transferred to Normandy Barracks. Jimmy's memorial was there! To boot, Pa had been made an honorary member of the RE Association there, and attended the annual ceremony in the chapel and knew of the plaque's existence. A poor quality photograph was around, but nothing else. I resolved to visit someday and get a photo, and understand more.
What was really quite weird was that 1981 whilst a student at Hull Uni, I had paid a visit to the Barracks to visit an old schoolmate of Pa's. Pa did not know of - and so did not mention - that his brother's memorial was there. The visit was off the cuff, and (being 1981) a scruffy student cycling up to the guardhouse asking if there was an officer by the name of W E (surname redacted) on site caused a little excitement - but I was let in and spent a pleasant afternoon with Pa's chum, his wife and young daughter (crawling then, but now must be in her 30's).
Anyway, on our recent visit to the area we made an appointment to visit the chapel and amongst some beautiful stained glass, Jimmy and his 5 colleagues plaque was found. Mission accomplished.
On leaving the chapel we were chatting to the verger and she pointed out the telephone box just around the corner. It was red. "So" you might say, but this is 01482 territory and telephone boxes are white in the independent Hull telephone area.
So, to the point of the tale. This phone box was from the WWII era, when Halifax bombers were stationed here - the phone box was the only contact point the aircrew had with the outside world. The reason the box was still in place was that it still had the hasp end of the padlock used to lock the phone box shut. The reason for the padlock? Once aircrew were assigned to a mission they were permitted a phone call to someone (a veteran reportedly called his priest); but as the briefing for the mission was being given the phone box was padlocked shut to prevent word of the targets being leaked either deliberately or accidentally.
Imagine that. No go on, imagine that, really - imagine that. Complete communication lockdown with a simple padlock.

Cpl A G Bryant

L/Cpl D A Bryant

11/11/11 we will remember them

I've finally worked out why strolling the streets of London has this effect...

And by effect I mean a degree of melancholy. It's not a bad thing, it just is. But it's because as soon as I hit the streets of the more historical areas of London it inevitably brings back memories. Memories of Pa explaining the sights, statues, buildings, history etc; and in later years either talking to Pa on the phone about a recent trip or calling him whilst in town, to find out something I'd forgotten (the location of the London Stone comes to me mind see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Stone - I was within a 100 yards or so, but could not recall quite where it should be).

For a (right bloody (c) Peter Sellers) Yorkshireman, he knew a lot about London. He could have passed the knowledge test for taxi drivers I should think. He made a decent tour guide too (as long as you weren't a bloody tourist!).

So I walk these streets with memories, and echoes of times gone by.

And, it seems, almost inevitably, I end up in the very first pub Dad took me (and me alone). We'd been shooting at the rifle club under Somerset House, and as usual I'd "whopped his ass" with the pistol. Having finished we wanted to quench thirsts. We went to the Wellington on the corner of The Strand. I was under age, so had a soft drink (I think I declined the offer of alcohol as I was dry having got stupidly (stupid as in drinking in the evening without having eaten anything ALL DAY) drunk the previous Christmas at the Curry's Loughton staff do). We returned home to Essex by tube.

A few months later I returned with some school friends, having some time to kill before a demonstration of quadrophonic playback at the IEEE around the corner. This demo was especially good, as it feature Atom Heart Mother by Pink Floyd. "I know a pub" i declared - as if they would be hard to find ;-) Happy days!

A few decades later, and I'm back again. It's hardly changed, except the prices and the cigarette smoke.

Dad, RIP

We interred Pa yesterday at the Epping Forest Woodland Burial Park.

Start the clocks - 1 year on

If I've done this right this post will be appear 1 year to the minute since Dad died.

If you're familiar with Auden (or more likely - Four Weddings and a Funeral) you'll know of the poem Funeral Blues [discussed (but not reproduced) at Wikipedia] by W H Auden, it starts with the famous words "Stop the clocks".  It is (so I hope) legally reproduced here: Funeral Blues

Well, the day before Dad died was a Friday, and that's the day I wind the clock in my office.  I've even a repeat appointment in my diary to remind me (you'd think I'd remember!).  But on this Friday I'd spent most of the day at the Hospice with Dad, although (to be honest), he wasn't really with it any longer.  I got a few moments of conversation with him, but the morphine and other drugs were by now leaving him largely asleep or  detached from the outside world.  Still, it was good, and right, to be there.

However, towards the end of the afternoon, I returned home as we had a long standing dinner engagement with some friends (who, having been through this recently would be able to a) pass on their experience, and b) provide something different from the last week whilst Dad had been at the Hospice).  During the meal, I turned my phone to silent (I cannot bear phone calls in restaurants) and enjoyed their company.  However, after coffee was ordered I looked at my phone and saw I'd missed a couple of calls.

I went outside to check them, and they were from the my family at the Hospice - they were visiting Dad and things seemed to be getting worse.
We quickly abandoned further plans for the evening, and I took the car and rushed down to be there.  Dad was more poorly, but (sort of) stable.  For hours we stayed, talked, and tried to decide what to do.  In the end, two of us stayed over and slept in the lounge area, to be close.  With very clear instructions to be woken if anything should change.

In the morning, things were pretty much the same, and we spent the day waiting to see how things would develop.  I suspected (although I could not confirm it until over a week later), that during the morning Dad was placed on the LCP (Liverpool Care Pathway).  His condition deteriorated with almost imperceptible progress.

During the afternoon, suspecting I'd be spending a further night there, I called my wife, and arranged to meet midway to pick up a bag of clothes and so on, so that I could feel a little more human.  And then returned to the Hospice.

That evening we took dinner in shifts, so that someone would always be there, and as the evening wore on, I decided to stay down there again.  As we were making arrangments, and sorting things out, we were called back to Dad's room with some urgency. At 22:01 he died.

Over the next few days we did what you do, but eventually I had to return to the office to sort out some work stuff and there I discovered, that having forgotten to wind my office clock, it had stopped about 1 hour before Dad died.  For some reason I wasn't eager to start it.  No psychobabble, or soft hippy sentiment here, just plain didn't want to.  Only a few days later I recalled the poem.

Over the coming months, nothing changed.  But a year on, it's time to move on a further step into the "new normal".  About now, I will wind the clock, think of Dad, and remember.

So, Doctor Who's back. And there's something I'd forgotten for years.

Whilst looking around at the net after the news of Elisabeth Sladen's death I found this web page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Bryant - and I had completely forgotten about him.

As a kid when the credits rolled at the end of the programme I got a vicarious thrill of seeing my name appear week after week. My family would disabuse me, and maybe say it was my Uncle Peter. But I experienced the thrill nonetheless.

Friends and family might be more amused if they read the entry more carefully (email me if you don't see why!).

52 weeks ago today... Chinese Grand Prix

I drove down to Harlow to visit my father in the Hospice. Since he'd become quite ill with the cancer that was to kill him, I'd used sporting occasions to provide a reason to go and visit and spend some time with him, without turning it into a "visiting the sick" scenario. He knew and understood that, and was grateful for it.

During February and March it was, of course, the Six Nations Rugby, that provided the reason. We'd watch a match or three, criticise England and the BBC, but have a (as much as possible) good time, it meant a lot to me, and I believe it did for him.

After the rugby comes the Formula 1 season with it's generally boring processions around circuits. Our fascination with it had diminished over the last few years as off the track stuff (politics, strategy, pit lane stuff) took over from raw driving to make it less of a spectacle.

But a year ago I drove down to watch the replay of the Chinese Grand Prix with dad, when I got there he was in a deep sleep, but the TV was on - sound muted. I sat quietly, not daring to read my paper in case the rustling of the Sunday Telegraph might wake him; and gathered what I could of the race from the footage. An hour or two after the race finished, dad woke, fairly briefly and i discovered that he'd watched the live broadcast that morning having been unexpectedly awake early. We chatted for a bit, and he went back to sleep. I stayed a few more hours, hoping he'd wake again, but he slept heavily. So eventually I left him to it and returned home.

Today was the Chinese Grand Prix again, and this time it was chock full of excitement, good driving and entertainment. I don't recognise last year's race from this at all: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Chinese_Grand_Prix

Dad would have liked it though.

Great news, but 18 months too late for this household

I just hope it works well...

It was ten a half years ago tonight. Another subtle shift in perspective.

I did my usual thing of scanning the teletext pages for the local honours handed out to anyone I might know, when my jaw hit the floor. In Essex Mr R Bryant MBE "For services to justice in North London". I was immediately sure it was Dad as he'd been a magistrate for 20 years in Waltham Forest, and had been chair of the NE London Chancellor's advisory committee for some time (and was especially distinguished as the other 4 chairman were judges - Dad was the only, and I think first, lay chairman).

Having no broadband back then, but a working wireless setup connected to a Microsoft SBS 2000 server with modem (oh happy days!), I fired up the laptop and hooked up to the net and searched around. There I found the website from Buckingham Palace, which showed a similar report, without being *absolutely* sure I was convinced it was him.

Dad had kept completely and utterly schtum on the matter. As he had to.

The following morning, having set a completely unusual Saturday alarm, I rang and asked to speak to 'Mr R Bryant MBE'. "How the hell did you find out?" was his, frankly, shocked response. "Curiosity and the Internet Dad!!". I then explained.

Tonight, catching tweets on this year's New Year Honours, I realise that I'm no longer really bothered by it all, and will catch up with it all in the morning. It doesn't really matter now... Another subtle shift in perspectives.

Timezones, oddness and Dad again.

I'm back in Barnes and Noble, using the free wifi to catch up with life back home, and it struck me. Back home, it's 1:20 in the morning of the 23rd; what would have been Dad's 77th birthday.

It's not a time for celebration, but commemoration. But with a 5 hour time shift, should i be marking it already? My family are all there (but asleep i hope!). But I'm not. How am i supposed to react, how am i supposed to behave, think, respond?

There are no rules, except to do what feels right at the time. And right now? I don't know.

All i can be sure of is that my Mother and my sister will wake up in a few hours, and be acutely aware of his absence. Over here, i shall miss him (as i have all week i've been here, oddly). But i've got a project to finish, bags to pack, and flights to catch home. Dad's birthday this year will be a few hours shorter, does that make it actually different? Who knows. I've had 2 long birthdays, 32 and 29 hours long. They were nothing special...

Wish you were here Dad.

Wunderbar, another large bookshop!

Dad, books, Starbucks, and Americans

One of things that joined Dad and me was a love of reading. We'd share books and not infrequently buy the same one and end up bringing it to share and get the "nope, read it!" response.

So one of the less obvious ways I miss him is literature. Dad didn't have a great love of America (I often told him, "I don't like Americans either Dad; but then again, I've not met one I didn't like". And that's true, the global image of the 300lb yank in bermuda shorts and hawai'ian shirt failing to comprehend a foreign language and foreign currency is stereotypically wrong, but out there.

Dad also deplored the rise and rise of the "Mall". Here in Lexington the area of Hamburg seems to be one extended Mall over a few square miles. But there is a Barnes and Noble. Big corp they may be, but it's also a temple to the printed word (and of course there are others - bigger or better - to be found). B&N have been holding events this week to encourage schoolkids to buy books and get into reading, and that's a wonderful gift, if accepted.

And finally Dad intensely disliked Starbucks' inability just to serve him a simple coffee.

So as I'm sitting in the Starbucks franchise at Barnes and Noble in Lexington, Kentucky; that gives me a lot to think about.

Although Dad never came this way, I think (in the end) he'd have liked this place; and knowing that simultaneously gives me pleasure; and sadness for all the books we won't share anymore...

1st July 1916 - Battle of the #Somme begins

Lance Corporal David Albert Bryant S/9024 Rifle Brigade RIP

My Great-Great Uncle died on the first day of the Somme, yet it was only last year that our family found out he existed. Why it was kept a secret I don’t know, but I do know that my grandfather (who was 15 at the time) was named after him. Maybe the shock of his loss made it easier just to keep quiet. Different years, different times.

But Uncle David is (and has always been) remembered at Thiepval, along with over 70,000 other whose bodies were never identified or found.

Before my Father died earlier this year, we managed to get to the Somme to visit his memorial, and remember him properly.

Just 2 months and 2 days later, his brother Corporal Alfred George S/8324 also of the Rifle Brigade was killed.

Eulogy for my father

Last Friday was my father's funeral.  I spoke about him at the funeral, and a number of people of have asked me what I said.  I'd like loads of people to know what he was like.  So here it is:

"Dad and I spoke a bit over the years about this moment – we concluded that it was better this way round than him speaking about me – but he did grant me that it would’ve spared me the effort of writing and reading this! It doesn’t make it much easier, but he knew I had some ideas, and, as recently as our trip to the Somme only a few weeks ago, I promised not to be too rude or unfair :-).

The first thing I ever discussed with dad was an overall description of him – I put to him two choices I had in mind “Cantankerous old sod” or “Cantankerous old bugger”. After the briefest of discussion, and with a big grin on his face, Dad chose “Cantankerous Old Sod” as this runs off the tongue so much better.

But that does him a great disservice. The first words that I thought about once I started typing were Duty, Honour, Service, Loyalty. Having read things people have written about him, more descriptions come to the fore: morally strong, great principles, widely respected, good sense of humour (just as well), champion of justice, generous, a good friend to many (as we know from all the cards), a great character, dignity and courage.

These last two qualities, along with strength of character, were displayed to the full in his last months.

I’d add one more attribute - my godmother said this week– “he was always tolerant of others’ views” – she didn’t add, even hers :-)

So, what can I tell of dad? Over the years I filed away stories dad told, things he said in order to do him justice today. I don’t have long, so necessarily will not complete the task, but I hope a few things will paint a good picture.

Often when my sister and I complained about the hard life we were experiencing Dad would tell us of his childhood spud picking. He wanted to explain to us that life was much easier for us than it was for him: getting up in the dark and picking spuds until late evening spending hours bent over the fields – and all for nobbut 3 farthings. Many years later, his mother told us a similar tale of how he tried spud picking for a day, lasted 10 minutes and then came home. I rather suspect the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Dad went to school at Duke of York’s Royal Military School in Dover. Known as Dukies, the boys led a near military life which, “I think”, made Dad. He had many memories, but I think one of his proudest was marching down the Champs Elysée in Paris for Liberation Day in 1950. On the same trip, he got to ride in an amphibious assault vehicle on the D-day beaches.

After school he went to Sandhurst and joined Ypres Company of New College – and I think this may have been the beginning of his lifelong interest in the battles of Northern France in World War I.

Dad told that at Sandhurst he had a knack for getting into trouble effortlessly:
Once there was a crush to get out of the class. Being at the back Dad decided to leave via the window. Unfortunately a passing CSM with (as Dad put it) nothing better to do spotted him. Apparently this was the equivalent of regicide and Dad got a huge rocket, he was told to return and leave properly, but to go back the way he came in. Obedient as ever he climbed back through the window, to be met by the lecturer, a Major. Diametrically opposed in his views to those of the CSM, he considered entering a room via a window “should be covered by the Ten Commandments”. Dad said the Major proceeded to demonstrate his considerable ability in both the English and bad language. The saving grace in all this for Dad was that whilst exercising their vocal chords neither man thought to take his name. He said it taught him one lesson of value throughout his life since. ALWAYS SIT NEAR THE EXIT!

Dad signed up for the West Yorkshire Regiment (Prince of Wales’ Own), Fourteenth Regiment of Foot, his family’s regiment (a big mistake as he later discovered). He served in Malaya (going there without telling his mum during his last home leave!). He also served in Northern Ireland – where in a pub in the Bogside, in army fatigues he decided it was probably safe to order a Guinness in an Irish accent. I worked there in the 80’s and it wasn’t even safe to leave the car dressed in civvies.

Dad experienced a number of accidents and major injuries in his life. The worst was in the 50’s when he was riding his bike and undertook an army lorry that he knew would be turning right into the army base. Unfortunately “know it all” Bryant was wrong, and he slammed into the left hand side of the cab and was thrown across the junction of the road. He suffered a nasty injury to the elbow, but his leg was damaged so badly it ended up shorter and he limped ever after. EVEN THIS did not complete break his silly bugger sensibilities – after 9 months of various operations and treatment he was finally heading to the hospital to have his last plaster cast removed. In early celebration of this he thought it entirely prudent to run across the road (on crutches and in plaster). Almost inevitably he put his crutch down the drain, broke his leg, and spent another 3 months in plaster!

As a result of this injury Dad was invalided out of the army – ever helpful the Army gave him a career planning choice of about 1, and he took the Civil Service exam. He was always proud that in the English exam he came first across the whole intake. His prize (for so it was considered!) was to work for the Inland Revenue. He worked his way up the ladder over the years studying evenings and weekends and worked in several London offices finishing at London Somerset House working on special projects. He made many friends in the Revenue, and although it was not his 1st career – he made a good success of it; although he told me on several occasions that his “calling a spade a shovel” attitude may have been career limiting! He joined and led the Inland Revenue Rifle Club at Somerset House for many years, and continued shooting after retirement, stopping only when the range was closed down after the 1998 ban.

But although the accident and working at the Revenue were not Dad’s first plan, if these had not happened then Mum and Dad would not have met at his friend’s party. Mum had been invited by her friend and flatmate. Six months later they were married (adlib here, "mum and dad, not mum and her flatmate"). At the risk of sounding immodest, within a couple of years, they had 2 of the most beautiful and well mannered children the world has known.

One of Dad’s distinguishing features was his beard. I have no firm recollection of him without it, but it came about because in the 60’s Dad was in a bad car crash in Yorkshire and badly damaged several fingers. As a result shaving became difficult as he always poked himself in the eye with his now rigid little finger, thus he grew the beard that he kept ever after.

After the car crash he took up canoeing; which led to sailing which he then taught for Waltham Forest, gaining various RYA certification and skills, including navigation (although I have to confess his first crossing of the Channel with a just a Silva compass and a 1 page chart was not his best decision!)

It was no surprise then, that he joined the RNLI and (inevitably!) became the local treasurer.

Dad claimed that my confirmation was only the second time he’d been in St Edmunds RC church in Loughton. I was touched that he should break a great abstinence in order to witness it. However I think the Governor upstairs took his revenge on Dad as all the photos he took of me with the Bishop came out black!

I’m glad to say that although I inherited from Dad a full head of hair, extreme height, good looks and svelte figure; much more importantly I inherited:
• an unquenchable pride in being English
• a lifelong regret I’m not a Yorkshire man
• A strong belief in fairness, equality and justice.

Throughout the time I really knew him, he was always a keen supporter of the underdog, (perhaps this explains his love for the Yorkshire and England sporting teams...) Despite his army history, he was generally scandalised by war, and I am relieved that he never fired a shot in anger in Malaya and therefore never had to regret something there.

Despite his injuries he maintained a strong interest in many sports especially snooker, F1, Rugby and shooting – and he really enjoyed watching the Army 7’s rugby team beat the professionals at Twickenham on more than 1 occasion.

Last week my wife said that if Dad did something, he normally ended up running it. She is absolutely right, but it is not only that, his choices from the Army onwards were characterised by service to the community, not just hobbies. Teaching sailing, being a magistrate, Venture Scouts, RNLI, his Union, the gun club, his school’s Old Boys Association.

In his latter years, he was a benefactor to a number of good causes: he sponsored a retired Ghurkha (he’d served with them in Malaya), the Thiepval memorial visitor centre at the Somme, Duxford’s air museum. All things that he saw as worthy causes deserving his support. Last year he was surprised and shocked to find that despite many visits to the Somme, he had 2 previously unknown Great Uncles who’d served and died there. I was very glad he got to go back one more time to see their memorials.

Lastly, a personal memory. The time I saw Dad laugh the most was when Mum and Dad came up to Norfolk one time.  After we parked the car, I was reaching onto the back seat to fetch something. Dad, with his back to me, leant his weight against the door to close it trapping my upper arm. Entirely innocently Dad continue to apply further pressure until my exclamations of discomfort made him look round. When he saw what was happening he burst into the biggest and longest burst of laughter I can ever remember from him. Of course, I joined in as well. To be honest I’m not really sure why it was funny, and I’m not sure he did either, but it was!

And that’s how I’d like to remember him"