I Bury my Father at Sea
[My father (centre), at Arzeu, North Africa: Photo credit - IWM*]
Some time in the future I will visit Sicily, Malta, Italy and other locations on the North African coast, e.g., Beach Z near Arzeu, about 12 miles east of Oran - if all goes well and travel doesn't cost a small fortune - all sites of hostilities and invasions in the Mediterranean Sea during World War II. As my father entered the Mediterranean for the first time on a November morning in 1942, before the invasion of the Algerian coast, he remarked on the beautiful turquoise colour of the water and added that "it was a nice sun-shiny day... what a sight to behold." And as he left for the last time in late 1943, after the invasions of Sicily and Italy, he noticed holes through the half-inch steel plates of the Queen Emma "that looked like a hole punched in butter with a hot poker, like it had just melted." He had seen Heaven, he had seen Hell, and after he passed away and I learned more about his Navy days I grew to understand why he wanted to be buried at sea.
My father died on February 6, 2003 and after I'd finished building a container for his cremated remains I made the decision, actually a promise - somewhat by accident - to take his ashes to the sea. The promise eventually was fulfilled, I travelled to Halifax and, with some difficulty, found a fitting spot on the Atlantic coast where I set the container adrift. Little did I know when I made a promise in 2003 that one journey would lead to another, then another and another and that I would get more fully drawn into my father's WW2 experiences and adventures.
[The SS Silver Walnut is ready to sail upon the waves of the Atlantic]
Though reading some of his 'Navy Days' newspaper articles and finding his hand-written Navy memoirs and moved me toward a door of discovery, the promise (made in spring, 2003) and its fulfillment (completed in summer, 2010) pushed me through it.
Spring 2003 -
My father died in Parkwood Hospital, London on February 6, 2003, 26 months after my mother passed away, and before he died the matter concerning where he would be buried had been settled. He decided to have his ashes interred in Norwich next to his wife and not thrown upon a distant wave in the Atlantic Ocean where few, if any, of his children would ever be able to go to remember him.
How my father reached that decision is a lengthy story in itself and would include, in part, the workings of several conversations he and I had together - shortly after mother's death - while driving along country roads between Parkwood Hospital, London, and points southwest of the hospital, including his hometown, Norwich. The story would include the workings of his, at times, troubled mind concerning his love for all his children, his time at sea and the life-long companions he'd made as a very young man while serving upon barges during World War 2. And after the car rides, conversations, and thoughts about his children and wartime companions his mind worked to make several important decisions regarding where mother should be buried, and the type of grave stone to be purchased, and whether she would be buried alone or with him, according to her wish.
A lengthy story, indeed, for another time. For now just allow me to say my father put his wife’s wishes first when he decided to be buried beside her in a Quaker Street, Norwich cemetery. And later, after his own death, he got his own heart-felt wish to be buried at sea - the wish was fulfilled under very unusual circumstances - right out of the blue. Sea blue. Navy blue.
More to follow
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