In the emotional outpouring that accompanies memories stirred over the D-Day landings, it is often forgotten that it was not the only invasion that brought about Victory In Europe.
That other invasion is less well publicized, though just as important, and highly significant in that it created the pincer movement that so distracted the German
High Command, and led inexorably to the defeat of Germany.
My own father took part in that invasion, and the campaign that preceded it.
He was a Desert Rat, fighting Rommel in the desert war, part of the Eighth Army under Montgomery, and indeed it was a famous ploy of the British, to persuade the Germans that it would be from here that the major part of the invasion of Europe would come.
And so Sicily was well fortified, and equipped with troops, at the expense of Normandy.
But the invasion of Sicily did take place, shortly after D-Day itself, and troops from North Africa fought their way up the leg of Italy, burying many of their comrades on the way, often finding fierce resistance at such places as Monte Cassino.
It is perhaps quite typical of the British Tommy, the equivalent of the American GI, that they should have created a poem about themselves, which for its first six or seven verses, comes across as a mocking accusation that these soldiers were really simply dodging D-Day.
But in that final verse, they talk about the truth that none would care to discuss with their families later, and my father never did.
That the price of this second invasion was high, especially at such places as Monte Cassino.
But as Italian resistance faltered, and units were rushed to the aid of the beleaguered northern troops, it became possible and indeed imperative that this second invasion be successful.
And so the self-deprecating legend grew of the D-Day Dodgers, many of whom like my father would have already fought at El Alamein and Tobruk.
But they did their bit, and the war finally ended.
My father had a varied selection of stories that were suitable for general consumption about his experiences during the war, but those around him quickly tired of these sanitised anecdotes.
And thus he probably appreciated the company of his peers, in the life that he led after the war. He was a pigeon fancier, and this solitary pursuit was perhaps shared by many others that had a similar experience, to be spoken about only rarely over beers during meetings of the pigeon fancier’s club.
My father never did wish to travel abroad after the war, she always would say that he had done enough traveling.
And indeed he had.
When he was finally demobilized he was in Palestine in 1948, and that was no easy posting.
And he did not even have to enlist. As a dock worker in the Port of London, he had worked in what would have been a reserved occupation.
But Dock workers flock like pigeons, and in 1940, a whole blend of brothers relented and joined in the war, perhaps having more choice over their destinations because of their willingness to enlist.
My father joined the Royal Engineers, and if he ever achieved a promotion from the ranks, he lost it just as quickly, probably because of drunkenness, another characteristic of dockworkers.
He did hint occasionally at spending time in the glasshouse, army slang for detention after minor misdemeanors.
But the truth has died with him.
He died in 1998, leaving my mother as an elderly widow, with little social experience. Her man was not exactly well prepared for civilian life after what he had experienced in eight years of service.
And they had only married in 1938.
My mother’s war service was equally stretching in its way, so that she became a munitions worker, and later a Capstan Lathe Turner. At least this work took her out of the London Blitz, as she had been living in the East End of London.
My mother is still alive, at 94 years of age made of strong stuff. All those years of severe rationing have probably contributed to that strong mix.
Survive the war, and the aftermath is just another campaign for which you have been well prepared.
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