Simonstown docks 1971. A VIP coming aboard the SAS President Kruger. The ‘PK’ as she was affectionately known was tragically sunk whilst on a training exercise when her heavier supply vessel, the SAS Tafelberg, accidentally collided with her. 16 Brave South African servicemen on board the PK where lost. We celebrate a beautiful frigate in her heyday.
For more information on the PK do visit http://www.saspresidentkruger.com/
The Two Minutes of Silence was started by Sir James Percy FITZPATRICK. He was born in King William’s Town in 1862 and died in Uitenhage in 1931, eldest son of James Coleman FITZPATRICK, Judge of the Supreme Court of the Cape Colony, and his wife Jenny, both from Ireland. The couple had 4 children: Nugent, Alan, Oliver, and Cecily.
Our own Tannie Mossie (Joan ABRAHAMS of Bloemfontein) wrote a well-researched book in the 1990s about this – “Time from Africa – A two minute silent pause to remember – 11:00 on the 11th of the 11th month.”
It shows the tradition started off in Cape Town with the noon gun on Signal Hill. It was the idea of Sir Percy FITZPATRICK, author of Jock of the Bushveld. Joan’s book also shows the correct silence – one minute for one person, and two minutes for more than one person – one minute for the dead and one minute for the survivors.
In 1916, Sir Percy attended a church service in Cape Town and a moment of silence was held for dead soldiers. When he heard that 11 November 1918 was going to be observed as Armistice Day in London, he asked for a two minute silence throughout the British Empire as a tribute to dead soldiers.
Sir Percy’s son, Percy Nugent George, was a Major in the Union Defence Force. He was killed in France in 1917.
Major P.N.G. Fitzpatrick
South African Heavy Artillery, 71st Siege Battery
Died 14 Dec 1917, age 28
Born in Johannesburg.
Volunteered on 04 Aug 1914 and served in the Rand Rebellion and German South
West Africa with the Imperial Light Horse.
Buried at Red Cross Corner Cemetery, Beugny
Sir Harry HANDS, then mayor of Cape Town, and Councillor R.R. BRYDEN, already observed a moment of silence after the firing of the noon gun was started. Sir Percy’s suggestion was taken up and a two minute silence was held in Cape Town on 14 December 1918, a year after Nugent’s death. Cape Town became the first city in the world to observe the two minute silence.
WWI ended on 11 November 1918 with the guns stopped on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. This is why 11 November was chosen in 1919 as the day to remember war dead.
At first, it was known as Armistice Day (armistice meaning an agreement between enemies to stop fighting). Now it is mostly known as Remembrance Day or Poppy Day.
The poppy story goes back to 1915 when a Canadian soldier, serving as a doctor, John McCRAE, was working in France. He wrote a poem that year about the poppies growing on the graves of dead soldiers:
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCRAE died of meningitis later in 1918.
An American poet, Moina MICHAEL, read the poem and bought poppies to give to friends. She also sold poppies and gave the money to needy ex-soldiers. Eventually the Americans had women in war-ravaged France sewing artificial poppies and the money raised went to war survivors.
In Britain, former soldiers faced another battle – getting on with life. Ex-servicemen’s societies united in 1921 to form the British Legion, to provide support to ex-servicemen, especially the disabled, and their families.
A French woman involved in the artificial poppy sewing project in France suggested that the British Legion sell the poppies to raise money. The British Legion signed on and 1.5 million poppies were ordered for 11 November 1921. The first Poppy Appeal made £106,000. The British Legion set up its own poppy sewing project, using disabled ex-servicemen. By the end of the 20th century, the British Legion was selling over 32 million poppies per annum.
Poppies were chosen not only because of the poem, but also because they were the only flowers that grew abundantly on the battlefields. They also only bloom for a short time, just like the young men and women killed in wars.
In South Africa, the South African Legion holds street collections to raise funds to assist in the welfare work among military veterans. When you buy a poppy for Remembrance Day, you pay tribute to those who died, and you are helping those who survived and bear the scars of war.
in remembrance of all those who have fallen in the many wars over the centuries, either in defence of their country or to make the world a better place for those who live on.
Another WW1 image of the drum head service after Delville Wood as a reminder of what South Africans have sacrificed ahead of Remembrance Day. This was the South African Brigade’s Memorial Service, Delville Wood, 17 February 1918 in honour of the near battalions worth of South Africans lost in the wood in late 1916. Note the wooden cross in the background, as well as the small grouping of nurses. Also note, that one and a half years after the battle the environment has not yet recovered the devastation at the site.
Imperial War Museum Collection Copyright.
This image of ‘rest and recuperation’ after Operation Modular in 1987 says it all. This is an image of Dave Mannall (centre in the foetal position) and his crew after Operations. These men had just days before been in intense combat in a Ratel Infantry Fighting Vehicle, and had witnessed and impacted severe destruction and death as part of 61 Mech. They had just witnessed the death and maiming of colleagues who where bombed in their Ratel from an overflying Mig – literally right next to them.
This image is powerful in that it is one of the rare images of the SADF that actually shows the high degree of emotional detachment caused by the stressors of combat. For many this is the onset of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) which while young is easily carried over by servicemen, but it’s when life throws a few more curve balls that PTSD becomes more pronounced in veterans in their later years. There is fierce debate in veterans circles as to how to deal with this now and very high criticism levelled at the old SADF structures as to how this would be managed and planned in future years.
On Remembrance Day 11/11, we as veterans of war remember, we remember the fallen and we remember the injured and especially we remember the mental scarring of war.
Picture Copyright Dave Mannall
The story of Bing, the parachuting World War II dog who leapt from a plane on D-Day and led troops to victory, will be told for the first time in a children’s book by British inventor and professional daredevil Gil Boyd.
He led troops on to the D-Day battlefields and saved hundreds of lives at the pivotal Rhine Crossing in 1945.
Written from Bing’s point-of-view, the book recounts how he dropped to earth with invading soldiers before going ahead to warn of hidden perils.
Mr Boyd, 59, a former Parachute Regiment soldier, said: ‘Bing and sniper Jack Walton would courageously go in first and make sure the area was safe.
‘Bing had an incredible ability to sense danger – he led some 700 men but if something ahead was wrong he would stop and remain utterly still to alert them.’ The book follows Bing from the outbreak of war, when he was given to the Army as rationing meant his owner could no longer afford to keep him.
When his ability to sniff out trouble was recognised, he was trained to jump out of planes and went on to witness some of history’s most crucial moments.
During the D-Day landings, Bing would keep watch while his men slept. After the war, he returned to his owner in Essex – and his peacetime name of Brian – before dying of natural causes in 1955, aged 13. In 1947, he was awarded the PDSA Dicken Medal, the animal equivalent of the Victoria Cross.
‘I felt this was a story that needed to be told,’ said Mr Boyd. Proceeds from sales of Amazing Adventures Of Bing The Parachuting Dog, will go to charities.
To order a copy, email airborne.enquiries@gmail.com
From: http://metro.co.uk/2012/04/01/story-of-parachuting-wwii-dog-bing-to-be-told-in-new-childrens-book-373577/
Great photograph by Peter Marlow of a South African patrol travelling in an ‘Buffel’ anti-mine armoured troop carrier near the Angolan South West Africa/Namibia border.
From the looks of the men and weaponry this looks like a ‘Citizen Force’ unit in the late 70′s/early 80′s. The Citizen Force where made up of national servicemen who had completed two years compulsory national service and where obliged to attend ‘camps’ which ranged from one month to three months on average for an additional 10 years post the initial national service period.
Most of these men just weeks before where probably at home with their families and in their normal jobs on ‘civvie street’, suddenly transported into a war zone as part of a ‘camp’ commitment (hence their nickname in the army of ‘campers’).
Photo copyright Peter Marlow
Please wear a Poppy,” the lady said,”
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on carefree feet,
His smile was full of joy and fun:
“Lady,” said he, “May I have one?
”When she pinned it on he turned to say
“Why do we wear a poppy today?
”The lady smiled in her wistful way,
And answered,
“This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is a symbol for. The gallant ones who died in war,
And because they did, you and I are free,
That’s why we wear the poppy, you see.
I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew,
And became a man – as you will, too.
But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the dreadful plight,(I can see it still in my dreams at night)
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
and the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.
Till at last, at last, the war was won
–And that’s why we wear a poppy, son.
”The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, “Thanks lady, I’m glad to know,
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son – did he come back all right?
”A tear rolled down each faded cheek:
She shook her head but didn’t speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you’d have done the same:
For our thanks, in giving, is oft delayed
Though our freedom was bought And thousands paid.
And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all,
When asked to answer their country’s call.
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy, Remember And give.
Lonely I was when I stood staring at the sky
Had a gun in my hand, was too afraid to cry
Fought bitter battles and never lived to tell
How at the altar of freedom, my body fell
My soul searches for reasons as to why I died
Did I save my people, had I tried?
Do they remember me, my deeds, my name
Are they proud of me or did I bring them shame
My battered body stood testimony to my fate
My heart had stopped in a battle brought about by hate
I had screamed in pain, and shivered with fright
But before I died, I did put up a fight
Remember me, my beloved country
It was I, my men, who brought you victory
I fought to the last bullet in my gun
I was a soldier, I was your son
By DAMIEN LEWIS
As enemy fire tore into its engines, the stricken warplane began a crazy descent into No Man’s Land in northern France. Gunner Robert Bozdech braced himself for a crash landing. Or worse.
With a hideous tearing of steel, the doomed craft ploughed into a patch of dark woodland. By the time it came to a juddering halt, embedded in thick snow and foliage, he had lost consciousness.
He came round with no idea of where he was or how much time he had lost. Just a few yards away the fighter-bomber’s French pilot lay seriously wounded.
Rising to a kneeling position, and miraculously unhurt, he spotted what looked like an old farmhouse 100 yards or so to the north. At a crouch he moved towards it.
Although there were no footprints in the snow, he could hear faint sounds of movement inside. Cocking his pistol, he gingerly pushed open the front door.
‘Get your hands up!’ he shouted in halting French. ‘Show yourself! Now!’
The only response was the faintest hint of a yawn. Whoever was inside was defying him in the most insolent way possible.
Surely they’d understood? He didn’t know enough German to call out in the language of the enemy.
‘Wake up, you b*****d!’ he snarled. ‘Show yourself!’
Down the barrel of his gun he spotted a movement. A small ball of grey-brown fluff was stumbling to its feet unsteadily and was peering up at him, growling out a throaty little challenge.
At the sight of it, the airman’s aggression evaporated. He’d been threatening a tiny puppy – and a courageous one at that.
‘Who left you here, alone and hungry?’ he said, picking up the little creature. He unzipped his leather flying jacket and slipped the puppy inside. ‘You’re coming with me, boy,’ he said. ‘We’re in this together.’
He couldn’t have known it, but that moment marked the start of a lifelong friendship – one that would see man and dog posted to England, then take to the skies over battle-torn Europe in one of World War II’s most inspirational stories of courage.
Just 24 hours after he’d been presumed killed in action, Robert Bozdech walked into his airbase at St Dizier, 200 miles away in France’s Champagne country, carrying his new-found friend. Rescued by a passing patrol, along with his pilot who survived, he had been flown back to rejoin the close-knit community of Czech servicemen fighting with the French Air Force who, like him, had fled their homeland when Germany invaded.
The Czech airmen took the puppy immediately to their hearts, and named him Antis, after the Russian ANT dive-bombers they loved to fly back home. By now he and Robert were inseparable. ‘Even though he’s a German Shepherd, he was found in a French house,’ said one. ‘We’d better show him some solidarity.’
The rest of 1940 offered little chance of action for the airmen. But on May 10, at first light on a cloudless morning, battle finally commenced.
To ease the tension of waiting, Robert organised an impromptu game of football. Antis joined in with relentless determination and unbeatable speed. But all of a sudden he wasn’t in a playful mood any more.
Robert glanced up to see his young dog standing stiff-legged and staring at the horizon, hackles up and growling, just as he’d done as a tiny puppy in that French farmhouse. Seconds later the air-raid siren sounded and the first of the Luftwaffe’s Dornier Do-17s powered into view.
In the years to come, Antis’s extraordinary ability to sense enemy warplanes long before they were detectable by the human eye and ear, sometimes even by radar, would go on to save countless lives.
But Robert worried that if anything happened to him, who would look after his dog? He decided Antis would fly, too. When he was scrambled for his next sortie, he whistled for his dog to follow. As Robert climbed into his Potez-63, Antis leaped on its wing and climbed in beside him.
He barely stirred when the twin engines roared into life. A quick nuzzle of the hand that reached down to pat his head and he seemed happy.
Even more extraordinary was the dog’s reaction to combat. As the Potez dived, soared and swooped to avoid the anti-aircraft fire that bloomed all around them, Antis simply dozed through it all.
As the mighty Wehrmacht war machine rolled onwards over the next few weeks, the dangers for the Czech servicemen intensified.
Hurricane fighters from the RAF joined the French Air Force in their desperate efforts to prevent the British Expeditionary Force from being cut off.
But amid the maelstrom Robert Bozdech and his countrymen seemed to be leading charmed lives. None had been shot down, or even harmed.
The superstitious among them began to wonder if the presence of their cool and fearless canine mascot in the air was linked with their good fortune.
When the French leader Marshal Petain announced in June 1940 that his country would sue for peace with Germany, the Czech airmen of French First Bomber-Reconnaissance Squadron decided to head for the one country still holding out against the German aggression: Great Britain.
With the Battle of Britain now at its height, one of the first postings for man and dog was to RAF Speke, in Liverpool, to help strengthen the city’s defences against the fearsome nightly bombardment from the Luftwaffe.
Hundreds of miles from home, trying to make a life in yet another strange country, he was gladder than ever of the company of his beloved Antis. On one of their nightly walks through the ravaged streets, Robert noticed his dog suddenly stand stock still, head thrust upwards and eyes raised to the sky. It was the familiar stance that meant ‘danger’.
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ said the airman, kneeling down to pat him. ‘We’re safe here. It’s the docks they’re after.’
Even as he spoke he heard the high-pitched scream of the first sticks of bombs plummeting out of the darkness. With no cover in sight he threw himself flat on the ground, pinning the dog beneath his body to shield him from the blast.
The raid was over in seconds. Stumbling to his feet, he saw that where three houses had stood before him, only shattered stumps of walls remained. Cries for help mingled with the crashing of falling masonry.
With Antis leading the way, he ran to the rescue. The dog was already scrabbling in the dust, pausing atop the mounds of rubble, his hyper-sensitive ears homing in on the pitiful pleas for help.
One rescue followed another. Even when Antis became engulfed by falling masonry and had to be rescued himself, he refused to give up, sniffing out a child no more than a year old.
It was well into the small hours when the exhausted airman and his dog arrived back at camp. For the last few hundred yards Robert had to carry Antis, so painful had his paws become. Not until he’d tended his dog did he accept any treatment for his own injuries.
But that dark night had proved that this very special animal was no mere pet, companion or mascot. He was a life-saver.
It was a few months later that Antis watched his master disappear up the steps into the Wellington bomber. From the edge of the dispersal area at RAF East Wretham in Norfolk, their new base, he longed to join him.
The rules in Britain, though, would not allow it. With a mournful gaze he tracked the heavily laden aircraft, codenamed C for Cecilia, as it taxied towards the end of the runway.
One by one the bombers took off, but he seemed to know which one contained his master. He couldn’t tear his eyes away until the last speck of the plane had disappeared into the southern skies.
Finally, with a drooping tail, he sank on to his haunches, making it clear to the ground crew that this was where he was going to stay. No amount of entreating would make him change his mind. When food was brought he refused to eat it.
As dawn broke, the dog’s stance changed. It was as if he could sense that the planes were returning.
To the waiting crew it was clear he’d caught the sound of the Wellingtons’ engines in the distance. He was sifting the sounds, searching for the one he so wanted to hear.
Suddenly he was on his feet and barking loudly, beginning a wild war dance for joy, tearing round and round the group of waiting men as if he’d gone half-mad.
As C for Cecilia touched down, he could hardly contain his excitement. He waited until the hatches opened, as he’d been trained to do, then bolted forward, and was at the bottom of the ladder as his master stepped down.
It was a pattern that would repeat itself scores of times that summer as hostilities progressed.
In June 1941 Robert’s 311 Squadron was tasked to bomb the railway yard in Hamm, in the west of Germany.
The trusty Wellingtons, C for Cecilia included, were prepared for the coming sortie. As ever, Antis dozed near the runway once they had taken off.
It was 1am when he awoke from a long sleep as if from a sudden shock. He began to shiver. ‘Then, quite suddenly, he threw his head back at the heavens and began to howl. It was a sound that none of the men had heard him make before: hollow, full of loss, spine-chilling’
‘Cecilia’s in trouble,’ shouted one. ‘Antis can sense it. God knows how, but he can.’
Two hundred miles to the south east where an aerial battle raged over Occupied Europe, a shard of metal was punching through the Wellington’s Perspex gun turret, shattering it and burying itself in Robert’s forehead. The time was 1am precisely.
As blood poured into his eyes, the crippled Cecilia began to lose height. The coast of England was looming before her, a dark line on the blacked out horizon. The plane hurtled towards the cliffs.
Back at East Wretham the groundcrew waited for news. But nobody could get Antis to abandon his lonely vigil, even as rain lashed the airbase.
Late in the afternoon welcome intelligence arrived that the plane had been coaxed over the cliffs before its engine gave out, and had landed safely, in Norfolk. Robert had been taken to hospital and was likely to be there for several days.
But nobody could think how to pass on the news to his dog. If he continued to refuse food and shelter, he’d die.
It was the squadron’s padre who came up with the idea of asking the hospital to let Robert out for a few hours to rescue his faithful companion. For the second night running, the staff at East Wretham covered the ravenous Antis with blankets, and prayed that he’d make it.
At dawn the next morning a car raced up the perimeter track. In the back was a bandaged, bruised Robert.
He sank to the ground beside his dog. A tongue flicked out and licked his master’s face tentatively.
Through the smell of lint and iodine, Antis could detect the familiar taste and scent. His tail thumped weakly as he tried unsuccessfully to stand.
But he couldn’t do it. Instead the wounded airman picked up his dog and cradling him in his arms, carried him to the waiting car.
It was late June when C for Cecilia was ready to take to the skies again. And for the first time Antis was nowhere to be seen as the crew completed their pre-flight checks and took to the air.
On board the plane, Robert tried to ignore his nagging anxiety. Maybe this was to be expected after the dog’s long and traumatic vigil during the previous mission.
The airman forced himself to focus on the dark skies ahead. They would soon be over the German coast, and danger beckoned.
Feeling a touch on his elbow he turned, expecting it to be the navigator with an important instruction.
It wasn’t. It was a German Shepherd, lying prone on the floor. Robert shook his head. It must be the altitude playing tricks. And yet there he was.
Antis must somehow have crept aboard the aircraft and stowed away, careful to stay hidden until there was nothing anybody could do about it.
Recovering from the shock, Robert saw that the dog’s flanks were heaving. They were climbing to 16,000ft, and Antis was having increasing trouble breathing in the thin atmosphere.
Taking a massive gasp, the airman unstrapped the oxygen mask from his face and pressed it firmly over his dog’s muzzle. They shared the oxygen for the rest of the flight.
The plane dropped its payload on to the city of Bremen’s oil refinery and turned for home, surviving night fighters, ground fire and the threat of barrage balloons to make it safely back to East Wretham, where Robert prepared to face the music.
Everybody knew it was strictly against Britain’s Air Ministry regulations to take an animal into the air, especially when flying a combat sortie over enemy territory.
‘No prizes for guessing where Antis has spent the night, then,’ said the Wing Commander.
‘Sir, please let me explain…’ began Robert.
His superior threw up a hand. ‘There’s a very good English expression,’ he said. ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve after.’
Antis continued to serve as 311 Squadron’s mascot for the rest of the war. In 1949 he was formally recognised as a war hero when he was awarded the Dickin medal – commonly known as the Animal Victoria Cross.
In 1951, Robert Bozdech was granted British nationality. Just two years later, alas, man and dog were parted for ever. After all they had been through Antis the hero, talisman and warrior, died at the age of 14. His gravestone bears the simple words in Czech: ‘Loyal unto death.’
Robert married a British girl soon afterwards and they settled in the West Country to bring up their family.
He continued to serve with the RAF, including a combat deployment to Suez. But he never got another dog, and refused to allow his children one either. After Antis, the war dog, he swore he would never own one again.
From: Mail Online
Adapted from War Dog: The No-Man’s Land Puppy Who Took To The Skies by Damien Lewis, published by Sphere at £12.99. © Damien Lewis 2013.
“Please wear a Poppy,” the lady said,
And held one forth, but I shook my head,
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on carefree feet,
His smile was full of joy and fun:
“Lady,” said he, “May I have one?”
When she pinned it on he turned to say,
“Why do we wear a poppy today?”
The lady smiled in her wistful way,
And answered, “This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is a symbol for
The gallant ones who died in war,
And because they did, you and I are free,
That’s why we wear the poppy, you see.
I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew,
And became a man – as you will, too.
But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the dreadful plight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night)
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
and the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.
Till at last, at last, the war was won –
And that’s why we wear a poppy, son.”
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, “Thanks lady, I’m glad to know,
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son – did he come back all right?”
A tear rolled down each faded cheek:
She shook her head but didn’t speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you’d have done the same:
For our thanks, in giving, is oft delayed
Though our freedom was bought
And thousands paid.
And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all,
When asked to answer their country’s call.
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy,
Remember
And give.
“Why Wear A Poppy?” by Don Crawford
