Cyril was the last patient at the end of a busy clinic in Leicester, and he came into my room with his daughter. He was an octogenarian with a smart appearance, an upright stance, and a military looking moustache. I just happened to say “Do I detect a slight Welsh accent?” and the response to this casual question has led to three years of an association that has given us both much unexpected pleasure.
He told me that he was originally from Shropshire but had fought during the second world war with the 4th Battalion, The Welch Regiment. My father, who died 30 years ago, had been a colonel of that regiment, and it transpired that Cyril had served with him for seven years from 1939. Initially, they spent some years training with the regiment in Northern Ireland, and in 1944 they took part in the Normandy invasion, losing many of their comrades during that time, and they remained together until 1946. He had married an Irish girl called Pearl while in Ireland, and his daughter and I discovered that we had both been born in Banbridge during that time.
Since that day we have met regularly. Cyril presented me with an account he had written several years ago of his time in the regiment. It contains many anecdotes, some including my father and godfather, and Cyril's testimonial at the end was written and signed by my father, who promoted him to company sergeant major, a post that did not usually go to territorial soldiers. My father never talked about his wartime experiences, and so it has meant a lot to me to listen to so many stories and look at the old military photographs.
The climax of our friendship was a two week trip my husband and I made to France, Belgium, Holland, and Germany this spring. We followed the route taken by Cyril and my father in 1944-5, tracing all the villages and sites of heavy fighting. We compared their appearance now with that in the many old wartime photographs, reading the details of what happened in a regimental book that Cyril lent me and in his own memoirs. It was a very exciting and also sobering experience, begun on the same day as the start of the war with Iraq.
It was a great sadness that I met Cyril because he was losing his sight. I have been so impressed to see the way he has accepted this, with the wonderful help and support of his wife, Pearl. Self pity is not part of his vocabulary. His son now lives in Germany and has a home in France, and I notice with interest that Cyril now has far more time and respect for the Germans than the French.
I continue to be so grateful for this chance meeting, at the end of my career, with the patient who would have to be my most memorable.
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