Treasures from Trash (featuring @fred703 as author)

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When coming home early on a Friday as is custom at about 2.30 in the afternoon, I encountered my wife, Michele in the “sun-room” (a large veranda enclosed with walls consisting of glass windows and a simple corrugated roof with no ceiling), clearing out “tons of rubbish” accumulated through 26 years of marriage). Immediately I had a hankering to join in, so I went through my numerous plastic shelves containing old bills, letters from other family members in the distant past before the wave of e-mails and sms’s overtook and consumed the old ways of communicating.

While going through all the old papers, discarding old companions with cruel intent, into a quickly growing fire hazard of a paper mountain, I uncovered a forgotten treasure; a black leather book of A5 dimensions closed with a zip.

My dad’s war journal, from when he was in the Royal Air Force in World War Two and a pile of papers, consisting of newspaper clippings and documents.

He was part of the 44th squadron from Rhodesia. He was part of the ground crew at the start of the war. British bombers used to be seriously under-gunned and this squadron had the third highest casualties in the war. There were occasions when all that was left of the rear gunner had to be hosed out of the plane after being shot to pieces by the German Luftwaffe. Because he showed initiative, he was marked for promotion to become a pilot. He used this opportunity and became a pilot after being trained in Canada at Medicine Hat. I think he told me that their squadron undertook the last daylight raid over Germany; my Dad and another fellow had to flip a coin to see who would be the pilot in the last available bomber for the raid, the other fellow won the toss and was shot down and killed over Germany.

My dad said that after that disaster where the squadron suffered losses of over 50% in that raid, the squadron only flew coastal patrols over the coast of England.

He was involved in crashing his plane towards the end of the war and was court-marshalled, losing his wings. When he came into land, one of the engines of the bomber had packed up and he came in higher than normal and ended up overshooting the runway, smashing the undercarriage on the one side of the plane. The tribunal did not accept his defence that he could not come at regular height because if another engine failed, the plane would certainly crash and jeopardise the lives of his crew for whom he was responsible. After the war, the Veterans Association took the RAF to court and had my dad’s wings restored to him.

Looking through, I found his divorce papers from his first marriage which ended in July 1958. Wait a minute! I was born on 20 September 1959, what is the exact arithmetic here?

I remember my mother saying to me that I was planned to arrive in November, the month of my dad’s birthday but I was 8 weeks premature. I decided to announce my arrival just before the taxi arrived to take mom and dad to bioscope (movies). The taxi driver was horrified and refused to let my mom into his taxi as her waters had broken but my dad threatened him with a knuckle sandwich, so he reluctantly took them to the Mater Dei hospital in East London, a few miles from the seaside suburb of the Quigney where they lived at the time... So my dad’s divorce papers went through in July 1958 and they got married on 31 October 1958. Hmmm, it makes proprietary sense; you must remember my dad was a devout Christian as was my mother. She said that the first time she saw “that man” was when she would be setting up displays in the window of Truworths, a prestigious woman’s clothing shop in Oxford Street, he would walk past with his mates and bang on the window, giving her a big fright. My mother is a small woman of approx five foot and my dad was 7 inches taller.

My Mom’s father, Lofty, was a big man of 6 foot and 5 inches, of an almost surly disposition.

He had to give up his schooling when 16 or 17 years old, to go and work on the railways to support his family after his father Leonard died from phthisis, a lung disease, from working on the mines. He worked on the railways his entire life. He certainly did not approve of such a scandalous relationship, his precious child of 20 years dating a divorced Mormon 16 years older. When my Dad went to visit my Mom on my Grandfather’s small farm, a huge bull mastiff who was resident, jumped up against his car door barking furiously. My Dad, who always exuded a scent of fear around large dogs, often attracted their ire. My Grandfather was not in the least impressed when my Dad used to just blow the hooter for my Mom, he would say “what the hell is wrong with that man? Has he no manners? Why doesn’t he get out the car like a decent human being?” All this while slaver from the huge beast was dribbling down the drivers side window as he tried to eat my Dad. He did not give his permission or blessing for the wedding, however, my mother is a determined person, so she eloped with my dad to Queenstown where they got married.

My Grandfather was furious and swore vengeance upon my father, who was obviously intimidated by the big man. One time when my Dad went to donate blood, who should he bump into but my Grandfather who was already in the process of donating blood. My Dad gave a cautious greeting to Mr Jennings who replied with a grunt. Later Lofty and Fruity (my Dad’s nickname) became fast friends for the rest of their lives. I remember the one time I was travelling with my grandfather and when he came into his farm, there were some Xhosa women who worked for him. They were still a very rural people and still used to smoke the pipe with the very long stem, and have the top of their heads covered with a kind of turban.

Then he saw some young men who had painted their faces with white clay, the old man growled at them to wash that sh*t off their faces. I wondered why they shouldn’t of had that clay on their faces? Later I understood it was their initiation into manhood where they have to live in the bush. They also get circumsized and afterwards they are recognised by the Xhosa society as men.

When I was a young articled clerk in East London in the early 1980’s, I went to audit the local gunsmith.

I introduced myself to the bookkeeper who was an oldish lady. When she heard that my name my name was Clem Human, she asked me if my father was Clem Human? Surprised, I answered in the affirmative. She remembered my Dad as one of the popular gang in East London with a blonde bombshell (hmmm, must have been another woman before my Dad met my Mom as her hair was black). “ But”, she told me “your Dad never noticed me as I couldn’t compare to the Blonde” – I presume the Blonde was Auntie Jean, my Dad’s first wife.

It was disconcerting for me to hear about my Dad as a single man, but he must have been popular, an ex-pilot who served in the RAF, a good first team rugby player who played for Buffs when they had several Springboks (Basil Kenyon and Carrots Garrity) in the same team, a club champion in tennis, a life guard swimmer and a good dancer. He must have been quite the fellow. Anyway this little lady who was a bookkeeper, never got married as she spent her life looking after her father. A sad little story as she remembered a younger age, she seemed quite wistful.