A D-Day casualty

Robert Cameron of Corbridge, North England recounts a tragedy of war.

	Young George McIntosh

He was the youngest of my Ma’s three brothers - James, Bill and George. They were brought up in Sandyford Street in the Kelvinhaugh district of Glasgow down by the docks. After the death of their mother in 1941 - their father had died the previous year - George and Bill share digs. James, the eldest brother, is a regular soldier in the Highland Light Infantry, having joined up in the late thirties; he has already been wounded in North Africa at the battle of Knightsbridge. In 1943 Bill and George both join up, Bill in the Cameron Highlanders, George in the Royal Marines.

My Ma is the oldest in the family and the only daughter. Eight years older than George, he almost looks on her as a surrogate mother. He spends all his leaves with us. We live in a tenement ‘single-end’ - a one room house. My father is in the army also in North Africa. When George comes on leave I sleep in the recess-bed with my Ma, and George has my ‘bed-chair’.

I adore him. Resplendent in his marine’s uniform, our one room is always full of fun when he’s on leave. I cannot believe how lucky I am that this handsome hero is MY uncle. I follow him around like a puppy. He always has time for me; when he talks to me, plays games with me, touches me, I glow. When his leaves are up I shed tears. When Ma says to me, "Uncle George is coming for a few days next week," I think of nothing else until he appears through the door.

Each evening, before he sallies-forth, I watch as he, yet again, presses his uniform. As he washes and shaves at the sink I never miss a move. Often, while he’s getting ready, there will be a knock at the door, he’ll turn to Ma, "Aw Nellie, if that’s Ruby Robertson, (or Ethel Johnson, or Mary Gibbs) tell them ah’m no in.

As he and I listen to Ma telling fibs for him he’ll put down the iron, lift his shirt hem and do a minuet round the ironing table while making faces at the door. I watch, helpless with laughter. When he hears Ma coming back into the room he leaps back to the table and resumes ironing, whilst innocently whistling. By this time I lie helpless, in pain from a stitch and hardly able to get my breath.

"Ah’d better cut through the back-courts in case ah run intae Ruby (or Ethel , or Mary).

I watch from our window as, immaculate in his RM uniform, forage cap defying gravity, my handsome uncle momentarily brightens up the grey Glasgow landscape of middens and wash-houses as he heads for another night out. Master of all he surveys, King of the world - at 18 it is not a good time to be 18. It is March 1944.

Two months later, in May, he turns 19. The following month, June, he is steering a landing craft on and off the beaches in Normandy.

	Next Page ›