taff edwards
A Fixture
Hi all
My dad has recorded in some hard backed books in effect his life from a young boy born in 1925 through his military service ,and his later life returning from the war and his career and life as a police officer for 30 years.
I am attempting to transfer it on to my lap top from the numerous books he has recorded this information in.
I want to to do this so that I can have a permanent record to give to my children and grand children ,until I stated to read them I found out things that I never knew which was fascinating .
I have written the introduction and how I was involved in taking my dad to some reunions and taking pictures, and meeting this remarkable group of people .
My dad is now 87 dose not enjoy the best of health, out of all the men that were with him from Normandy to the end of the war there is only my father left ,so in a way I feel very much obligated to make sure I complete this .
If you would have a look there is not much to read the introduction , and the start of his life , as I said the intro is mine and the next part are the words from my dads journals .
I used the Welsh Division W in the name of the book, " They Were Lions"if anyone has a a record of a family member I would highly recommend doing what I am attempting rewarding beyond words . All feed back and thoughts would be greatly appreciated as I continue on this fascinating journey.
Please excuse spelling and and diction errors my Mrs is going to go over it and of course it will have the critical eye of Pvt Edwards formerly 53rd Welsh Div B Company South Wales Borderers .
Cheers Chris Edwards
They Were Lions
THEY WERE LIONS
The story of David Edwards an Infantry Soldier 53rd Welsh Division
Second Monmouthshire Regiment South Wales Borderers
INTRODUCTION
Forward
Christopher Edwards
Why did I want to write this book? There have been a number of reasons, the respect I have for my dad, and the individuals that were his pals, the clock of time is ticking.
I wanted to have a definitive record of the events that shaped his and some many others lives. I wanted also a record for my children and grand children I also in a way felt such an obligation to do this record justice so that we really do remember them.
They were all so intrinsically linked by a common bond, that seems to be forged by the individuals that find themselves in the indescribable carnage of war. When I started to put the idea together, one was faced with a choice.
Do I make it a book about “The War”, or do I want the reader to get to know the people involved. Where they were from were they were heading in life, their dreams and aspirations.
They were as always just normal people from little places on a map, many of which had never set foot outside the counties in which they had been born. They would so very soon become so much part of the biggest undertaking that we had ever faced as a nation.
I know that the faces do not change whatever the conflict the ages do not just the places and the date.
My dad never really talked about the war when I was a youngster and then we started to talk .It was not intended as a father and son bonding session, and for the life of me I cant remember how it started it was just one of those chats, but I remember it was in the kitchen with my dad leaning against the sink.
They were conversations but strange in there content, all the time looking at this person my Dad a serving Police officer as my Dad explained how he had been involved.
I can remember at times that steely resolve would falter as the memory’s flooded back, the eye contact would move from mine, the eyes would water as if he was flicking through those memories of faces and places that only veterans can do.
The conversation would slowly stop there would be deep intake of breath and a knowing look you could sense the unspoken pain and the memories were put back to that very private place were they had been since the war ended.
I have often thought was that post traumatic stress that we hear so much about now, I am convinced that it was and still is, in a way I knew he had to go back . I saw an article about the N.V.A. Normandy Veterans Association and he decided to join and in doing so that was the start of yet another “Dads Army” but that is a whole different chapter of this book,
The sun came through the window its rays distorted by the imperfections of the glass, its golden beam resting on the shoulder of a gray haired man, blue gray smoke moved its silent course and changing color as it hid amongst the suns rays.
Men moved and talked in small groups listening intently to the words that were spoken, heads moved with a knowing nod, hands that were once youthful were placed on shoulders, eyes that had seen so much were moist with the memories of years gone by.
There was a certain air of strength, that came from this group. I felt in so many ways like an intruder, that I had stumbled upon a most private of situations.
There were little flecks of dandruff on the collars of well-worn jackets which for many covered the regulation v-neck sweater, the tie was neat the breast pocket was seen to glint from the gilded wire of a distinctive badge.
I wanted in a strange way so much to be part of this select group, that could never be, I had to be content that I was a visitor to their world, a world that I could not begin to understand one that I had heard men talk about and that I had read about.
I wanted to be absorbed by my surroundings so that I could continue to be a part of this gathering. In a corner one man struggled to move from his seat and to straighten his frame, his gray hair neat and short, his aching movement resulted in “I know how you feel Ralph” a knowing look and a wry smile was the response
I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice,
“Don’t look much now do they “ I turned to the voice and before I could respond,
“They were Lions they were young Loins “
In that group was my dad David Edwards and the voice was that of Thomas Griffiths. This was a reunion of veterans from World War 2, that was over 20 years ago but for me it feels like yesterday.
For me in a way it was a defining moment in my attempt to understand how people’s lives are mapped out by influences that individuals have no control of, and how it changes them.
This book was inspired that day in the smoky bar of the George Hotel in Abergavenny and over twenty years later I bought a book called the Pacific by Hugh Ambrose the son of the Stephen Ambrose the famous military author, and historian and started to read it while on Holiday.
As I read the book, the inspiration returned stronger to chronicle my fathers life from child hood to adulthood in doing this I hope to tell the story of a young mans rite of passage.
Life is a collection of stories set in chapters ,all too often these stories get lost as our lives move on.
I want the reader to have a feeling that they have been invited into the world of this individual and his friends.
I want this to be a record the story of my fathers life ,I have visited Normandy with these Veterans’ quite, unassuming men each with a part of them linked to that now quite French countryside, the sunken lanes and open fields the small hill that was once known as Hill 112 on a military map. Small towns like, Mondrainville, Villiers Bocage, Sword Beach, the city of Caen for many became their final resting place.
For us these are beautiful places with romantic names, for them they are the reminders that nearly 70 years ago the mention of these names would have you heavily draw on the cigarette that you might be smoking in the foxhole that all to soon could be your grave.
Alternatively, the quite that would fall over the kaki clad infantrymen when NCOs were summoned to Orders Group.
Their numbers have thinned, and the visits to the places that changed these young men forever are not so frequent.
I now notice that the tears flow far more freely, the silence as they move through the perfect rows of white stones, knowing that they were so lucky, the names are different but the ages have a sad and audible lament from the silent stone, they were so young.
This story is true and the characters are as real as the Welsh mountains and the rivers that Di Edwards played in as a boy.
Thank you dad for being you and I am so very fortunate that you were one of the lucky ones and yes you were and are now “Lions”
W
_____VII______
Contents
Introduction ____vii_____
Chapter 1 Home 3
W
This is were I grew up Abergavenny or as the Welsh say Y-venni a small market town dominated by the Sugar Loaf mountain the Blorange Skeridd Fawr and the Deri
The river Usk running its silvery course around the town its narrow streets steeped in History which meander out from the heart of the town its market.
The Norman Castle a typical Stronghold keep and mound overlook the town strangely there to control in preceding century’s but now gives its watchful eye as time passes by keeping hold within its gray walls its treacherous past.
The lush green of the castle meadows were the river Usk is fringed by weeping willows hawthorn and beech, exposed earth banks were sand martins and kingfishers make there yearly homes. The evening sun sets making the surface of the water a shining painters palate of color, swans having there final search for food and the rainbow trout creating ripples in the mirrored surface of the slowly moving current, this was my playground this is my home.
CHAPTER 1.
ORIGINS
I was born on the 9th of April 1925 the first child of William Fredrick Edwards, an Abergavenny family and Susan Ivy Inwood from Northhampton.
My earliest memories are of our small house in Castle street situated between the castle and the Duke Inn an area which today is a large car park. I think our house was a two up and a two down type of building and I think of it as a snug and comfortable place with the inevitable coal fire around which the family life revolved.
A fire grate, iron, black leaded, with ovens on each side and brass trivets on which the a kettle simmered until it was placed nearer the red hot coals when boiling water was needed.
I have vague memories of a back yard with a garden beyond it, with an open vista no houses at the rear to obstruct the beauty of the valley and the Blorange mountain in the middle distance.
Castle Street Infants School, which I attended was just a few doors away on the castle side of our house and it was very convenient for mum as were no more than a couple of minutes from the classroom. I remember very little of this first taste of education, but I do have a vision of one very severe looking teacher , who really was quite kind.
A pupils ability to cope with Math’s, English History Geography and so on can be fairly and accurately tested, but many other qualities seem to be less important than they used to be .
Qualities such as loyalty, courage Honesty Kindness, sportsmanship etc come well down he list on most C.Vs if they are considered at all.
Pen, ink and paper, the squeaking of chairs
Pale nervous faces, long drawn out stares.
Periods of silence, a sniffle or two.
Muttering and groaning, except for the few.
They sit delighted, with satisfied looks.
Disdain for their colleagues…..
Who aren’t good with books
How will they cope, with the problems we pose
Answering questions not everyone knows.
A sense of achievement a feeling of class,
Superiority….comes with a pass.
And yet when they walk out to face life’s grim test
Who are the ones who will deal with it best.
David Edwards
As the eldest child I had moved on from castle street before my brother s and sister were due to start there first schooling.
The Duke Inn was quite near in the opposite direction of the school and I got to know Fred Davies who was about the same age as me .I think his parents must have run the pub because I remember playing at the back of the Public house .
I still occasionally see Fred who still lives in Abergavenny, recently he showed me a photograph of us with an old tin bath, and a hosepipe keeping cool in the yard(put picture in ) I do look like a “toughie” and in a way I was despite the fact that I know I had a quiet reserved, shy personality, I was not to be unfairly pushed around.
I do remember one thing about the pub was my first visit as a young child. It seemed dark and in a funny way forbidding. There was an air of danger and it seemed to me to be adventurous just to enter the place.
Dad didn’t drink much I never saw him drunk or even a little under the weather , Mum of course never set foot inside such a place, it wasn’t the done thing and in any case there wasn’t any spare money for such activities.
In those days not many women entered some pubs and those who did were looked at as “not being very nice” that was the general situation every were .
The Duke was an ordinary run of the mill sort of place, the nearest other pub was the Kings Arms which is still a licensed premises today situated in Neville Street, its a very historic old pub were fist fights were held in the side yard on market days.
As I entered the Duke that first time I was immediately aware of the
Cloying, very strong smell, which I realized was beer mixed with cigarette smoke, which had turned the ceiling a light brown color.
There seemed to be pubs in every street in the town area, but I was never aware of any trouble, at least not on a worrying scale, most drinkers it seems could hold their drink as they used to say.
Later I was to see at first hand (as a Police Officer) the awful effects of heavy drinking and often the devastating impact it had on family life.
I would have started junior or infants school as it was called then when I was about five years of age and we remained living in castle street for a few more years.
The Norman castle was only a very short distance away and it remains in my mind as the usual play area. There was a lodge at the entrance gate and I feel it cost money to enter the castle area.
So most of our play took place outside, there were and still are, seats cut into the castle boundary walls, and the large mound, grass
covered led down to trees and a stream running down to the river Usk, and on to the castle meadows.
It seems strange that perhaps as little as 17 years would pass and my pals and I would be fighting for our lives in the countryside of Normandy, and forcing our way to the ancient city of Caen were William the Conqueror lay buried.
The Norman influence had followed me but the games we played and the battles we fought on the slopes at the town castle were to be played out with such deadly cost.
Gone was the child like ability to realize one was late for tea and your pals that had fallen dead so convincingly from imaginary arrows and bullets who spring to their feet and start to run to there respective homes, with yells of se ya tomorrow Di. Many would never ever see their homes again have any more tomorrow’s.
in the sunken lanes and fields of Normandy.
The Castle Meadows was such a wonder full place to play we covered this area time after time, its strange as youngsters stingy nettles didn’t seem to have the same effect on our bare legs as they do when you get older.
We knew well to keep our distance from the fast flowing river Usk, it was also quite deep and seemed cold fed by the Welsh hills it was still invigorating and mysterious.
There were parts of the town which had such a Medieval look Tudor street with its raised pavement area, and run down houses was a place we kept well away from.
It was fast becoming a slum area, and with its Lodging houses and pubs nearly always full, that part gave us youngsters the feeling that it would be wise not to go there unless we had to.
Opposite the Kings Arms Pub situated on the corner of Neville Street and Castle Street, there was a typical “Olde World “ shop that had lots of little windows, bow shaped and with some of the panes looking like bottle bottoms.
There was a stable type half door, which as you opened it rang a big bell on a curved spring like piece of metal, it was kept by another Edwards family not related as far as I know.
My dad has recorded in some hard backed books in effect his life from a young boy born in 1925 through his military service ,and his later life returning from the war and his career and life as a police officer for 30 years.
I am attempting to transfer it on to my lap top from the numerous books he has recorded this information in.
I want to to do this so that I can have a permanent record to give to my children and grand children ,until I stated to read them I found out things that I never knew which was fascinating .
I have written the introduction and how I was involved in taking my dad to some reunions and taking pictures, and meeting this remarkable group of people .
My dad is now 87 dose not enjoy the best of health, out of all the men that were with him from Normandy to the end of the war there is only my father left ,so in a way I feel very much obligated to make sure I complete this .
If you would have a look there is not much to read the introduction , and the start of his life , as I said the intro is mine and the next part are the words from my dads journals .
I used the Welsh Division W in the name of the book, " They Were Lions"if anyone has a a record of a family member I would highly recommend doing what I am attempting rewarding beyond words . All feed back and thoughts would be greatly appreciated as I continue on this fascinating journey.
Please excuse spelling and and diction errors my Mrs is going to go over it and of course it will have the critical eye of Pvt Edwards formerly 53rd Welsh Div B Company South Wales Borderers .
Cheers Chris Edwards
They Were Lions
THEY WERE LIONS
The story of David Edwards an Infantry Soldier 53rd Welsh Division
Second Monmouthshire Regiment South Wales Borderers
INTRODUCTION
Forward
Christopher Edwards
Why did I want to write this book? There have been a number of reasons, the respect I have for my dad, and the individuals that were his pals, the clock of time is ticking.
I wanted to have a definitive record of the events that shaped his and some many others lives. I wanted also a record for my children and grand children I also in a way felt such an obligation to do this record justice so that we really do remember them.
They were all so intrinsically linked by a common bond, that seems to be forged by the individuals that find themselves in the indescribable carnage of war. When I started to put the idea together, one was faced with a choice.
Do I make it a book about “The War”, or do I want the reader to get to know the people involved. Where they were from were they were heading in life, their dreams and aspirations.
They were as always just normal people from little places on a map, many of which had never set foot outside the counties in which they had been born. They would so very soon become so much part of the biggest undertaking that we had ever faced as a nation.
I know that the faces do not change whatever the conflict the ages do not just the places and the date.
My dad never really talked about the war when I was a youngster and then we started to talk .It was not intended as a father and son bonding session, and for the life of me I cant remember how it started it was just one of those chats, but I remember it was in the kitchen with my dad leaning against the sink.
They were conversations but strange in there content, all the time looking at this person my Dad a serving Police officer as my Dad explained how he had been involved.
I can remember at times that steely resolve would falter as the memory’s flooded back, the eye contact would move from mine, the eyes would water as if he was flicking through those memories of faces and places that only veterans can do.
The conversation would slowly stop there would be deep intake of breath and a knowing look you could sense the unspoken pain and the memories were put back to that very private place were they had been since the war ended.
I have often thought was that post traumatic stress that we hear so much about now, I am convinced that it was and still is, in a way I knew he had to go back . I saw an article about the N.V.A. Normandy Veterans Association and he decided to join and in doing so that was the start of yet another “Dads Army” but that is a whole different chapter of this book,
The sun came through the window its rays distorted by the imperfections of the glass, its golden beam resting on the shoulder of a gray haired man, blue gray smoke moved its silent course and changing color as it hid amongst the suns rays.
Men moved and talked in small groups listening intently to the words that were spoken, heads moved with a knowing nod, hands that were once youthful were placed on shoulders, eyes that had seen so much were moist with the memories of years gone by.
There was a certain air of strength, that came from this group. I felt in so many ways like an intruder, that I had stumbled upon a most private of situations.
There were little flecks of dandruff on the collars of well-worn jackets which for many covered the regulation v-neck sweater, the tie was neat the breast pocket was seen to glint from the gilded wire of a distinctive badge.
I wanted in a strange way so much to be part of this select group, that could never be, I had to be content that I was a visitor to their world, a world that I could not begin to understand one that I had heard men talk about and that I had read about.
I wanted to be absorbed by my surroundings so that I could continue to be a part of this gathering. In a corner one man struggled to move from his seat and to straighten his frame, his gray hair neat and short, his aching movement resulted in “I know how you feel Ralph” a knowing look and a wry smile was the response
I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice,
“Don’t look much now do they “ I turned to the voice and before I could respond,
“They were Lions they were young Loins “
In that group was my dad David Edwards and the voice was that of Thomas Griffiths. This was a reunion of veterans from World War 2, that was over 20 years ago but for me it feels like yesterday.
For me in a way it was a defining moment in my attempt to understand how people’s lives are mapped out by influences that individuals have no control of, and how it changes them.
This book was inspired that day in the smoky bar of the George Hotel in Abergavenny and over twenty years later I bought a book called the Pacific by Hugh Ambrose the son of the Stephen Ambrose the famous military author, and historian and started to read it while on Holiday.
As I read the book, the inspiration returned stronger to chronicle my fathers life from child hood to adulthood in doing this I hope to tell the story of a young mans rite of passage.
Life is a collection of stories set in chapters ,all too often these stories get lost as our lives move on.
I want the reader to have a feeling that they have been invited into the world of this individual and his friends.
I want this to be a record the story of my fathers life ,I have visited Normandy with these Veterans’ quite, unassuming men each with a part of them linked to that now quite French countryside, the sunken lanes and open fields the small hill that was once known as Hill 112 on a military map. Small towns like, Mondrainville, Villiers Bocage, Sword Beach, the city of Caen for many became their final resting place.
For us these are beautiful places with romantic names, for them they are the reminders that nearly 70 years ago the mention of these names would have you heavily draw on the cigarette that you might be smoking in the foxhole that all to soon could be your grave.
Alternatively, the quite that would fall over the kaki clad infantrymen when NCOs were summoned to Orders Group.
Their numbers have thinned, and the visits to the places that changed these young men forever are not so frequent.
I now notice that the tears flow far more freely, the silence as they move through the perfect rows of white stones, knowing that they were so lucky, the names are different but the ages have a sad and audible lament from the silent stone, they were so young.
This story is true and the characters are as real as the Welsh mountains and the rivers that Di Edwards played in as a boy.
Thank you dad for being you and I am so very fortunate that you were one of the lucky ones and yes you were and are now “Lions”
W
_____VII______
Contents
Introduction ____vii_____
Chapter 1 Home 3
W
This is were I grew up Abergavenny or as the Welsh say Y-venni a small market town dominated by the Sugar Loaf mountain the Blorange Skeridd Fawr and the Deri
The river Usk running its silvery course around the town its narrow streets steeped in History which meander out from the heart of the town its market.
The Norman Castle a typical Stronghold keep and mound overlook the town strangely there to control in preceding century’s but now gives its watchful eye as time passes by keeping hold within its gray walls its treacherous past.
The lush green of the castle meadows were the river Usk is fringed by weeping willows hawthorn and beech, exposed earth banks were sand martins and kingfishers make there yearly homes. The evening sun sets making the surface of the water a shining painters palate of color, swans having there final search for food and the rainbow trout creating ripples in the mirrored surface of the slowly moving current, this was my playground this is my home.
CHAPTER 1.
ORIGINS
I was born on the 9th of April 1925 the first child of William Fredrick Edwards, an Abergavenny family and Susan Ivy Inwood from Northhampton.
My earliest memories are of our small house in Castle street situated between the castle and the Duke Inn an area which today is a large car park. I think our house was a two up and a two down type of building and I think of it as a snug and comfortable place with the inevitable coal fire around which the family life revolved.
A fire grate, iron, black leaded, with ovens on each side and brass trivets on which the a kettle simmered until it was placed nearer the red hot coals when boiling water was needed.
I have vague memories of a back yard with a garden beyond it, with an open vista no houses at the rear to obstruct the beauty of the valley and the Blorange mountain in the middle distance.
Castle Street Infants School, which I attended was just a few doors away on the castle side of our house and it was very convenient for mum as were no more than a couple of minutes from the classroom. I remember very little of this first taste of education, but I do have a vision of one very severe looking teacher , who really was quite kind.
A pupils ability to cope with Math’s, English History Geography and so on can be fairly and accurately tested, but many other qualities seem to be less important than they used to be .
Qualities such as loyalty, courage Honesty Kindness, sportsmanship etc come well down he list on most C.Vs if they are considered at all.
Pen, ink and paper, the squeaking of chairs
Pale nervous faces, long drawn out stares.
Periods of silence, a sniffle or two.
Muttering and groaning, except for the few.
They sit delighted, with satisfied looks.
Disdain for their colleagues…..
Who aren’t good with books
How will they cope, with the problems we pose
Answering questions not everyone knows.
A sense of achievement a feeling of class,
Superiority….comes with a pass.
And yet when they walk out to face life’s grim test
Who are the ones who will deal with it best.
David Edwards
As the eldest child I had moved on from castle street before my brother s and sister were due to start there first schooling.
The Duke Inn was quite near in the opposite direction of the school and I got to know Fred Davies who was about the same age as me .I think his parents must have run the pub because I remember playing at the back of the Public house .
I still occasionally see Fred who still lives in Abergavenny, recently he showed me a photograph of us with an old tin bath, and a hosepipe keeping cool in the yard(put picture in ) I do look like a “toughie” and in a way I was despite the fact that I know I had a quiet reserved, shy personality, I was not to be unfairly pushed around.
I do remember one thing about the pub was my first visit as a young child. It seemed dark and in a funny way forbidding. There was an air of danger and it seemed to me to be adventurous just to enter the place.
Dad didn’t drink much I never saw him drunk or even a little under the weather , Mum of course never set foot inside such a place, it wasn’t the done thing and in any case there wasn’t any spare money for such activities.
In those days not many women entered some pubs and those who did were looked at as “not being very nice” that was the general situation every were .
The Duke was an ordinary run of the mill sort of place, the nearest other pub was the Kings Arms which is still a licensed premises today situated in Neville Street, its a very historic old pub were fist fights were held in the side yard on market days.
As I entered the Duke that first time I was immediately aware of the
Cloying, very strong smell, which I realized was beer mixed with cigarette smoke, which had turned the ceiling a light brown color.
There seemed to be pubs in every street in the town area, but I was never aware of any trouble, at least not on a worrying scale, most drinkers it seems could hold their drink as they used to say.
Later I was to see at first hand (as a Police Officer) the awful effects of heavy drinking and often the devastating impact it had on family life.
I would have started junior or infants school as it was called then when I was about five years of age and we remained living in castle street for a few more years.
The Norman castle was only a very short distance away and it remains in my mind as the usual play area. There was a lodge at the entrance gate and I feel it cost money to enter the castle area.
So most of our play took place outside, there were and still are, seats cut into the castle boundary walls, and the large mound, grass
covered led down to trees and a stream running down to the river Usk, and on to the castle meadows.
It seems strange that perhaps as little as 17 years would pass and my pals and I would be fighting for our lives in the countryside of Normandy, and forcing our way to the ancient city of Caen were William the Conqueror lay buried.
The Norman influence had followed me but the games we played and the battles we fought on the slopes at the town castle were to be played out with such deadly cost.
Gone was the child like ability to realize one was late for tea and your pals that had fallen dead so convincingly from imaginary arrows and bullets who spring to their feet and start to run to there respective homes, with yells of se ya tomorrow Di. Many would never ever see their homes again have any more tomorrow’s.
in the sunken lanes and fields of Normandy.
The Castle Meadows was such a wonder full place to play we covered this area time after time, its strange as youngsters stingy nettles didn’t seem to have the same effect on our bare legs as they do when you get older.
We knew well to keep our distance from the fast flowing river Usk, it was also quite deep and seemed cold fed by the Welsh hills it was still invigorating and mysterious.
There were parts of the town which had such a Medieval look Tudor street with its raised pavement area, and run down houses was a place we kept well away from.
It was fast becoming a slum area, and with its Lodging houses and pubs nearly always full, that part gave us youngsters the feeling that it would be wise not to go there unless we had to.
Opposite the Kings Arms Pub situated on the corner of Neville Street and Castle Street, there was a typical “Olde World “ shop that had lots of little windows, bow shaped and with some of the panes looking like bottle bottoms.
There was a stable type half door, which as you opened it rang a big bell on a curved spring like piece of metal, it was kept by another Edwards family not related as far as I know.
