Egypt World War II: My grandfather’s graves

It was only when I visited Muriel Anderson in 2014 that I discovered my paternal grandfather had been buried twice.

Charles John Herbert (1889-1941) was already a widower when World War II broke out. He continued working for two years so his two children – my father, Charlie, and his younger sister, Violet – could finish their education; then he knocked six years off his age, persuaded his GP and the local recruiting sergeant to his cause, and enlisted in the army. He embarked for Egypt in August 1940 with the Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force (2NZEF), and with the rank of sergeant, the same rank with which he had ended his World War I service. 

Soon after his arrival in Egypt, Charles John Herbert sent his daughter, Violet, a studio photo of himself (he sent the same to Charlie):

Sergeant C.J. Herbert in Egypt 1941     Photo: Herbert family collection

and he included an affectionate note:

Note to Violet Herbert from her father, 1941   Photo: Ann Barrie

Dear Violet,

This is Sunday so I am writing you a short note. I am not allowed to tell you much yet but will later on. We have a very good camp here and can see the pyramids quite plain. I was out at the zoo yesterday and it was one of the largest in the world, all kinds of animals. It would take you a full day to go round all of it. We got a gharry, that is a buggy and two horses, and drove along the bank of the Nile, and it was a very pretty drive.

Well dear, I will close this now, as I want to enclose a photo, and we are only allowed certain weights.

Regards to all. I am sending you a small parcel in a later mail.

Love from Dad xxx

He also sent Violet a leather handbag with a little card:

Christmas note to Violet Herbert from her father in Egypt 1941  Photo: Ann Barrie

On 2 February, 1941, five months after his arrival in Egypt, Charles John Herbert died. His official war record states that he died in Cairo General Hospital after a routine operation. There are records to show that he is buried in the Commonwealth War Grave Cemetery in Alexandria.

All this I knew from my research and the Herbert family archives, but Muriel Anderson told me this was not the full story.

Muriel Borthwick Anderson (1916-2017) was a first cousin of my grandfather, but she barely knew him, as he was a great deal older than her, more like an uncle, and was simply one of many relatives.  When I visited Muriel at her Christchurch home in 2014 she was already in her late nineties, a vigorous woman with an independent spirit.

Muriel Anderson, Christchurch, 2014    Photo: Ann Barrie

Muriel’s eyesight was not good, and so I set out a tea tray with biscuits, and then we sat down to chat. She told me tales about our convoluted family history, and growing up in Central Otago, and how she had enlisted in World War II as a nurse and served in Italy and Egypt. Then she told me the story she had hinted at when I phoned her prior to my visit.

 “One night in Egypt,” she said, “I was called out of bed and was asked to go to the hospital. A man called Archie Aitcheson from Heriot was there. He was with the Intelligence Corps. He said Charles had been reported missing, and his family* had asked Archie if he could help. Archie went round all the military hospitals and the cemeteries. Finally, he discovered Charles had been buried in an English civilian cemetery. Archie arranged for me to have a week’s leave, and took me to see the grave.” Muriel handed me a snapshot. “Here, you should have this. It belongs to your family.”

Sergeant C.J. Herbert's first grave, Egypt 1941   Photo: Herbert family collection

Charles John Herbert is now buried where he belongs, in the Alexandria (Chatby) Military and War Grave Cemetery My youngest sister Deborah visited Chatby in January 2012, with her youngest son Adrian, and found the experience unexpectedly moving. She sent me two photos. This one shows Adrian at the grave (plot N. 109):

Adrian Patterson at Sergeant C.J. Herbert's grave, Egypt 2012

and this one shows the tombstone:

Sergeant C.J. Herbert's tombstone, Chatby, Alexandria 2012

*C. J. Herbert's mother, Mary, was still living in Heriot and I believe it was she who initiated the search.

Wales 5: Laugharne to Kidwelly and Ferryside

Valerie assured our hosts at Laugharne that she had booked our room for three nights, not two as they had recorded in their booking system, and so we stayed on. It was only as we drove away from Laugharne, and Valerie received a call from her perplexed son asking why we hadn’t turned up at the cottage she had booked in Kidwelly, that we realised we had lost twenty-four hours –- today was Saturday, not Friday. (I'll attribute this mental lapse to the magic spell of Dylan Thomas rather than a senior moment.) We abandoned our plans to visit the National Botanic Gardens of Wales in the Towy Valley, and drove post haste toward toward Kidwelly. 

Valerie had booked a cottage, through Tanylan Farm holidays, on the coastal road between Ferryside and Kidwelly. Hawton is one of three cottages that form part of a traditional longhouse which has been recently restored. The longhouse was constructed in the early 16^th century to serve both farmer and livestock, and it was later converted to workers’ accommodation. With three bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs, and a spacious living room and other facilities downstairs, plus a hot tub in the back garden, there was more than enough space for the three adults and one seven-year old that made up our party. 

There was a sandy beach nearby, which we reached by walking through the camping ground, along a sandy track, and under a railway bridge. At regular intervals, little two-carriage trains would rush along the railway line, heading for Carmarthen.

In this rural part of South West Wales, the roads are single track with passing places at intervals against the hedges. We drove to an informal café at a nearby smallholding, and ate white bread sandwiches stuffed with prawns and mayonnaise and coleslaw while watching a menagerie of animals wandering around. We came away with a tray of duck eggs, and cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast next day – the shells were tough to crack, but the contents tasted good.  

The second day, we drove the short distance to the village of Ferryside and parked the car beside the River Towy Yacht Club. The trains were there again – this time at our backs, beyond the yacht club – as they sped around the estuary. I thought to myself that if I had been a children’s author I would have written a story about those trains. 

We ate our picnic lunch sitting on deep concrete steps that led down to a white sandy beach on a long tidal estuary. It was shortly before the turning of the tide, and the water was still flowing in.  

Over on the other side were hills and the outline of a ruined castle. (Google tells me that Wales had some six hundred castles; one hundred of these are still standing, either restored or as ruins.)

After our picnic, we walked along the beach past the rusting ruins of a boat, the Vicky Leigh from Liverpool. There was enough breeze for the seven-year old to fly his kite. 

 On our final evening, after the rest of the party had departed, Valerie and I cooked a light meal together: a mushroom omelette made from duck eggs, tiny boiled potatoes, green salad and a fruit dessert. The two of us used to prepare meals together when we shared a tiny flat in Grafton Gully, Auckland, in 1965 – it was a good feeling to be doing it again.

I needed to be at Cardiff Airport for a 10:30 a.m. flight on the Monday, and we had been warned to allow at least two hours to drive there. Valerie had entered the coordinates into her elderly but tried-and-true TomTom GPS Navigator the night before, and I had the large map book on my lap as a backup. There were bottlenecks on the M4 at the City of Swansea and also at Port Talbot, with its steelworks, but we made reasonable time. After fourteen junctions, TomTom took us off the motorway and on a meandering route on minor roads through small towns. This made me a little nervous, but Valerie said, “Have confidence.” Somewhat to my surprise – I had become completely disoriented – we reached our destination with time to spare.

Wales 4: Laugharne: Dylan Thomas’s birthday walk

On our second day in Laugharne, we returned to the Boathouse tearooms – one of the better eating places in Laugharne – for lunch. Most of the food is prepared in the original kitchen, and they use locally-sourced ingredients where possible. Our cawl (soup) was thick with root vegetables, and accompanied by a generous wedge of Welsh cheese.

Fortified by the soup, we set off on a circular walk that starts nearby (this is not Dylan Thomas’s birthday walk – we had decided to save that for later). The walk took us away from the town, up onto hills, through fields and onto a farm. There was a notice on the farm gate that seemed remarkably polite in the circumstances: “Please keep your dogs on a leash. One of our lambs was recently mauled to death!!” The path passed close to the farmhouse, and I saw a file of plump white geese walking solemnly in file across an arched bridge over a stream.

Our stay in Laugharne was during the first week in July. Public schools (“private” to us) had just broken up for their long summer holidays, but state schools still had a fortnight to go. There were a few young children with parents or grandparents, but it was relatively quiet. When we did Dylan Thomas's birthday walk, on our final day in Laugharne, we were the only ones on the path.

Dylan Thomas’s Poem in October is about his birthday walk to the shoulder of St John’s Hill on 27 October 1944, his thirtieth birthday. The poem – made up of seven stanzas, each of ten lines – is about getting older, and his love of Laugharne. 

 The birthday walk is about two miles/ 3.2 kilometres and goes up through Salt Farm. Known locally as “New Walk”, it was originally created in 1856 and enabled townsfolk and cocklers to access by foot their shares of the cockle beds on the marshes when high tides would have prevented them. Along the way were boards with extracts from Poem in October. 

Dylan Thomas Birthday Walk      Photo:Ann Barrie

In one of the extracts, Dylan Thomas pictures himself with his mother “walking through the parables / of sunlight / and the legends of green chapels”. By “green chapels” Thomas means trees. I think that nowadays the trees are considerably thicker and higher than when he did the walk. As he climbs, he describes the view of a “church the size of a snail / with its horns through mist”. Valerie and I were unable to spot the church, but we wondered what Dylan Thomas would have made of the wind turbine on the skyline.

As you walk away from the village, and the castle recedes, you begin to see the form of the river Coran and the river marsh. The marsh areas, which were formed by seasonal and tidal flooding, include rough pasture on higher ground, interspersed with lagoons. 

Dylan Thomas Birthday Walk      Photo:Ann Barrie

Dylan Thomas Birthday Walk      Photo:Ann Barrie

Dylan Thomas Birthday Walk      Photo:Ann Barrie

At the end of the walk we could have chosen to retrace our steps, but we chose instead to walk along a muddy portion of track, then through fields with curious cows, and then to follow the road back to Laugharne. 

Dylan Thomas Birthday Walk      Photo:Ann Barrie

Dylan Thomas’s poem concludes, “O may my heart’s truth / still be sung / on this high hill in a year’s turning.” And the final board on the walk encourages us to “Please try to return to his high hill on your birthday … Take this experience and make it your birthday walk.” Laugharne is too far away for me to make Dylan’s walk my birthday walk, but I think the idea of going for a special walk on one's birthday every year – either alone or with friends – is an excellent one.

Blog by Ann Barrie