My dear friend Michael's Father was shot dead ( His actor brother Etonian Moray writes)

 

IN MAY 25, 1940, Lord Gort, the

Commander in Chief of the British

Expeditionary Force in Belgium,

ordered the retreat to Dunkirk, writes

Moray Watson.

"Operation Dynamo" began the next

day. In fact King Leopold's Belgian Army

fought on for three more days, which

helped to save the lives of hundreds of our

troops. I was 11 years old at the time and

because my father had joined up in the

4th Battalion of The Royal Sussex

Regiment, my brothers and I had been

following the progress of this early part of

the Second World War much more closely

than our friends who were not so

personally involved.

We spent Christmas 1939 in a little

village called Longburton, near Sherborne

in Dorset, where the 4th Battalion were

undergoing intensive training in

preparation for the war in Europe.

Our family were billeted in a thatched

cottage in the middle of the village and —

not really appreciating the horror of war,

or properly anticipating what might

happen — we had rather a good time.

We played with the children of my

parents' friends and sometimes we were

allowed to join in with the training

activities. I remember going to a shooting

range one morning to watch my father,

Capt Gerry Watson, and several of his

brother officers, being taught how to use

their pistols, by a "regular" staff sergeant.

There was a splendid concert in the

Village Hall the night before the regiment

went to France, which my brothers

Michael, John and I were allowed to

attend with my mother and father. I can

still hear the Battalion wives, girlfriends

and children bellowing "Sussex by the

Sea" at the end.

After only 24 hours warning — for

hush hush reasons — the Battalion lined

up on the road one morning late in

January and marched to Sherborne

Station. They took the train to

Southampton and thence to Normandy by

ship.

Wives, girlfriends and children lined

the Longburton roadside to wave them

off. The sight of some of the slighter

soldiers carrying rifles, full packs and

water bottles, was pitiful; we really

wondered whether my father's batman,

Private Hickman, would make it to

Sherborne Station let alone to France and

Belgium.

We children ran alongside them and

the Regimental Band helped to take away

the solemnity of their departure.

The holidays drew to a close, we

returned to our cottage just outside

Petworth and so back to school. Years

later my mother told me that — after the

regiment had left for France — she was

invited, with several other wives, to a

dinner party in Longburton.

After dinner the hostess told all their

fortunes by studying the palms of their

hands. When it came to my mother's turn

the hostess stared at her hands for quite a

long time then gently folded her fingers

into her palms and said she was sorry but

she was really too tired to do any more.

For obvious reasons the troops were

forbidden to write where they were in

France in their letters home. Knowing

this, my father had worked out a simple

code so that we would always know

roughly where he was; after he had

completed a sentence with our gardener's

name in it, we were to string together

every fourth letter until it became the

name of a town or village. Using this code

we were able to follow his progress east

across Northern France.

In January and February he mostly

wrote about the scenery and the French

hospitality. In March and April it was

more the beauty of the countryside.

He seemed to get on well with his

brother officers, most of whom he had

met in Dorset. The Colonel — Lashmer

Whistler — had an excellent war and

went on to become a General. The late

Duke of Norfolk (Bernard) was a fellow

company commander of my father's. He

had inherited the family gout and the

marching caused him so much pain the

MO ordered him to return to the U.K. The

Duke ultimately, but most reluctantly, had

to obey.

On May 25 a close family friend,

Dorothy (she was always called Dee)

Gooday came to the Preparation School,

just outside Woking, where brother John

and I were boarders (my mother had gone

to see my elder brother, Michael, at his

school).

Dee was a very emotional person, she

laughed and cried easily. I adored her and

was always bicycling over to Byworth in

the holidays to help her in the garden. She

took one look at my face in the

Headmaster's sitting room and had not the

courage to tell me that my father had been

killed. Instead, she said he had been badly

wounded. In the end the Headmaster told

me the real truth and gave me The Times

with the announcement in it.

For years afterwards I carried it in my

wallet — "Watson, G.A. (Gerry) Captain 4th

Batt Royal Sussex Regiment. Beloved

husband of Jean and father of Michael,

John and Moray. Killed in action 21st of

May, 1940 at Ansengham, Belgium."

One of the junior officers in the

regiment, Peter Hadley, wrote a book

called "Third Class to Dunkirk". In it he

actually called one chapter May 21st.

Towards the end of it he wrote "... we dealt

one by one with the wounded and sent

back messages, desperately, for

ambulances to take them away. At last I

moved up to find our new positions. On

the way I heard that Francis, Peter and

Ketton had been wounded and Gerry, who

had commanded "D" Company, had been

killed. So ended May 21st, the longest day

in my life."

I have often wondered what my father

would have made of his life had he lived.

He was 39 when he was killed. My mother

told me that he was not happy at all in the

family shipping business and that — given

his wonderful scenic imagination and love

of the country — he could have been a

landscape gardener.

Certainly, in my short life, he created

two beautiful gardens out of corners of

fields. I know he would have been proud

of Michael who, apart from having a

brilliant career as a brewer and

subsequently creating and running a hotel

in London, won the Best Small Garden

award several years running. And brother

John and his wife, Lavinia, have made

their garden near Horsham so beautiful

they have been asked by the Red Cross to

open it to the public for the past three

years.

On the 45th anniversary of my father's

death I made the journey to Belgium to

see his grave. It was just as well I was on

my own — I blubbed helplessly. It was

moving enough just to see the fine

headstone in perfect condition with our

names on it, but what really finished me

off was the wonderfully tended cemetery

and all the Spring flowers, which he might

have chosen himself.